{"1": {"fulltext": "", "height": "4221", "width": "2865", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0001.jp2"}, "2": {"fulltext": "", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0002.jp2"}, "3": {"fulltext": "", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0003.jp2"}, "4": {"fulltext": "", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0004.jp2"}, "5": {"fulltext": "e Cam noge \u00e2\u0082\u00acDition of tf e $oet\u00c2\u00a3\\nEDITED BY\\nHORACE E. SCUDDER\\nSCOTT\\nBY THE EDITOR", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0005.jp2"}, "6": {"fulltext": "", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0006.jp2"}, "7": {"fulltext": "", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0007.jp2"}, "8": {"fulltext": "1 US\\nI 1\\n\u00e2\u0096\u00a0j^X 33g j\\n**\u00c2\u00a7f^i* 4 V ^a^ ^^^^^5 l *kS|\u00c2\u00abSE2Jp3H|!r*\\n^S%T ~^^^^^p\\nI* 1 Hi 1\\nj ci .V i HL V Lj\\n^IH\\nSj ft* 1 ^K t^k\\n^^B", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0008.jp2"}, "9": {"fulltext": "THE\\nCOMPLETE POETICAL WORKS OF\\nSIR WALTER SCOTT\\nCambridge Coition\\nBOSTON AND NEW YORK\\nHOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY\\ne tber#De #re$\u00c2\u00a3, CambrtDge\\n1900", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0011.jp2"}, "10": {"fulltext": "TWO COPIES RECEIVE*\\nLibrary of Congress\\n(JffUe of tilt\\nAPR 2 4 1900\\nRegister of Copyright*\\nCOPYRIGHT, 19OO, BY HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND CO.\\nALL RIGHTS RESERVED\\nfiksi ccpy:", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0012.jp2"}, "11": {"fulltext": "EDITOR S NOTE\\nWhen Dr. Rolf e edited The Poetical Works of Sir Walter Seott, Baronet, in\\n1877, lie made a critical examination of the several texts, with the result of dis-\\ncovering many errors and inconsistencies in the current editions. The text which\\nhe thus established may be regarded as accurate and trustworthy. It has been\\nadopted, so far as it goes, in the present Cambridge Edition. Dr. Rolf e, however,\\nwas preparing a volume which, by calling in the aid of new and faithful illustra-\\ntions, should appeal through its beauty and choiceness to lovers of Scott who might\\nbe supposed to know their author and to desire a fit and convenient edition of his\\npoems. He excluded purposely a number of less important poems, and grouped\\nall the minor poems in sections following the series of long narrative poems. At\\nthe close he added a body of notes and prefaces, drawn from Scott s own editions.\\nIn accordance with the general plan of the Cambridge series, the present editor\\nhas undertaken to give the entire body of Sir Walter s poetry and to arrange it\\nwith as close an approach to strict chronological order as was possible without\\npedantry. He has prefaced each poem or group of poems with notes describing\\nthe origin or circumstance of composition, and in these notes has included Scott s\\nown Introductions, and such references as occur in Lockhart, in Scott s Letters,\\nand in his Journal. In this way he has undertaken to separate the history of a\\npoem from the explication of its parts.\\nFor the latter, he has had recourse for the most part in the Notes and Illustra-\\ntions to the notes written and gathered by Scott for his collective edition. Scott s\\nunfailing interest in everything Scottish led him to great lengths in his annotation\\nand especially to the accumulation of a great deal of antiquarian and sometimes\\nrather remote material. He forgot his poem and even now and then apparently\\nthe subject itself as he heaped up illustrations. The editor therefore has found it\\nexpedient, while retaining Scott s own notes, to omit some of the discursive por-\\ntions drawn from other writers. The annotation, moreover, is made in one respect\\nmore convenient and compact by the explanation of rare and local words in a\\nGlossary which is an enlargement of the one accompanying Dr. Rolfe s volume.\\nIn his Biographical Sketch, the Editor has had in view more especially that\\nportion of Scott s life which closed with the great poetical period, since it is Scott\\nthe poet who is especially under consideration. He was glad to avail himself of\\nthe admirable and suggestive interpretation of the poet s life made by Rusk in in\\nFors Clavigera.\\nCambridge, March, 1900.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0013.jp2"}, "12": {"fulltext": "", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0014.jp2"}, "13": {"fulltext": "TABLE OF CONTENTS\\nBIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH\\nTWO BALLADS FROM THE GERMAN\\nOF BURGER.\\nWilliam and Helen.\\nThe Wild Huntsman\\nEARLY BALLADS AND LYRICS.\\nThe Violet .7\\nTo a Lady with Flowees from a\\nRoman Wall 8\\nThe Erl-Ktng, from the German\\nof Goethe 8\\nWar-Song of the Royal Edinburgh\\nLight Dragoons 9\\nSong from Goetz von Berlich-\\ningen 9\\nSongs from The House of Aspen.\\nI. Joy to the victors, the\\nsons of old Aspen 10\\nII. Sweet shone the sun on\\nTHE FAIR LAKE OF TORO 10\\nIII. Rhein-Wein Lled 11\\nGlenfinlas, or Lord Ronald s\\nCoronach 11\\nThe Eve of St. John 14\\nThe Gray Brother .17\\nThe Fere-King 19\\nBothwell Castle .22\\nThe Shepherd s Tale 23\\nCheviot 25\\nFrederick and Alice 25\\nCadyow Castle 26\\nThe Reiver s Wedding 29\\nChristie s Will 30\\nThomas the Rhymer 32\\nThe Bard s Incantation 37\\nHellvellyn 37\\nTHE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL.\\nIntroductory Note .39\\nIntroduction 46\\nCanto First 47\\nCanto Second 51\\nCanto Third 57\\nCanto Fourth 61\\nCanto Fifth 68\\nCanto Sixth 74\\nMARMION: A TALE OF FLODDEN\\nFIELD.\\nIntroductory Note .81\\nIntroduction to Canto First 88\\nCanto First: The Castle 91\\nIntroduction to Canto Second 97\\nCanto Second: The Convent 100\\nIntroduction to Canto Third 106\\nCanto Third The Hostel, or Inn 109\\nIntroduction to Canto Fourth 115\\nCanto Fourth The Camp 117\\nIntroduction to Canto Fifth 124\\nCanto Fifth The Court 126\\nIntroduction to Canto Sixth 137\\nCanto Sixth: The Battle 140\\nL Envoy 151\\nTHE LADY OF THE LAKE.\\nIntroductory Note 152\\nCanto First The Chase 156\\nCanto Second The Island 164\\nCanto Third: The Gathering 173\\nCanto Fourth The Prophecy 181\\nCanto Fifth: The Combat 190\\nCanto Sixth: The Guard-Room 199\\nTHE VISION OF DON RODERICK.\\nIntroductory Note 208\\nIntroduction 210\\nThe Vision of Don Roderick 212\\nConclusion 223\\nROKEBY.\\nIntroductory Note 226\\nCanto First .231\\nCanto Second 239\\nCanto Third 246\\nCanto Fourth 255\\nCanto Fifth 263\\nCanto Sixth 273\\nTHE BRIDAL OF TRIERMALN.\\nIntroductory Note 283\\nIntroduction 287", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0015.jp2"}, "14": {"fulltext": "Vlll\\nTABLE OF CONTENTS\\nCanto First 288\\nCanto Second 293\\nIntroduction to Canto Third 301\\nCanto Third 302\\nConclusion 311\\nTHE LORD OF THE ISLES.\\nIntroductory Note 312\\nCanto First 313\\nCanto Second 320\\nCanto Third 327\\nCanto Fourth 335\\nCanto Fifth 343\\nCanto Sixth 351\\nConclusion 361\\nTHE FIELD OF WATERLOO.\\nIntroductory Note 362\\nThe Field of Waterloo 363\\nConclusion 368\\nHAROLD THE DAUNTLESS.\\nIntroductory Note 369\\nIntroduction 370\\nCanto First 371\\nCanto Second 376\\nCanto Third 380\\nCanto Fourth 384\\nCanto Fifth 389\\nCanto Sixth 393\\nConclusion 398\\nMISCELLANEOUS POEMS.\\nThe Dying Bard 399\\nThe Norman Horse-Shoe 399\\nThe Maid of Toro 400\\nThe Palmer 400\\nThe Maid of Neidpath 401\\nWandering Willie 401\\nHealth, to Lord Melville 402\\nHunting Song 403\\nSong O, say not, my Love 404\\nThe Resolve 404\\nEpitaph designed for a Monument\\nin Lichfield Cathedral, at the\\nBurial-Place of the Family of\\nMiss Seward 405\\nPrologue to Miss Baillie s Play\\nof The Family Legend 405\\nThe Poacher 406\\nThe Bold Dragoon or, The Plain\\nof Badajos 408\\nOn the Massacre of Glencoe 409\\nSong for the Anniversary Meet-\\ning of the Pitt Club of Scot-\\nland 409\\nLines addressed to Ranald Mac-\\ndonald, Esq., of Staffa 410\\nPharos Loquitur 410\\nLetter in Verse on the Voyage\\nwith the Commissioners of\\nNorthern Lights.\\nTo His Grace the Duke of\\nBuccleuch 411\\nPostscriptum 412\\nSongs and Verses from Waverley.\\nI. And did ye not hear of a\\nMIRTH BEFELL 413\\nII. Late when the autumn\\nEVENING FELL 414\\nHI. The knight s to the\\nmountain 414\\nIV. It s up Glembarchan s\\nBRAES I GAED 414\\nV. Hie away, hie away 414\\nVI. St. Swithin s Chair 415\\nVII. Young men will love thee\\nMORE FAIR AND MORE FAST 415\\nVIII. Flora MacIvor s Song 416\\nIX. To an Oak Tree .417\\nX. We are bound to drive\\nthe bullocks 418\\nXI. But follow, follow me 418\\nFor a That an a That 418\\nFarewell to Mackenzie, High\\nChief of Kintail 419\\nImitation of the Preceding Song 419\\nWar.Song of Lachlan, High Chief\\nof Maclean 420\\nSaint Cloud 420\\nThe Dance of Death 421\\nRomance of Dunois 423\\nThe Troubadour 423\\nIt chanced that Cupid on a sea-\\nson 423\\nSong on the Lifting of the Ban-\\nner of the House of Buccleuch\\nat a great football match on\\nCarterhaugh 424\\nSongs from Guy Mannering.\\nI. Canny moment, lucky fit 424\\nII. Twist ye, twine ye even so 425\\nIII. Wasted, weary, wherefore\\nstay 425\\nIV. Dark shall be light 425\\nLullaby of an Infant Chief 425\\nThe Return to Ulster 425\\nJock of Hazeldean 426\\nPibroch of Donald Dhu 427\\nNora s Vow 427\\nMacGregor s Gathering 428\\nVerses sung at the dinner given\\nto the Grand Duke Nicholas of\\nRussia and his Suite, 19th De-\\ncember, 1816 428", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0016.jp2"}, "15": {"fulltext": "TABLE OF CONTENTS\\nVerses from The Antiquary.\\nVerses from The Monastery.\\nI. He came, but valor had so\\nI. Answer to Introductory\\nFIRED HIS EYE\\n429\\nEpistle 453\\nII. Why sit st thou by that\\nII. Border Song 453\\nRUINED HALL\\n429\\nIII. Songs of the White Lady\\nIII. Epitaph\\n429\\nof Avenel 453\\nIV. THE HERRING LOVES THE\\nIV. To the Sub-Prior 454\\nMERRY MOON-LIGHT\\n429\\nV. Halbert s Incantation 455\\nVerses from Old Mortality.\\nVI. To Halbert .455\\nI. And what though winter\\nVII. To the Same .456\\nWILL PINCH SEVERE\\n430\\nVIII. To the Same .458\\nII. Verses found, with a lock\\nIX. To Mary Avenel 458\\nOF HAIR, IN BOTHWELL S\\nX. To Edward Glendinning 458\\nPOCKETBOOK\\n430\\nXL The White Lady s Fare-\\nIII. Epitaph on Balfour of Bur-\\nwell 458\\nley\\n430\\nGoldthred s Song from Kenil-\\nThe Search after Happiness\\n431\\nworth 459\\nLines written for Miss Smith\\n436\\nVerses from The Pirate.\\nMr. Kemble s Farewell Address\\nI. The Song of the Tempest 459\\non taking leave of the Edin-\\nII. Halcro s Song 460\\nburgh Stage\\n436\\nIII. Song of Harold Harfager 460\\nThe Sun upon the Welrdlaw Hill 437\\nIV. Song of the Mermaids and\\nSong from Rob Roy\\n438\\nMermen 461\\nThe Monks of Bangor s March\\n438\\nV. Norna s Verses 461\\nEpilogue to The Appeal\\n439\\nVI. Halcro and Norna 462\\nMackrimmon s Lament\\n439\\nVII. The Fishermen s Song 463\\nDonald Caird s Come Again\\n440\\nVIII. Cleveland s Songs 464\\nMadge Wildfire s Songs\\n440\\nIX. Halcro s Verses 464\\nThe Battle of Sempach\\n442\\nX. Norna s Incantations 465\\nThe Noble Moringer\\n444\\nXL The Same, at the Meeting\\nEpitaph on Mrs. Erskine\\n447\\nwith Minna 465\\nSongs from The Bride of Lammer-\\nXII. Bryce Snatlsfoot s Adver-\\nmoor.\\ntisement 467\\nI. Look not thou on beauty s\\nOn Ettrick Forest s Mountains\\nCHARMING\\n448\\nDun 467\\nII. The monk must arise when\\nThe Maid of Isla 467-\\nTHE MATINS RING\\n448\\nFarewell to the Muse 467\\nIII. When the last laird of\\nNigel s Initiation at Whitefriars 468\\nRavenswood to Ravens-\\nCarle, now the King s Come 469\\nwood SHALL RIDE\\n448\\nThe Bannatyne Club 471\\nSongs from The Legend of Mont-\\nCounty Guy 472\\nrose.\\nEpilogue to the Drama founded\\nI. Ancient Gaelic Melody\\n448\\non Saint Ronan s Well 472\\nII. The Orphan Maid\\n449\\nEpilogue 473\\nVerses from Ivanhoe.\\nVerses from Redgauntlet.\\nI. The Crusader s Return\\n449\\nI. A Catch of Cowley s Altered 473\\nII. The Barefooted Friar\\n450\\nII. As Lords their laborers\\nIII. Norman saw on English\\nhire delay 474\\noak\\n450\\nLines addressed to Monsieur\\nIV. War-Song\\n450\\nAlexandre, the celebrated\\nV. Rebecca s Hymn\\n451\\nventriloquist 474\\nVI. The Black Knight and\\nTo J. G. Lockhart, Esq., on the\\nWamba\\n452\\nComposition of Malda s Epitaph 474\\nVII. Another Carol by the\\nSongs from The Betrothed.\\nSame\\n452\\nI. Soldier, wake 476\\nVIII. Funeral Hymn\\n453\\nII. Woman s Faith .476", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0017.jp2"}, "16": {"fulltext": "TABLE OF CONTENTS\\nIII. I ASKED OF MY HARP 476\\nIV. Widowed wife and wedded\\nmaid 477\\nVerses from The Talisman.\\nI. Dark Ahriman, whom Irak\\nstill 477\\nII. What brave chief shall\\nHEAD THE FORCES 477\\nIII. The Bloody Vest 478\\nVerses from Woodstock.\\nI. By pathless march, by\\nGREENWOOD TREE 480\\nII. Glee for King Charles 480\\nIII. An hour with thee 480\\nIV. Son of a witch 480\\nLines to Sir Cuthbert Sharp 480\\nVerses from Chronicles of the\\nCanongate.\\nI. Old Song 481\\nII. The Lay of Poor Louise 481\\nIII. Death Chant .481\\nIV- Song of the Glee-Maiden 482\\nThe Death of Keeldar 482\\nThe Secret Tribunal 483\\nThe Foray 484\\nInscription for the Monument of\\nthe Rev. George Scott 484\\nSongs from The Doom of Devor-\\ngoil.\\nI. The Sun upon the Lake 484\\nII. We love the shrill trump-\\net 485\\nIII. Admire not that I gained\\nthe prize 485\\nTV. When the tempest 485\\nV. Bonny Dundee 485\\nVI. When friends are met 486\\nHither we come 487\\nThe Death of Don Pedro 487\\nLines on Fortune 487\\nAPPENDIX.\\nI. Juvenile Lines.\\nFrom Virgil 491\\nOn a Thunder-Storm 491\\nOn the Setting Sun 491\\nII. Mottoes from the Novels.\\nFrom The Antiquary .492\\nFrom The Black Dwarf 493\\nFrom Old Mortality .493\\nFrom Rob Roy 493\\nFrom The Heart of Midlothian 494\\nFrom The Bride of Lammermoor 494\\nFrom The Legend of Montrose 494\\nFrom Ivanhoe 495\\nFrom The Monastery 495\\nFrom. The Abbot 497\\nFrom Kenilworth 498\\nFrom The Pirate 499\\nFrom The Fortunes of Nigel 500\\nFrom Peveril of the Peak 502\\nFrom Quentin Durward 503\\nFrom Saint Ronan s Well 504\\nFrom The Betrothed 504\\nFrom The Talisman .504\\nFrom Woodstock 505\\nFrom Chronicles of the Canon-\\ngate 506\\nFrom The Fair Maid of Perth 506\\nFrom Anne of Geierstein 506\\nFrom Count Robert of Paris 507\\nFrom Castle Dangerous 508\\nIII. Notes and Illustrations 508\\nIV. Glossary 569\\n573\\n579\\nINDEX OF FIRST LINES\\nINDEX OF TITLES\\nNote. The frontispiece is a photogravure made by John Andrew and Son from a painting\\nmade in 1824 by C. R. Leslie, R. A., once in the possession of the late George Ticknor, Esq., and\\nnow the property of the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston.\\nThe vignette is after a drawing by J. M. W. Turner, R. A., engraved in an edition of Scott s\\nPoetical Works published by Adam and Charles Black, 1874.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0018.jp2"}, "17": {"fulltext": "BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH\\nIt is a happy fortune that made the two Scotsmen who stand as the highest spiritual\\nrepresentatives of their race to bear names so significant as Burns and Scott. The little\\nstreams that catch the sunlight as they spring down the slopes of the Scottish hills are as\\nfree in their nature and as limpid in their depths as are the songs with which Burns\\nhas given perennial freshness to Scottish life. And it was singularly fortunate that\\nthe man of all men who was to interpret his country to the world should himself have\\nbeen named Scott. If we could reproduce earlier conditions, philologists in some future\\nera of the world s history might be querying whether the little country of the north was\\nnamed Scotland from the native poet, Walter Scott, or the poet took his name from the\\ncountry of which he sang.\\nWalter Scott was born 15 August, 1771, in his father s house at the head of the Col-\\nlege Wynd, Edinburgh. He was of the purest Border race. Walter Scott Wat of\\nHarden was the grandfather of his father s grandfather and was married to Mary Scott,\\nthe Flower of Yarrow, two personages whom Sir Walter honored with more than one\\nreference in his verse. Wat of Harden s eldest son was Sir William Scott, a stout Ja-\\ncobite who saved his life when making an unsuccessful foray on the lands of Sir Gideon\\nMurray of Elibank, by accepting the alternative of marrying the plainest of the daugh-\\nters of Sir Gideon, a marriage which by no means turned out ill, but seems to have created\\na genuine alliance between the two houses.\\nThe third son of Sir William was Walter Scott, the first laird of Raeburn. He and\\nhis wife were willing converts to the doctrines of George Fox, the Quaker apostle, but\\nthe elder brother, a sturdy Jacobite, would have no such nonsense in the family, and\\ncaused Walter and his wife to be clapped into prison and their children educated apart\\nfrom such pestilential associations as the peace-loving, non-resisting Friends. So effective\\nwas the procedure that Walter s son Walter finally intrigued in the cause of the exiled\\nStuarts, lost pretty much all he had in the world, even his head being in great jeopardy,\\nand wore his beard undipped to the day of his death under vow that no razor should\\ntouch it till the return of the Stuarts, and so got the name of Beardie vows, razors, and\\nbeards always appear to have had some occult connection. In the Introduction to the\\nsixth canto of Marmion he half puts on Beardie s coat as he writes to Richard Heber.\\nBeardie was Scott s great-grandsire. His grandfather was Beardie s second son Robert\\nScott of Sandy-Knowe, and as this ancestor came to have a large part in Scott s early\\nlife, it is worth while to attend to Sir Walter s own narrative concerning him.\\nMy grandfather, he writes, in the effective bit of autobiography preserved by Lock-\\nhart, was originally bred to the sea but, being shipwrecked near Dundee in his trial\\nvoyage, he took such a sincere dislike to that element that he could not be persuaded to\\na second attempt. This occasioned a quarrel between him and his father, who left him\\nto shift for himself. Robert was one of those active spirits to whom this was no misfor-\\ntune. He turned Whig upon the spot, and fairly abjured his father s politics, and his\\nlearned poverty. His chief and relative, Mr. Scott of Harden, gave him a lease of the", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0019.jp2"}, "18": {"fulltext": "xii WALTER SCOTT\\nfarm of Sandy-Knowe, comprehending the rocks in the centre of which Smailholm or\\nSandy-Knowe tower is situated. He took for his shepherd an old man called Hogg,\\nwho willingly lent him, out of respect to his family, his whole savings, about \u00c2\u00a330, to\\nstock the new farm. With this sum, which it seems was at the time sufficient for the\\npurpose, the master and servant set off to purchase a stock of sheep at Whitsun-Tryste,\\na fair field on a hill near Wooler in Northumberland. The old shepherd went carefully\\nfrom drove to drove, till he found a hirsel likely to answer their purpose, and then\\nreturned to tell his master to come up and conclude the bargain. But what was his sur-\\nprise to see him galloping a mettled hunter about the race-course, and to find he had\\nexpended the whole stock in this extraordinary purchase Moses s bargain of green\\nspectacles did not strike more dismay into the Vicar of Wakefield s family than my\\ngrandfather s rashness into the poor old shepherd. The thing, however, was irretrievable,\\nand they returned without the sheep. In the course of a few days, however, my grand-\\nfather, who was one of the best horsemen of his time, attended John Scott of Harden s\\nhounds on this same horse, and displayed him to such advantage that he sold him for\\ndouble the original price. The farm was now stocked in earnest; and the rest of my\\ngrandfather s career was that of successful industry. He was one of the first who were\\nactive in the cattle-trade, afterward carried to such extent between the Highlands of\\nScotland and the leading counties in England, and by his droving transactions acquired\\na considerable sum of money. He was a man of middle stature, extremely active, quick,\\nkeen, and fiery in his temper, stubbornly honest, and so distinguished for his skill in\\ncountry matters that he was the general referee in all points of dispute which occurred\\nin the neighborhood. His birth being admitted as gentle, gave him access to the best\\nsociety in the county, and his dexterity in country sports, particularly hunting, made\\nhim an acceptable companion in the field as well as at the table.\\nThis Robert Scott of Sandy-Knowe married Barbara Haliburton, who brought to her\\nhusband that part of Dryburgh which included the ruined Abbey. By a misfortune in\\nthe family of Barbara Scott, this property was sold, yet the right of burial remained, and\\nwas, as we shall see, availed of by Scott himself. The eldest of the large family of\\nRobert and Barbara Scott was Walter the father of Walter. He was educated to the\\nprofession of a Writer to the Signet, which is Scots equivalent for attorney. He had a\\nzeal for his clients, writes his son, which was almost ludicrous far from coldly dis-\\ncharging the duties of his employment toward them, he thought for them, felt for their\\nhonor as for his own, and rather risked disobliging them than neglecting anything to\\nwhich he conceived their duty bound them. For the rest, he was a religious man of\\nthe stricter sort, a steady friend to freedom, yet holding fast by the monarchical element,\\nwhich he thought somewhat jeoparded, a great stickler for etiquette in all the social\\nforms, and a most hearty host. He married Anne, the daughter of Dr. John Rutherford,\\nprofessor of medicine in the University of Edinburgh.\\nSuch was the inheritance with which Walter Scott came into the world, and at every\\nstep one counts a strong strain of that Scottish temper which, twisted and knotted in\\ngenerations of hardihood, issues in a robust nature, delighting in the hunt and the free\\ncoursing over hill and plain, and finding in the stern country a meet nurse for a poetic\\nchild. But the conditions of life which developed an inherited power are none the less\\ninteresting to observe. His mother could not nurse him, and his first nurse had con-\\nsumption. One after another of the little family of which he was a member had died in\\nthe close air of the wynd, and Walter was snatched from a like end by the wisdom of his\\nfather, who moved his household to a meadow district sloping to the south from the old", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0020.jp2"}, "19": {"fulltext": "BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xiii\\ntown; but when he was eighteen months old a childish fever cost the boy the full use of\\nhis right leg, and all his life long he limped, a sorry privation to so outdoor a nature\\nyet as the loss or disability of a member seems to have the effect on resolute persons of\\nmaking them do the very things for which these members, one would say, were indispen-\\nsable, making that armless men paint and blind men watch bees, so Scott became moun-\\ntain climber and bold dragoon.\\nThe enfeeblement which came led Dr. Rutherford, his mother s father, to send the\\nchild to his other grandfather s farm at Sandy-Knowe, and there, with some intervals, he\\nlived as a shepherd s child might live for five years, from 1774 to 1779; from three\\nyears old, that is, till eight. Here he came into the hands of the housekeeper, old\\nAlison Wilson, whom he has immortalized, even to the name, in his tale of Old Mortality.\\nHis grandfather, meanwhile, the rugged cattle-dealer, took him in hand with a treatment\\nwhich brought the little fellow into very close contact with nature. Among the odd\\nremedies recurred to to aid my lameness, says Scott in his autobiography, some one had\\nrecommended that so often as a sheep was killed for the use of the family, I should be\\nstripped, and swathed up in the skin, warm as it was flayed from the carcase of the\\nanimal. In this Tartar-like habiliment I well remember lying upon the floor of the\\nlittle parlor in the farm-house, while my grandfather, a venerable old man with white\\nhair, used every excitement to make me try to crawl. Whatever may have been the\\nvirtue in this contagion, there can be no hesitation in applauding the brave treatment\\nwhich later was employed. When he was in his fourth year and it was thought best to\\ntry the waters of Bath, Walter had begun to show the results of his life at Sandy-Knowe.\\nMy health, he says, was by this time a good deal confirmed by the country air, and\\nthe influence of that imperceptible and unfatiguing exercise to which the good sense of\\nmy grandfather had subjected me for when the day was fine, I was usually carried out\\nand laid down beside the old shepherd, among the crags or rocks round which he fed his\\nsheep. The impatience of a child soon inclined me to struggle with my infirmity, and I\\nbegan by degrees to stand, to walk, and to run. Although the limb affected was much\\nshrunk and contracted, my general health, which was of more importance, was much\\nstrengthened by being frequently in the open air, and, in a word, I, who in a city had\\nprobably been condemned to hopeless and helpless decrepitude, was now a healthy, high-\\nspirited, and, my lameness apart, a sturdy child. In another place he says that he\\ndelighted to roll about in the grass all day long in the midst of the flock, and the sort of\\nfellowship he formed with the sheep and lambs impressed his mind with a degree of\\naffectionate feeling towards them which lasted through life.\\nThe year he spent at Bath left little impression on his mind, save an experience at the\\ntheatre when he saw As You Like It, and was so scandalized at the quarrel between\\nOrlando and his brother in the first scene that he screamed, out Ain t they brothers so\\nsheltered had his little life been thus far from anything which savored of strife in the\\nhousehold. He had a little schooling at Bath, where he was under the watch and ward of\\nhis aunt Janet Scott, but at Sandy-Knowe both before his excursion and after his return\\nfor three years more, he had a more natural and vital introduction to literature in the tales\\nwhich he heard from his grandmother, whose own recollections went back to the days of\\nBorder raids. Thus he came, in the course of nature, as it were, into possession of an\\ninexhaustible treasury from which later he drew forth things new and old.\\nThe years at Sandy-Knowe were the years of conscious awakening to life, and the\\nearly impressions made on his mind were so indelible, that when he first began to put pen\\nto paper it was from the scenes he then had known that the images arose. From these", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0021.jp2"}, "20": {"fulltext": "xiv WALTER SCOTT\\nscenes sprang the Eve of St. John and Marmion near at hand was Dryburgh the\\nTweed, which flows through his song like an enchanted stream, flowed with an embracing\\nsweep about Melrose; and the Eildon Hills, the Cheviot range, and the wilderness of\\nLammermoor all mingled with his childish memories and fancies.\\nAs one reads on in Scott s Autobiography, and in the records and letters which supple-\\nment it, the experiences begin to call up scenes in the novels and even familiar names\\noffer themselves. Thus, when in his eighth year he abode for a while with his aunt at\\nPrestonpans, to get the benefit of sea-bathing, he formed a youthful intimacy with an\\nold military veteran, Dalgetty by name, who had pitched his tent in that little village,\\nafter all his campaigns, subsisting upon an ensign s half-pay, though called by courtesy a\\nCaptain. As this old gentleman, who had been in all the German wars, found very few\\nto listen to his tales of military feats, he formed a sort of alliance with me, and I used\\ninvariably to attend him for the pleasure of hearing those communications. At\\nPrestonpans, too, he fell in with George Constable, an old friend of his father, and por-\\ntrayed him afterward so vividly, while unconscious of it, in the character of Jonathan\\nOldbuck in The Antiquary as to fix suspicion on himself as the author of the book.\\nBut now, thanks to the generous course of nature-treatment, he was ready for school-\\ning, and a Scottish boy would be a strange lad, indeed, if he were not given over into\\nthe hands of the schoolmaster at a tender age the schoolmaster himself ranking in the\\nsocial scale with the minister and the doctor. Thanks too to his mother and his aunt\\nJanet, he began his school life with his head well stocked with stories of the real happen-\\nings in his own country, and with a portrait gallery of stalwart figures of history and\\npoetry. The boy lived at home in his father s house in Edinburgh, and went to the High\\nSchool for five years, from 1778 to 1783. Here he learned Latin and tried his own skill\\nat making versified translations of Virgil and Horace, and here he made friendships that\\nlasted through his life. He had, besides, a tutor at home, and he went, as the custom\\nwas, to a separate school for writing and arithmetic. At this school young girls also\\nwent, and one of them later in life set down in this wise her remembrance of her school-\\nfellow\\nHe attracted the regard and fondness of all his companions, for he was ever rational,\\nfanciful, lively, and possessed of that urbane gentleness of manner which makes its way\\nto the heart. His imagination was constantly at work, and he often so engrossed the\\nattention of those who learnt with him that little could be done Mr. Morton himself\\nbeing forced to laugh as much as the little scholars at the odd turns and devices he fell\\nupon for he did nothing in the ordinary way, but for example, even when he wanted\\nink to his pen, would get up some ludicrous story about sending his doggie to the mill\\nagain. He used also to interest us in a more serious way, by telling us the visions, as he\\ncalled them, which he had lying alone on the floor or sofa, when kept from going to\\nchurch on a Sunday by ill health. Child as I was, I could not help being highly delighted\\nwith his description of the glories he had seen his misty and sublime sketches of the\\nregions above, which he had visited in his trance. Eecollecting these descriptions, radi-\\nant and not gloomy as they were, I have often thought since that there must have been\\na bias in his mind to superstition the marvellous seemed to have such power over him,\\nthough the mere offspring of his own imagination, that the expression of his face, habit-\\nually that of genuine benevolence, mingled with a shrewd innocent humor, changed\\ngreatly while he was speaking of these things, and showed a deep intenseness of feeling,\\nas if he were awed even by his own recital. I may add, that in walking he used always\\nto keep his eyes turned downwards as if thinking, but with a pleasing expression of", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0022.jp2"}, "21": {"fulltext": "BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xv\\ncountenance, as if enjoying his thoughts. Having once known him, it was impossible\\never to forget him.\\nBut familiar as was the boy s intercourse with companions of his own age, Scott himself\\nplainly lays great emphasis on the affectionate relation he held with his elders. After\\nhis studies at the High School and before he entered college, he lived for a while, and\\nafterward frequently visited, with his aunt Janet at Kelso. Here he kept up some\\nschooling with the village schoolmaster, who appears to have been the original of Dominie\\nSampson, but he also read voraciously in Spenser and Shakespeare, in the older novelists,\\nand here he made the acquaintance of Percy s Reliques of Ancient Poetry. I remember\\nwell, he records in later life, the spot where I read these volumes for the first time.\\nIt was beneath a huge platanus-tree, in the ruins of what had been intended for an old-\\nfashioned arbor in the garden. The summer-day sped onward so fast, that notwithstand-\\ning the sharp appetite of thirteen, I forgot the hour of dinner, was sought for with\\nanxiety, and was found still entranced in my intellectual banquet. To read and to remem-\\nber was in this instance the same thing, and henceforth I overwhelmed my school-fellows\\nand all who would hearken to me with tragical recitations from the ballads of Bishop\\nPercy. Among these school-fellows was James Ballantyne, so closely identified with his\\nlater fortunes. He soon discovered, says Ballantyne in a reminiscence, that I was as\\nfond of listening as he himself was of relating and I remembered it was a thing of daily\\noccurrence, that after he had made himself master of his own lesson, I, alas being still\\nsadly to seek in mine, he used to whisper to me come, slink over beside me, Jamie,\\nand I 11 tell you a story. And stories in abundance he afterward told to the listening\\nJamie.\\nIf at Sandy-Knowe nature had stolen into his mind, as well as sent her healing messages\\ninto his body, at Kelso he entered upon that hearty, enthusiastic love of natural beauty,\\nand especially of the mingling of man s deeds with nature s elements, which glows through\\nhis poems and his novels. The meeting, there, he says, of two superb rivers, the\\nTweed and the Teviot, both renowned in song the ruins of an ancient Abbey the\\nmore distant vestiges of Roxburgh Castle the modern mansion of Fleurs, which is so\\nsituated as to combine the ideas of ancient baronial grandeur with those of modern taste\\nare in themselves objects of the first class yet are so mixed, united, and melted among\\na thousand other beauties of a less prominent description, that they harmonize into one\\ngeneral picture, and please rather by unison than by concord. I believe I have written\\nunintelligibly upon this subject, but it is fitter for the pencil than the pen. The romantic\\nfeelings which I have described as predominating in any mind, naturally rested upon and\\nassociated themselves with these grand features of the landscape around me and the\\nhistorical incidents, or traditional legends connected with many of them, gave to my\\nadmiration a sort of intense impression of reverence, which at times made my heart feel\\ntoo big for its bosom. From this time the love of natural beauty, more especially when\\ncombined with ancient ruins, or remains of our fathers piety or splendor, became with\\nme an insatiable passion, which if circumstances had permitted, I would willingly have\\ngratified by travelling over half the globe.\\nIn 1783, when he was twelve years old, he entered college at Edinburgh, after the\\nmanner of Scottish boys, and had three years of college life, such as it was, for he let\\nGreek sink out of knowledge, kept up a smattering only of Latin, heard a little philosophy\\nunder Dugald Stewart, and attended a class in history. His health was not confirmed,\\nand he had recourse more than once to the healing of Kelso, and by the time he was\\nfifteen and had done with college, he was poorly enough equipped with learning. But", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0023.jp2"}, "22": {"fulltext": "xvi WALTER SCOTT\\nthe flame of poetry and romance which had been kindled burned steadily within him and\\nwas fed with large draughts from literature, with delightfully free renderings amongst\\nhis chosen friends, and with now and then little exercises with his pen. It is, however,\\nnoticeable throughout the formative period of Scott s life, how little he was affected with\\nthe cacoethes scribendi. He had the healthier appetite which is appeased though never\\nsatiated with literature, and the natural gift which finds expression in improvised story-\\ntelling, or the free recital of what one has read. A friend recalling the delightful Satur-\\nday excursions to Salisbury Crags, Arthur s Seat, or Blackford Hill, when they carried\\nbooks from the circulating library to read on the rocks in the intervals of hardy climbing\\nadds After we had continued this practice of reading for two years or more together,\\nhe proposed that we should recite to each other alternately such adventures of knight-\\nerrants as we could ourselves contrive and we continued to do so a long while. He\\nfound no difficulty in it, and used to recite for half an hour or more at a time, while I\\nseldom continued half that space. The stories we told were, as Sir Walter has said,\\ninterminable for we were unwilling to have any of our favorite knights killed. Our\\npassion for romance led us to learn Italian together after a time we could both read it\\nwith fluency, and we then copied such tales as we had met with in that language, being\\na continued succession of battles and enchantments. He began early to collect old bal-\\nlads, and as my mother could repeat a great many, he used to come and learn those she\\ncould recite to him. He used to get all the copies of these ballads he could, and select\\nthe best. Scott himself, never given to subjective analysis, repeatedly stood off and\\nlooked at himself, boy and man, to sketch the figure in some of one of his characters, and\\nthus he has portrayed with great accuracy in the person of Waverley the course of\\nvoluntary study which he had followed up to this time.\\nHe had read, and stored in a memory of uncommon tenacity, much curious, though\\nill-arranged and miscellaneous information. In English literature he was master of\\nShakespeare and Milton, of our earlier dramatic authors, of many picturesque and inter-\\nesting passages from our old historical chronicles, and was particularly well acquainted\\nwith Spenser, Drayton, and other poets, who have exercised themselves on romantic\\nfiction, of all themes the most fascinating to a youthful imagination, before the pas-\\nsions have roused themselves, and demand poetry of a more sentimental description.\\nIn 1786 Scott was apprenticed to his father, and for five years he served his time; five\\nmore years were spent in the scanty practice of the law, before the first volume appeared of\\ntnat long row which, compress it as we may, must always take up a great deal of shelf-room\\nwith the complete writings of Sir Walter Scott. These ten years witnessed the strength-\\nening of a nature which, with all the early promise to be traced in the outlines we have\\ndrawn, had nothing in it of the forced ripening of a stimulated brain. Scott was twenty-\\nfive years old when he printed the thin volume of translations from the German; he was\\nover thirty when he edited the Border Minstrelsy with the first essays into his own field of\\nromantic verse, and he had entered upon the second of man s generations before he\\nwrote The Lay of the Last Minstrel. There is nothing of the prodigy in this. Scott s\\nindustry was great. His productiveness was notable, especially when one takes into account\\nthe great body of letters and journal- writing, and remembers how popular he was in\\nsociety; but before he entered on his career as an author, he was simply a full-blooded\\nyoung Scotsman, delighting in excursions, with a capacious memory in which he stored and\\nassimilated the records in prose and verse of Scottish achievements, an omnivorous reader,\\nand a hearty companion. He was not even regarded as a leading figure in the literary\\nsociety affected by the ingenious youth of Edinburgh. His essays in literature were", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0024.jp2"}, "23": {"fulltext": "BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xvii\\nnot very effective. As he himself humorously puts it, I never attempted them unless\\ncompelled to do so by the regulations of the society, and then I was like the Lord of\\nCastle Rackrent, who was obliged to cut down a tree to get a few fagots to boil the\\nkettle for the quantity of ponderous and miscellaneous knowledge which I really pos-\\nsessed on many subjects was not easily condensed, or brought to bear upon the object I\\nwished particularly to become master of. Yet there occurred opportunities when this\\nodd lumber of my brain, especially that which was connected with the recondite parts of\\nhistory, did me, as Hamlet says, yeoman s service. My memory of events was like\\none of the large, old-fashioned stone-cannons of the Turks, very difficult to load well and\\ndischarge, but making a powerful effect when by good chance any object did come within\\nrange of its shot.\\nIt was at the beginning of this period that Scott caught a glimpse of that other great\\nScotsman, Burns, with whom, though he did not know it, he was to share the bench which\\nScotland owns on the slope of Parnassus. Quite as notable was the acquaintance which\\nhe first made about the same time with the Highlands. Though business for his father\\ntook him into this region, his delight in the scenery and the people took precedence of\\nhis occupation with affairs, and long after he had forgotten the trivial errands in the\\ninterest of the law, he remembered the tales he had heard, and his imagination built\\nupon his experience those characters and scenes which live in the lines of The Lady of\\nthe Lake and in the pages of Rob Roy.\\nThe record of Scott s life during the ten years of his legal training and early practice\\nis delightfully varied with narratives of these excursions. The ardor of the young Scots-\\nman carried him into the midst of scenes which were to prove the unfailing quarry from\\nwhich he was to draw the material for his work of romance and fiction; and when one\\nlooks back upon his years of adolescence from the vantage ground of a full knowledge\\nof his career, it would seem as if never did a writer qualify himself for his work of\\ncreation in so thorough and direct a fashion. Yet happily this preparation was unpre-\\nmeditated and unconscious, for the naturalness which is the supreme characteristic of Sir\\nWalter s verse and prose was due to the integrity and simplicity of his nature expending\\nitself during these years of preparation upon occupations and interests which were ends\\nin themselves. His healthy spirit found outlet in this hearty enjoyment of nature and\\nhistory and human life, with apparently no thought of what use he should put his acquisi-\\ntions to; it was enough for the time that he should share his enjoyment with his cherished\\nfriends, or at the most shape his knowledge into some amateur essay for his literary\\nclub.\\nIn the midst of this active, wholesome life he entered upon an experience which made\\na deep furrow in his soul. It is witness to the sincerity of his first real passion we\\nmay pass over the youthful excitement which gave him a constancy of affection for a\\ngirl when he was in his twentieth year that it should have found expression in the\\nearliest of his own poems, The Violet, have risen into view more than once in direct\\nand indirect reference in poems and novels, and even late in life should have called out\\na deep note of yearning regret in his journal. The tale of his disappointment in love\\nhas been spread before the world recently with sufficient detail in Mr. Adam Scott s\\nbook and in Miss Skene s magazine article. As we have intimated, it was an expe-\\nrience of no idle sort, but the outcome is another tribute, if one were needed, to the\\n1 The Story of Sir Walter Scotfs First Love, with illustrative passages from his Life and Works,\\nand portraits of Sir Walter and Lady Scott, and of Sir William and Lady Forbes. By Adam Scott.\\nEdinburgh Macniven Wallace, 1896.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0025.jp2"}, "24": {"fulltext": "xviii WALTER SCOTT\\nwholesomeness and freedom from morbid self-love which make Scott in these latter days\\nso eminently the friend in literature of the young and whole hearted. It is a comment\\non the absence of bitterness in his nature that he did not disengage himself from his\\nkind, but threw himself into the affairs of the hour and organized the Edinburgh Light-\\nhorse, of which he became quartermaster, writing a spirited war song, and using his pen\\nthus as an instrument of service, before he was regarded as a man of the pen at all.\\nThere is something very consonant with our largest knowledge of Scott s temper in\\nthe incidents which led up to his marriage. The story in its beginning shall be told by\\nLockhart Riding one day with Fergusson, they met, some miles from Gilsland, a young\\nlady taking the air on horseback, whom neither of them had previously remarked, and\\nwhose appearance instantly struck both so much, that they kept her in view until they had\\nsatisfied themselves that she also was one of the party at Ellisland [the watering-place\\nwhere they had halted]. The same evening there was a ball, at which Captain [John]\\nScott produced himself in his regimentals, and Fergusson also thought proper to be\\nequipped in the uniform of the Edinburgh Volunteers. There was no little rivalry\\namong the young travellers as to who should first get presented to the unknown beauty\\nof the morning s ride; but though both the gentlemen in scarlet had the advantage of\\nbeing dancing partners, their friend succeeded in handing the fair stranger to supper\\nand such was his first introduction to Charlotte Margaret Carpenter.\\nWithout the features of a regular beauty, she was rich in personal attractions a\\nform that was fashioned as light as a fay s a complexion of the clearest and lightest\\nolive eyes large, deep-set and dazzling, of the finest Italian brown and a profusion of\\nsilken tresses, black as the raven s wing her address hovering between the reserve of a\\npretty young English woman who has not mingled largely in general society, and a\\ncertain natural archness and gaiety that suited well with the accompaniment of a French\\naccent. A lovelier vision, as all who remember her in the bloom of her days have\\nassured me, could hardly have been imagined and from that hour the fate of the young\\npoet was fixed. The lady was a daughter of a French royalist who had died at the\\nbeginning of the revolution, but who had foreseen the approaching perils and had secured\\na moderate sum in English securities, so that his widow and her family at once fled\\nacross the channel and made their home in London. Miss Carpenter at the time was\\nmaking a summer tour under the direction of a Scotswoman who had been her governess.\\nHere was a young fellow just emerging from a bitter disappointment, who falls head\\nover ears in love with a saucy, piquant girl whose letters, after the acquaintance had\\nripened swiftly into passion, disclose a capricious, teasing nature. Scott could write to his\\nmother and to Lord Downshire, who was a sort of guardian of Miss Carpenter, in a\\nreasonable manner, but it is clear from his impetuous love-making and the eagerness he\\nshowed to bring matters to a head, that he was swept away by his zeal and impatient of\\nall obstacles. It is just possible that in all this there was something of a reaction from\\nthe hurt he had suffered, and that Miss Carpenter s winsomeness and little imperious ways\\nblinded him to all considerations of a prudent sort. He was ready at one time to throw\\naside all other considerations and take his bride to one of the colonies, there to win a\\nplace by the sheer force of energy in a new land. But his impetuousness shows the gay\\nspirit with which he threw himself into all his enterprises, and the ardor with which\\nhe pursued an end which he thought he must attain. He removed one difficulty after\\nanother, and the sudden encounter in July was followed by marriage on the eve of\\nChristmas, 1797. Lady Scott bore Sir Walter four children, who lived and grew to\\nmaturity, two sons and two daughters. It is not easy to escape the impression that", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0026.jp2"}, "25": {"fulltext": "BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xix\\nthough she was lively and volatile, there was a certain lack of profound sympathy\\nbetween husband and wife that with all her love of society, Lady Scott was not able to\\nbring to her husband the kind of appreciation of his genius which he found in such friends\\nas Lady Louisa Stuart, the Duchess of Buccleuch, and the Marchioness of Abercorn. But\\nit would be a mistake to infer that there was any lack of loyalty and tenderness on the\\npart of either and when Scott, broken in his fortunes, is obliged also to see his wife pass\\nout of his life, the pathos of his utterance shows how intimately their interests had been\\nblended. Yet Scott s own frank expression of the relation between them (see below,\\np. 152) must stand as indicating the limitations of their union.\\nThe young couple at first set up their home in Edinburgh not far from the residence\\nof Scott s mother and father, who were now feeble and soon to leave them. Scott was\\nshortly appointed sheriff of Selkirk, an office which carried no very heavy duties and a\\nmoderate salary. With this and such other property as he and his wife enjoyed, they\\nwere able to live modestly and cheerfully, and Scott let slip the practice of his profession,\\nnever very congenial to him, and turned with zest to the semi-literary occupations which\\nhad begun to engross his attention.\\nFor shortly before his marriage he had made a little venture in the field of books by\\npublishing his translation of a couple of German ballads that were then highly popular,\\nand not a great while after his marriage, he made a similar effort in the same direction\\nby translating Goethe s drama of Goetz von Berlichengen but his more zealous pursuit was\\nin the collection of Scottish ballads, and by a natural sequence in patching these where\\nthey were broken, and by making very good imitations. Thus, stimulated also by a\\ngroup of similar collectors, he published in 1802 and 1803 the three volumes of Minstrelsy\\nof the Scottish Border, and by the most natural transition took up a theme suggested by\\nhis ballad studies and wrought with great celerity The Lay of the Last Minstrel.\\nThe Introductory Note to that poem, including as it does Scott s own Introduction,\\ndescribes in some detail the origin of the poem and the motives which led Scott to under-\\ntake it. With the frankness always characteristic of him in his addresses to the public\\nand his letters to his friends, he spoke as if he was moved chiefly by the need to better\\nhis circumstances, and the same confession is very openly made in connection with the\\nwriting of Rokeby, when he was full of the notion of realizing his dreams in the establish-\\nment of Abbotsf ord. But it is given to us with our large knowledge of Scott s career to\\nplace motives in a more just relation and though it is entirely true that Scott wanted\\nmoney and found his want an incentive to the writing of poems and novels, it is equally\\ntrue that the whole course of his life up to the time of writing The Lay of the Last\\nMinstrel was a direct preparation for this form of expression, and that his generous\\nenthusiasm and warm imagination found this outlet with a simplicity and directness\\nwhich explain how truly this writer, though a deliberate maker of books, had yet always\\nthat delightful quality which we recognize most surely in the improvisatore. It was his\\nnature to write just such poetry as the free, swinging lines of his long poems.\\nBefore the Lay was completed and published, Scott moved with his little family to\\nAshestiel, a country farm seven miles from the small town of Selkirk, and having a\\nbeautiful setting on the Tweedside with green hills all about. Here he lived as a tenant\\nof the Buccleuch estate for seven of the happiest years of his life. It was here that he\\nwrote the poems preceding Rokeby and here that he began the Waverley, and tossed the\\nfragment aside. His income, which, at the beginning of his poetical career, was from all\\nsources about \u00c2\u00a31000 a year, enabled him to live at ease, and the successive productions\\ngreatly augmented his property. Mr. Morritt, one of his closest friends, visited him at", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0027.jp2"}, "26": {"fulltext": "xx WALTER SCOTT\\nAsliestiel in 1808, and an extract from a memorandum which he gave Lockhart gives a\\nmost agreeable picture of the poet in his home.\\n1 There he was the cherished friend and kind neighbor of every middling Selkirkshire\\nyeoman, just as easily as in Edinburgh he was the companion of clever youth and narra-\\ntive old age in refined society. He carried us one day to Melrose Abbey or Newark\\nanother, to course with mountain greyhounds by Yarrow braes or St. Mary s loch, repeat-\\ning every ballad or legendary tale connected with the scenery; and on a third, we must\\nall go to a farmer s kirn, or harvest home, to dance with Border lasses on a barn floor,\\ndrink whiskey punch, and enter with him into all the gossip and good fellowship of his\\nneighbors, on a complete footing of unrestrained conviviality, equality, and mutual respect.\\nHis wife and happy young family were clustered round him, and the cordiality of his\\nreception would have unbent a misanthrope. At this period his conversation was more\\nequal and animated than any man s that I ever knew. It was most characterized by the\\nextreme felicity aud fun of his illustrations, drawn from the whole encyclopaedia of life\\nand nature, in a style somewhat too exuberant for written narrative, but which to him was\\nnatural and spontaneous. A hundred stories, always apposite and often interesting the\\nmind by strong pathos, or eminently ludicrous, were daily told, which, with many more,\\nhave since been transplanted, almost in the same language, into the Waverley Novels and\\nhis other writings. These and his recitations of poetry, which can never be forgotten by\\nthose who knew him, made up the charm that his boundless memory enabled him to exert\\nto the wonder of the gaping lover of wonders. But equally impressive and powerful was\\nthe language of his warm heart, and equally wonderful were the conclusions of his vigor-\\nous understanding, to those who could return or appreciate either. Among a number of\\nsuch recollections, I have seen many of the thoughts which then passed through his mind\\nembodied in the delightful prefaces annexed late in life to his poetry and novels.\\nShortly after the publication of The Lay of the Last Minstrel, and when he was plea-\\nsantly established at Ashestiel, James Ballantyne, who had already been helped by Scott\\nwith a loan, applied to his old school friend and the now successful author for further\\naid in his business. Scott took the opportunity to make an investment in Ballantyne s\\nprinting business. He became a silent partner with a third interest. It seemed a most\\nreasonable move. He had practically retired from the bar, though he was making an\\neffort to secure a salaried position as a clerk of the court. He had a fair income, but his\\nreal capital he perceived was in his fertile brain, and by allying himself with a printing-\\noffice he would be in a position to get far more than an author s ordinary share in the\\nproductions of his pen. There was not the same wide gulf in Edinburgh between trade\\nand profession which existed in London and though Scott, with the natural pride of an\\nauthor, did not make public his connection with Ballantyne, he was doubtless led to keep\\nhis engagement private quite as much by the advantage which privacy gave him in the\\ninfluence he could use to turn business into Ballantyne s hands. It is possible that if the\\nBallantynes had been better business men and cooler headed, for James Ballantyne s bro-\\nther John shortly set up as a publisher, and after that the affairs of author, printer, and\\npublisher became inextricably interdependent, the venture might not have turned out\\nill, but all the men engaged were of a speculative turn of mind, and Scott s marvellous\\nfecundity and versatility seemed to promise an inexhaustible spring from which the cur-\\nrents of manufacture and trade would flow clearly and steadily. All sorts of enterprises\\nwere projected and carried out, beyond and beside Scott s creative work. Editions of\\nstandard works, magazines, collections of poetry, rushed forth, and capital was shortly\\nlocked up, so that an early bankruptcy would have been inevitable, except for the sudden", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0028.jp2"}, "27": {"fulltext": "BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xxi\\ndiscovery of a new source of wealth. This lay in the invention of the Waverley Novels, at\\nfirst anonymous, which swept the reading world like a freshet swelling into a flood and\\nseeming for a while to be almost a new force in nature. The Waverley Novels for\\na while saved this mad combination of author, printer, and publisher from going to pieces,\\nand there might possibly have been no catastrophe had not a new element come into\\naction.\\nScott, when he formed the partnership with James Ballantyne, took the money which\\nhe contributed from a fund with which he had intended buying Broadmeadows, a small\\nestate on the northern bank of the Yarrow. He abandoned at the time this design, but\\nthe strong passion which could not fail to possess a man with Scott s deep love of the\\nsoil, and his imagination ever busy with historic traditions, still held him; and when the\\nopportunity came, with the rising tide of his own fortunes, to buy a farm a few miles\\nfrom Ashestiel, he seized it with alacrity. Nor was his venture an unwise one. He was\\ntenant at will at Ashestiel, and had the natural desire of a man with a growing family to\\nestablish himself in a permanent home. The farm, says Lockhart, consisted of a rich\\nmeadow or haugh along the banks of the river, and about a hundred acres of undulated\\nground behind, all in a neglected state, undrained, wretchedly enclosed, much of it covered\\nwith nothing better than the native heath. The farm-house itself was small and poor,\\nwith a common kail-yard on one flank, and a staring barn on the other, while in front\\nappeared a filthy pond covered with ducks and duckweed, from which the whole tene-\\nment had derived the unharmonious designation of Clarty Hole. But the Tweed was\\neverything to him a beautiful river, flowing broad and bright over a bed of milk-white\\npebbles, unless here and there where it darkened into a deep pool, overhung as yet only\\nby the birches and alders which had survived the statelier growth of the primitive forest;\\nand the first hour that he took possession he claimed for his farm the name of the adjoin-\\ning ford, situated just above the influx of the classical tributary Gala. As might be\\nguessed from the name of Abbotsford, these lands had all belonged of old to the great\\nAbbey of Melrose.\\nAbbotsford was in the heart of a country already dear to Scott by reason of its teeming\\nhistoric memories, and here he began and continued through his working days to enrich\\na creation which was the embodiment in stone and wood and forest and field of the ima-\\ngination which at the same time was finding vent in poem and novel and history and essay.\\nThe characteristics of the estate which he thus formed were the characteristics of his\\nwork as an author also. There is the free nature, the trees planted with a fine sense of\\nlandscape effect; there is the reproduction in miniature of the life of a bygone age, and\\nthere is the suggestion of the stage with its pasteboard properties, its structures all\\nfront, and its men and women acting a part.\\nRuskin has said with penetrating criticism Scott s work is always epic, and it is con-\\ntrary to his very nature to treat any subject dramatically. In explication of this dictum,\\nRuskin defines dramatic poetry as the expression by the poet of other people s feelings,\\nhis own not being told, and epic poetry as an account given by the poet of other people s\\nexternal circumstances, and of events happening to them, with only such expression either\\nof their feelings, or his own, as he thinks may be conveniently added. We must not\\nconfound the dramatic with the theatrical. To Scott, who never wrote a successful play,\\nhis figures were nevertheless quite distinctly theatrical. That is to say, he placed them\\nbefore his readers not only vividly, but with the make-up which would bring into conspic-\\nuous light rather the outward show than the inward reality. Not that his persons had\\nnot clearly conceived characters, and not that he merely missed the modern analytic pre-", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0029.jp2"}, "28": {"fulltext": "WALTER SCOTT\\nsentation, but his persons interested him chiefly by their doing things, and these things\\nwere the incidents and accidents of life rather than the inevitable consequences of their\\nnature, the irresistible effects of causes lying deep in their constitution. Hence the\\ndelight which he takes in battle and adventure of all sorts, and the emphasis which he\\nlays upon the common, elemental qualities of human nature, male and female, rather than\\nupon the individual and eccentric. There is no destiny in his poems or novels, no inevi-\\ntable drawing to a climax of forces which are moving beyond the power of restraint\\nwhich the author may in his own mind exercise.\\nIt is not to be wondered at that Scott, breathing the fresh air of the ballads of the\\nborder, should make his first leap into the saddle of verse and ride heartily down his\\nshort, bounding lines. It is quite as natural that, as his material grew more and more\\nhistorical in its character, and greater complexities crept in, he should find the narrative\\nof verse too simple, and should resort to the greater range and diversity of prose and\\nthat once having found his power in novel writing, he should have abandoned poetry as\\na vehicle for epic narrative, contenting himself thenceforth with lyric snatches, and with\\nbrief flights of verse. Moreover, in poetry, though he had a delighted audience, and\\nnever has failed since to draw a large following entirely satisfied with his form, he\\nshared at the time the throne with that mightier, more dramatic artist, Byron, and knew\\nalso that men were beginning to turn their eyes toward Wordsworth and Coleridge.\\nBut in fiction he held quite undisputed sway. The fashion in fiction changes perhaps\\nmore quickly than in poetry its representation of the manner of the day, even when it\\nis consciously antiquarian and historic, renders it largely dependent on contemporane-\\nous interest. In Scott s day, Fielding, Smollett, and Richardson were read more because\\nthey had not been supplanted than because they appealed strongly to the reader of the\\ntime. A more genuine attention was given to Miss Edgeworth, Miss Ferrier, Mackenzie\\nand Gait. But these became at once minor writers when Scott took the field, and he\\ncalled into existence a great multitude of readers of fiction, establishing thereby a habit\\nof novel reading which was of the greatest service to the later novelists, like Dickens and\\nThackeray, when they came in with newer appeal to the changing taste of a newer\\ngeneration.\\nTo all these considerations must be added the incessant demands made upon Scott s\\nbrain by the need of keeping on its base the commercial house of cards which he had\\nhelped to build and in which he was living, and of carrying farther and farther into\\nreality the dream of a baronial estate which was Rokeby done in plaster. Thus the years\\nwent by, full of active occupation, with brilliant pageant indeed, and with social excite-\\nment. It is a pleasure, in the midst of it all, to see the real Scott, Sir Walter to the\\nworld of display but the genuine master to Tom Purdie and Will Laidlaw, to note the\\nwholesome pride of the firm-footed treader on his own acres, the generous care of others,\\nthe absence of cant, religious or social. And when the supreme test came, the test of\\noverwhelming misfortune, the genuineness of this great nature was made plain in the\\nhigh courage with which he set about the task of paying his creditors, in the toil of year\\nafter year, and in those moving passages in his diary when he sat in his loneliness and\\nlooked fortune in the face. Listen to the entry in his diary under date December 18,\\n1825.\\nBallantyne called on me this morning. Venit ilia supremo, dies. My extremity is\\ncome. Cadell has received letters from London which all but positively announce the\\nfailure of Hurst and Robinson, so that Constable Co. must follow, and I must go with\\npoor James Ballantyne for company. I suppose it will involve my all. But if they", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0030.jp2"}, "29": {"fulltext": "BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xxiii\\nleave me \u00c2\u00a3500, 1 can still make it \u00c2\u00a31000 or \u00c2\u00a31200 a year. And if they take my salaries\\nof \u00c2\u00a31300 and \u00c2\u00a3300, they cannot but give me something out of them. I have been rash\\nin anticipating funds to buy land, but then I made from \u00c2\u00a35000 to \u00c2\u00a310,000 a year, and\\nland was my temptation. I think nobody can lose a penny that is one comfort. Men\\nwill think pride has had a fall. Let them indulge their own pride in thinking that my\\nfall makes them higher, or seems so at least. I have the satisfaction to recollect that\\nmy prosperity has been of advantage to many, and that some at least will forgive my\\ntransient wealth on account of the innocence of my intentions, and my real wish to do\\ngood to the poor. The news will make sad hearts at Darwick, and in the cottages\\nat Abbotsford, which I do not nourish the least hope of preserving. It has been my\\nDelilah, and so I have often termed it and now the recollection of the extensive woods\\nI planted, and the walks I have formed, from which strangers must derive both the\\npleasure and the profit, will excite feelings likely to sober my gayest moments. I have\\nhalf resolved never to see the place again. How could I tread my hall with such a\\ndiminished crest How live a poor indebted man where I was once the wealthy, the\\nhonored My children are provided thank God for that. I was to have gone there on\\nSaturday in joy and prosperity to receive my friends. My dogs will wait for me in vain.\\nIt is foolish but the thoughts of parting from these dumb creatures have moved me\\nmore than any of the painful reflections I have put down. Poor things, I must get them\\nkind masters there may be yet those who loving me may love my dog because it has\\nbeen mine. I must end this, or I shall lose the tone of mind with which men should meet\\ndistress.\\nI find my dogs feet on my knees. I hear them whining and seeking me everywhere\\nthis is nonsense, but it is what they would do could they know how things are. Poor\\nWill Laidlaw poor Tom Purdie this will be news to wring your heart, and many a poor\\nfellow s besides to whom my prosperity was daily bread. For myself the magic\\nwand of the Unknown is shivered in his grasp. He must henceforth be termed the Too-\\nwell-known. The feast of fancy is over with the feeling of independence. I can no\\nlonger have the delight of waking in the morning with bright ideas in my mind, haste to\\ncommit them to paper, and count them monthly, as the means of planting such groves,\\nand purchasing such wastes replacing my dreams of fiction by other prospective visions\\nof walks by\\nFountain heads, and pathless groves,\\nPlaces which pale passion loves.\\nThis cannot be but I may work substantial husbandry, work history, and such concerns.\\nThey will not be received with the same enthusiasm. To save Abbotsford I would\\nattempt all that was possible. My heart clings to the place I have created. There is\\nscarce a tree on it that does not owe its being to me, and the pain of leaving it is greater\\nthan I can tell.\\n3 we close our study of Scott s career. Thenceforth his energy was devoted to a\\nclearing away of the ruins of his fortune. With patience and with many gleams\\nmnny temperament, he labored on. In the end the debts were settled, Abbotsford\\nved to his family, and there on the 21st of September, 1832, Scott died. It was\\nbiful day, says Lockhart, so warm, that every window was wide open and so\\n;ly still, that the sound of all others most delicious to his ear, the gentle ripple of\\need over its pebbles, was distinctly audible as we knelt around the bed, and his\\neidtsi gon kissed and closed his eyes.\\nH. E. S.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0031.jp2"}, "30": {"fulltext": "", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0032.jp2"}, "31": {"fulltext": "TWO BALLADS FROM THE GERMAN OF BURGER\\nThe first publication by Scott was a transla-\\ntion or imitation of two German ballads, and\\nbore the following title-page The Chase and\\nWilliam and Helen. Two Ballads from the\\nGerman of Gottfried Augustus Burger, Edin-\\nburgh: Printed by Mundell and Son, Royal\\nBank Close, for Manners and Miller, Parlia-\\nment Square and sold by T. Cadell, junr, and\\nW. Davies, in the Strand, London, 1796. It\\nwas a thin quarto, and, as seen, did not bear\\nthe name of the translator. Scott owed his\\ncopy of Burger s works to the daughter of the\\nSaxon Ambassador at the court of St. James,\\nwho had married his kinsman, Mr. Scott of\\nHarden. She interested herself in his German\\nstudies and lent him aid in correcting his ver-\\nsions. But the immediate occasion of his trans-\\nlating Burger was the interest excited in the\\nautumn of 1795 by the reading of William\\nTaylor s unpublished version of Burger s Le-\\nnore at a party at Dugald Stewart s, by Mrs.\\nBarbauld, then on a visit to Edinburgh. Scott\\nwas not present at the reading, but one of his\\nfriends who heard it, told him the story, and\\nrepeated the chorus,\\nTramp tramp across the land they speede,\\nSplash splash across the sea\\nHurrah the dead can ride apace\\nDost fear to ride with me\\nScott eagerly laid hold of the original and be-\\nginning the task after supper did not go to bed\\ntill he had finished it, a good illustration of the\\nimpetuosity of his literary labor his life long.\\nThe ballad of The Wild Huntsman (Wilde\\nJiiger) Scott appears to have written to accom-\\npany the other ballad for the little volume.\\nThe book attracted some attention in Edin-\\nburgh, where the author was known, but his\\nfriends were disappointed that it received\\nslight notice in London, but translations of Le-\\nnore*, which had caught the public ear, were\\nabundant enough to keep in tolerable obscurity\\nany single one of them. My adventure, Scott\\nwrote thirty-six years later, when he was fa-\\nmous, where so many pushed off to sea,\\nproved a dead loss, and a great part of the edi-\\ntion was condemned to the service of the trunk-\\nmaker. This failure did not operate in any\\nunpleasant degree either on my feelings or\\nspirits. I was coldly received by strangers, but\\nmy reputation began rather to increase among\\nmy own friends, and on the whole I was more\\nbent to show the world that it had neglected\\nsomething worth notice, than to be affronted\\nby its indifference or rather, to speak candidly,\\nI found pleasure in the literary labors in which\\nI had almost by accident become engaged,\\nand labored less in the hope of pleasing others,\\nthough certainly without despair of doing so,\\nthan in a pursuit of a new and agreeable amuse-\\nment to myself. And this may be taken as\\nthe most significant element in Scott s first lit-\\nerary venture, made when he was twenty-five\\nyears of age, and fairly started in the practice of\\nlaw. One other interesting fact connected with\\nthe little volume is that James Ballantyne,\\nwith whom Scott was to have such momentous\\nrelations, reprinted it, at Scott s suggestion, a\\nlittle enlarged, three years later, in order to\\nshow Edinburgh society how well he could\\nprint.\\nWILLIAM AND HELEN\\nFrom heavy dreams fair Helen rose,\\nAnd eyed the dawning red\\nAlas, my love, thou tarriest long\\nO art thou false or dead\\nWith gallant Frederick s princely power\\nHe sought the bold Crusade,\\nBut not a word from Judah s wars\\nTold Helen how he sped.\\nWith Paynim and with Saracen\\nAt length a truce was made,\\nAnd every knight returned to dry\\nThe tears his love had shed.\\nOur gallant host was homeward bound\\nWith many a song of joy", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0033.jp2"}, "32": {"fulltext": "TWO BALLADS FROM THE GERMAN OF BURGER\\nGreen waved the laurel in each plume,\\nThe badge of victory.\\nAnd old and young, and sire and son,\\nTo meet them crowd the way,\\nWith shouts and mirth and melody,\\nThe debt of love to pay. 20\\nFull many a maid her true-love met,\\nAnd sobbed in his embrace,\\nAnd fluttering joy in tears and smiles\\nArrayed full many a face.\\nNor joy nor smile for Helen sad,\\nShe sought the host in vain\\nFor none could tell her William s fate,\\nIf faithless or if slain.\\nThe martial band is past and gone\\nShe rends her raven hair, 30\\nAnd in distraction s bitter mood\\nShe weeps with wild despair.\\nO, rise, my child, her mother said,\\nNor sorrow thus in vain\\nA perjured lover s fleeting heart\\nNo tears recall again.\\nO mother, what is gone is gone,\\nWhat s lost forever lorn\\nDeath, death alone can comfort me\\nO had I ne er been born 40\\nO, break, my heart, O, break at once\\nDrink my life-blood, Despair\\nNo joy remains on earth for me,\\nFor me in heaven no share.\\nO, enter not in judgment, Lord\\nThe pious mother prays\\n1 Impute not guilt to thy frail child\\nShe knows not what she says.\\nO, say thy pater-noster, child\\nO, turn to God and grace 50\\nHis will, that turned thy bliss to bale,\\nCan change thy bale to bliss.\\nO mother, mother, what is bliss\\nO mother, what is bale\\nMy William s love was heaven on earth,\\nWithout it earth is hell.\\nWhy should I pray to ruthless Heaven,\\nSince my loved William s slain\\nI only prayed for William s sake,\\nAnd all my prayers were vain. 6\u00c2\u00a9\\nO, take the sacrament, my child,\\nAnd check these tears that flow\\nBy resignation s humble prayer,\\nO V ^owed be thy woe\\nNo saci anient can quench this fire,\\nOr slake this scorching pain\\nNo sacrament can bid the dead\\nArise and live again.\\nO, break, my heart, O, break at once\\nBe thou my god, Despair 7 o\\nHeaven s heaviest blow has fallen on me,\\nAnd vain each fruitless prayer.\\nO, enter not in judgment, Lord,\\nWith thy frail child of clay\\nShe knows not what her tongue has spoke 5.\\nImpute it not, I pray\\n1 Forbear, my child, this desperate woe,\\nAnd turn to God and grace\\nWell can devotion s heavenly glow\\nConvert thy bale to bliss. 80\\nO mother, mother, what is bliss\\nO mother, what is bale\\nWithout my William what were heaven,\\nOr with him what were hell\\nWild she arraigns the eternal doom,\\nUpbraids each sacred power,\\nTill, spent, she sought her silent room,\\nAll in the lonely tower.\\nShe beat her breast, she wrung her hands,\\nTill sun and day were o er, 90\\nAnd through the glimmering lattice shone\\nThe twinkling of the star.\\nThen, crash the heavy drawbridge fell\\nThat o er the moat was hung\\nAnd, clatter clatter on its boards\\nThe hoof of courser rung.\\nThe clank of echoing steel was heard\\nAs off the rider bounded\\nAnd slowly on the winding stair\\nA heavy footstep sounded. 100\\nAnd hark and hark a knock tap tap\\nA rustling stifled noise", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0034.jp2"}, "33": {"fulltext": "WILLIAM AND HELEN\\nDcor-latch and tinkling staples ring\\nx\u00c2\u00bb.t length a whispering voice.\\ni Awake, awake, arise, my love\\nHow, Helen, dost thou fare\\nWak st thou, or sleep st laugh st thou, or\\nweep st?\\nHast thought on me, my fair\\nMy love my love so late by night\\nI waked, I wept for thee no\\nMuch have I borne since dawn of morn\\nWhere, William, couldst thou be\\nWe saddle late from Hungary\\nI rode since darkness fell\\nAnd to its bourne we both return\\nBefore the matin-bell.\\nO, rest this night within my arms,\\nAnd warm thee in their fold\\nChill howls through hawthorn bush the\\nwind\\nMy love is deadly cold. 120\\nLet the wind howl through hawthorn bush\\nThis night we must away\\nThe steed is wight, the spur is bright\\nI cannot stay till day.\\nBusk, busk, and boune Thou mount st\\nbehind\\nUpon my black barb steed\\nO er stock and stile, a hundred miles,\\nWe haste to bridal bed.\\nTo-night to-night a hundred miles\\nO dearest William, stay 130\\nThe bell strikes twelve dark, dismal hour!\\nO, wait, my love, till day\\nLook here, look here the moon shines\\nclear\\nFull fast I ween we ride\\nMount and away for ere the day\\nWe h our bridal bed.\\nbarb snorts, the bridle rings\\nask, and boune, and seat thee\\n3 made, the chamber spread,\\nal guests await thee. 140\\nre prevailed she busks, she\\ntes,\\nnts the barb behind,\\nAnd round her darling William s waist\\nHer lily arms she twined.\\nAnd, hurry hurry off they rode,\\nAs fast as fast might be\\nSpurned from the courser s thundering\\nheels\\nThe flashing pebbles flee.\\nAnd on the right and on the left,\\nEre they could snatch a view, 150\\nFast, fast each mountain, mead, and plain,\\nAnd cot and castle flew.\\nSit fast dost fear The moon shines\\nclear\\nFleet goes my barb keep hold\\nFear st thou O no she faintly\\nsaid\\nBut why so stern and cold\\nWhat yonder rings what yonder sings\\nWhy shrieks the owlet gray\\n1 T is death-bells clang, t is funeral song,\\nThe body to the clay. 160\\nWith song and clang at morrow s dawn\\nYe may inter the dead\\nTo-night I ride with my young bride\\nTo deck our bridal bed.\\nCome with thy choir, thou coffined guest,\\nTo swell our nuptial song\\nCome, priest, to bless our marriage feast\\nCome all, come all along\\nCeased clang and song down sunk the\\nbier\\nThe shrouded corpse arose 170\\nAnd hurry hurry all the train\\nThe thundering steed pursues.\\nAnd forward forward on they go\\nHigh snorts the straining steed\\nThick pants the rider s laboring breath,\\nAs headlong on they speed.\\nO William, why this savage haste\\nAnd where thy bridal bed\\nT is distant far, low, damp, and chill,\\nAnd narrow, trustless maid. 180\\nNo room for me Enough for\\nboth\\nSpeed, speed, my barb, thy course", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0035.jp2"}, "34": {"fulltext": "TWO BALLADS FROM THE GERMAN OF BURGER\\nO er thundering bridge, through boiling\\nsurge,\\nHe drove the furious horse.\\nTramp tramp along the land they rode,\\nSplash splash along the sea\\nThe scourge is wight, the spur is bright,\\nThe flashing pebbles flee.\\nFled past on right and left how fast\\nEach forest, grove, and bower i 9 o\\nOn right and left fled past how fast\\nEach city, town, and tower\\nDost fear dost fear The moon shines\\nclear,\\nDost fear to ride with me\\nHurrah hurrah the dead can ride\\n1 William, let them be\\n1 See there, see there What yonder\\nswings\\nAnd creaks mid whistling rain\\nGibbet and steel, the accursed wheel\\nA murderer in his chain. 200\\nHollo thou felon, follow here\\nTo bridal bed we ride\\nAnd thou shalt prance a fetter dance\\nBefore me and my bride.\\nAnd, hurry hurry clash, clash, clash\\nThe wasted form descends\\nAnd fleet as wind through hazel bush\\nThe wild career attends.\\nTramp tramp along the land they rode,\\nSplash splash along the sea 2 10\\nThe scourge is red, the spur drops blood,\\nThe flashing pebbles flee.\\nHow fled what moonshine faintly showed\\nHow fled what darkness hid\\nHow fled the earth beneath their feet,\\nThe heaven above their head\\nDost fear dost fear The moon shines\\nclear,\\nAnd well the dead can ride\\nDost faithful Helen fear for them\\nO leave in peace the dead I 220\\n1 Barb Barb methinks I hear the cock\\nThe sand will soon be run\\nBarb Barb I smell the morning air\\nThe race is well-nigh done.\\nTramp tramp along the land they\\nrode,\\nSplash splash along the sea\\nThe scourge is red, the spur drops blood,\\nThe flashing pebbles flee.\\n230\\n1 Hurrah hurrah well ride the dead\\nThe bride, the bride is come\\nAnd soon we reach the bridal bed,\\nFor, Helen, here s my home.\\nReluctant on its rusty hinge\\nRevolved an iron door,\\nAnd by the pale moon s setting beam\\nWere seen a church and tower.\\nWith many a shriek and cry whiz round\\nThe birds of midnight scared\\nAnd rustling like autumnal leaves\\nUnhallowed ghosts were heard. 2\\nO er many a tomb and tombstone pale\\nHe spurred the fiery horse,\\nTill sudden at an open grave\\nHe checked the wondrous course.\\nThe falling gauntlet quits the rein,\\nDown drops the casque of steel,\\nThe cuirass leaves his shrinking side,\\nThe spur his gory heel.\\nThe eyes desert the naked skull,\\nThe mouldering flesh the bone,\\nTill Helen s lily arms entwine\\nA ghastly skeleton.\\nThe furious barb snorts fire and foam,\\nAnd with a fearful bound\\nDissolves at once in empty air,\\nAnd leaves her on the ground.\\nHalf seen by fits, by fits half heard,\\nPale spectres flit along,\\nWheel round the maid in dismal dance,\\nAnd howl the funeral song 260\\nE en when the heart s with anguish\\ncleft\\nRevere the doom of Heaven,\\nHer soul is from her body reft\\nHer spirit be forgiven\\n250", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0036.jp2"}, "35": {"fulltext": "THE WILD HUNTSMAN\\nTHE WILD HUNTSMAN\\nThe Wildgrave winds his bugle-horn,\\nTo horse, to horse halloo, halloo\\nHis fiery courser snuffs the morn,\\nAnd thronging serfs their lord pursue.\\nThe eager pack from couples freed\\nDash through the hush, the brier, the\\nbrake\\nWhile answering hound and horn and steed\\nThe mountain echoes startling wake.\\nThe beams of God s own hallowed day-\\nHad painted yonder spire with gold, 10\\nAnd, calling sinful man to pray,\\nLoud, long, and deep the bell had tolled\\nBut still the Wildgrave onward rides\\nHalloo, halloo and, hark again\\nWhen, spurring from opposing sides,\\nTwo stranger horsemen join the train.\\nWho was each stranger, left and right,\\nWell may I guess, but dare not tell;\\nThe right-hand steed was silver white,\\nThe left the swarthy hue of hell. 20\\nThe right-hand horseman, young and fair,\\nHis smile was like the morn of May;\\nThe left from eye of tawny glare\\nShot midnight lightning s lurid ray.\\nHe waved his huntsman s cap on high,\\nCried, Welcome, welcome, noble lord\\nWhat sport can earth, or sea, or sky,\\nTo match the princely chase, afford\\nj Cease thy loud bugle s changing knell,\\nCried the fair youth with silver voice; 30\\nAnd for devotion s choral swell\\nExchange the rude unhallowed noise.\\nTo-day the ill-omened chase forbear,\\nYon bell yet summons to the fane\\nTo-day the Warning Spirit hear,\\nTo-morrow thou mayst mourn in vain.\\nAway, and sweep the glades along\\nThe sable hunter hoarse replies\\nTo muttering monks leave matin-song,\\nAnd bells and books and mysteries. 40\\nThe Wildgrave spurred his ardent steed,\\nAnd, launching forward with a bound,\\nWho, for thy drowsy priestlike rede,\\nWould leave the jovial horn and hound\\nHence, if our manly sport offend\\nWith pious fools go chant and pray\\nWell hast thou spoke, my dark-browed\\nfriend\\nHalloo, halloo and hark away\\nThe Wildgrave spurred his courser light,\\nO er moss and moor, o er holt and hill\\nAnd on the left and on the right, 51\\nEach stranger horseman followed still.\\nUp springs from yonder tangled thorn\\nA stag more white than mountain snow\\nAnd louder rung the Wildgrave s horn,\\nHark forward, forward holla, ho\\nA heedless wretch has crossed the way\\nHe gasps the thundering hoofs below\\nBut live who can, or die who may,\\nStill, Forward, forward on they go. 60\\nSee, where yon simple fences meet,\\nA field with autumn s blessings crowned\\nSee, prostrate at the Wildgrave s feet,\\nA husbandman with toil embrowned\\nO mercy, mercy, noble lord\\nSpare the poor s pittance, was his cry,\\nEarned by the sweat these brows have\\npoured\\nIn scorching hour of fierce July.\\nEarnest the right-hand stranger pleads,\\nThe left still cheering to the prey 70\\nThe impetuous Earl no warning heeds,\\nBut furious holds the onward way.\\nAway, thou hound so basely born,\\nOr dread the scourge s echoing blow\\nThen loudly rung his bugle-horn,\\nHark forward, forward holla, ho\\nSo said, so done A single bound\\nClears the poor laborer s humble pale\\nWild follows man and horse and hound,\\nLike dark December s stormy gale. 80\\nAnd man and horse, and hound and horn,\\nDestructive sweep the field along\\nWhile, joying o er the wasted corn,\\nFell Famine marks the maddening\\nthrong.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0037.jp2"}, "36": {"fulltext": "TWO BALLADS FROM THE GERMAN OF BURGER\\nAgain uproused the timorous prey\\nScours moss and moor, and holt and hill\\nHard run, he feels his strength decay,\\nAnd trusts for life his simple skill.\\nToo dangerous solitude appeared\\nHe seeks the shelter of the crowd\\nAmid the nock s domestic herd\\nHis harmless head he hopes to shroud.\\n9 o\\nO er moss and moor, and holt and hill,\\nHis track the steady blood-hounds trace\\nO er moss and moor, unwearied still,\\nThe furious Earl pursues the chase.\\nFull lowly did the herdsman fall\\nO spare, thou noble baron, spare\\nThese herds, a widow s little all\\nThese flocks, an orphan s fleecy care 100\\nEarnest the right-hand stranger pleads,\\nThe left still cheering to the prey\\nThe Earl nor prayer nor pity heeds,\\nBut furious keeps the onward way.\\nUnmannered dog To stop my sport\\nVain were thy cant and beggar whine,\\nThough human spirits of thy sort\\nWere tenants of these carrion kine\\nAgain he winds his bugle-horn,\\nHark forward, forward, holla, ho no\\nAnd through the herd in ruthless scorn\\nHe cheers his furious hounds to go.\\nIn heaps the throttled victims fall\\nDown sinks their mangled herdsman\\nnear\\nThe murderous cries the stag appall,\\nAgain he starts, new-nerved by fear.\\nWith blood besmeared and white with foam,\\nWhile big the tears of anguish pour,\\nHe seeks amid the forest s gloom\\nThe humble hermit s hallowed bower. 120\\nBut man and horse, and horn and hound,\\nFast rattling on his traces go\\nThe sacred chapel rung around\\nWith, Hark away and, holla, ho\\nAll mild, amid the rout profane,\\nThe holy hermit poured his prayer\\nForbear with blood God s house to stain\\nRevere His altar and forbear\\nThe meanest brute has rights to plead,\\nWhich, wronged by cruelty or pride, 130\\nDraw vengeance on the ruthless head\\nBe warned at length and turn aside.\\nStill the fair horseman anxious pleads\\nThe black, wild whooping, points the\\nprey\\nAlas the Earl no warning heeds,\\nBut frantic keeps the forward way.\\nHoly or not, or right or wrong,\\nThy altar and its rites I spurn\\nNot sainted martyrs sacred song,\\nNot God himself shall make me turn 140\\nHe spurs his horse, he winds his horn,\\nHark forward, forward, holla, ho\\nBut off, on whirlwind s pinions borne,\\nThe stag, the hut, the hermit, go.\\nAnd horse and man, and horn and hound,\\nAnd clamor of the chase, was gone\\nFor hoofs and howls and bugle-sound,\\nA deadly silence reigned alone.\\nWild gazed the affrighted Earl around\\nHe strove in vain to wake his horn, 150\\nIn vain to call for not a sound\\nCould from his anxious lips be borne.\\nHe listens for his trusty hounds,\\nNo distant baying reached his ears\\nHis courser, rooted to the ground,\\nThe quickening spur unmindful bears.\\nStill dark and darker frown the shades,\\nDark as the darkness of the grave\\nAnd not a sound the still invades,\\nSave what a distant torrent gave.\\nHigh o er the sinner s humbled head\\nAt length the solemn silence broke\\nAnd from a cloud of swarthy red\\nThe awful voice of thunder spoke.\\nOppressor of creation fair\\nApostate Spirits hardened tool\\nScorner of God Scourge of the poor\\nThe measure of thy cup is full.\\nBe chased forever through the wood,\\nForever roam the affrighted wild\\nAnd let thy fate instruct the proud,\\nGod s meanest creature is His child.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0038.jp2"}, "37": {"fulltext": "THE VIOLET\\nT was hushed One flash of sombre\\nglare\\nWith yellow tinged the forests brown\\nUprose the Wildgrave s bristling hair,\\nAnd horror chilled each nerve and bone.\\nCold poured the sweat in freezing rill\\nA rising wind began to sing,\\nAnd louder, louder, louder still, 179\\nBrought storm and tempest on its wing.\\nEarth heard the call her entrails rend\\nFrom yawning rifts, with many a yell,\\nMixed with sulphureous flames, ascend\\nThe misbegotten dogs of hell.\\nWhat ghastly huntsman next arose\\nWell may I guess, but dare not tell\\nHis eye like midnight lightning glows,\\nHis steed the swarthy hue of hell.\\nThe Wildgrave flies o er bush and thorn\\nWith many a shriek of helpless woe 190\\nBehind him hound and horse and horn,\\nAnd, Hark away, and holla, ho\\nWith wild despair s reverted eye,\\nClose, close behind, he marks the throng,\\nWith bloody fangs and eager cry\\nIn frantic fear he scours along.\\nStill, still shall last the dreadful chase\\nTill time itself shall have an end\\nBy day they scour earth s caverned space,\\nAt midnight s witching hour ascend. 200\\nThis is the horn and hound and horse\\nThat oft the lated peasant hears\\nAppalled he signs the frequent cross,\\nWhen the wild din invades his ears.\\nThe wakeful priest oft drops a tear\\nFor human pride, for human woe,\\nWhen at his midnight mass he hears\\nThe infernal cry of Holla, ho\\nEARLY BALLADS AND LYRICS\\nScott followed his translations from Burger\\nwith other efforts in the same direction. The\\nfirst book, indeed, which bore his name, was a\\nprose rendering of Goethe s tragedy of Goetz von\\nBerlichingen, published in 1799, and he trans-\\nlated near the same time, but did not publish\\ntill thirty years later, the House of Aspen, a free\\nadaptation of Der Heilige Vehmi, by a pseu-\\ndonymous German author of the day. The Ger-\\nmanic influence was curiously blended with an\\nantiquarian zeal which had an early birth and\\nnow sent him eagerly abroad among Scottish\\nlegends and half -mythical tales for subjects.\\nMoreover, he was drawn into the service of\\nMonk Lewis, who persuaded him to contribute\\nto his collection of Tales of Wonder, them-\\nselves touched with the prevailing temper of\\neeriness imported freely from Germany.\\nBut the most substantial result of his labors\\nin these experimental years was the publica-\\ntion in 1802 and 1803 of the three volumes of\\nMinstrelsy of The Scottish Border. Scott had\\nnow become so enamored of the native legends,\\nso skilful as an imitator, and, much more, so\\ninformed with the spirit of the old ballads,\\nthat his own contributions harmonized with\\nthe antiquities he had gathered, and these\\nshowed in every line, as well as in the rich ap-\\nparatus of notes with which they were illus-\\ntrated, a mastery of the ballad literature, and\\na mind thoroughly at home in material which\\nwas soon to be the quarry for the author and\\neditor s most noble edifices in verse.\\nThe present group contains, in as nearly\\nexact chronological order as is practicable,\\nScott s experiments and performances in origi-\\nnal verse, with scattered translations and im-\\nitations, before he leaped into fame with The\\nLay of the Last Minstrel.\\nTHE VIOLET\\nThese slight verses have an interest derived\\nfrom the fact that they were written by Scott\\nin 1797 in connection with that suppressed\\npassion for Williamina Stuart which never\\nfound direct expression to her, but remained\\ndeep in the poet s heart long after her mar-\\nriage to Sir William Forbes, and Scott s to\\nMiss Carpenter; so that thirty years later\\nScott could write in his Journal, just after\\nwaiting on Lady Jane Stuart, the aged mother\\nof Williamina I went to make another visit,\\nand fairly softened myself like an old fool,\\nwith recalling old stories, till I was fit for no-\\nthing but shedding tears and repeating verses", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0039.jp2"}, "38": {"fulltext": "s\\nEARLY BALLADS AND LYRICS\\nfor the whole night. This is sad work. The very\\ngrave gives up its dead, and time rolls hack\\nthirty years to add to my perplexities. I don t\\ncare. Yet what a romance to tell, and told I\\nfear it will one day be. And then my three\\nyears of dreaming and my two years of waken-\\ning will be chronicled, doubtless. But the\\ndead will feel no pain. The story of this dis-\\nappointment is told without names in the\\neighth chapter of Lockhart s Life, and has re-\\ncently been repeated with greater explieitness\\nby Miss Skene in The Century for July, 1899.\\nThe violet in her green-wood bower,\\nWhere birchen boughs with hazels min-\\ngle,\\nMay boast itself the fairest flower\\nIn glen or copse or forest dingle.\\nThough fair her gems of azure hue,\\nBeneath the dewdrop s weight reclining\\nI ve seen an eye of lovelier blue,\\nMore sweet through watery lustre shin-\\ning.\\nThe summer sun that dew shall dry\\nEre yet the day be past its morrow,\\nNor longer in my false love s eye\\nRemained the tear of parting sorrow.\\nTO A LADY\\nWITH FLOWERS FROM A ROMAN WALL\\n1797\\nTake these flowers which, purple waving,\\nOn the ruined rampart grew,\\nWhere, the sons of freedom braving,\\nRome s imperial standards flew.\\nWarriors from the breach of danger\\nPluck no longer laurels there\\nThey but yield the passing stranger\\nWild-flower wreaths for Beauty s hair.\\nTHE ERL-KING\\nFROM THE GERMAN OF GOETHE\\nScott, in sending this in a letter to a friend,\\nmakes the comment The Erl-King is a\\ngoblin that haunts the Black Forest in Thurin-\\ngia. To be read by a candle particularly long\\nin the snuff. The translation was made in\\n1797.\\nO, who rides by night thro the woodland\\nso wild\\nIt is the fond father embracing his child\\nAnd close the boy nestles within his loved\\narm,\\nTo hold himself fast and to keep himself\\nwarm.\\nO father, see yonder see yonder he\\nMy boy, upon what dost thou fearfully\\ngaze\\nO, tis the Erl-King with his crown and\\nhis shroud.\\nNo, my son, it is but a dark wreath of\\nthe cloud.\\nTHE ERL-KING SPEAKS\\nO, come and go with me, thou loveliest\\nchild\\nBy many a gay sport shall thy time be\\nbeguiled\\nMy mother keeps for thee full many a fair\\ntoy,\\nAnd many a fine flower shall she pluck for\\nmy boy.\\nO father, my father, and did you not\\nhear\\nThe Erl-King whisper so low in my\\near?\\nBe still, my heart s darling my child, be\\nat ease\\nIt was but the wild blast as it sung thro\\nthe trees.\\nERL-KING\\nO, wilt thou go with me, thou loveliest\\nboy?\\nMy daughter shall tend thee with care and\\nwith joy\\nShe shall bear thee so lightly thro wet\\nand thro wild,\\nAnd press thee and kiss thee and sing to\\nmy child.\\nO father, my father, and saw you not\\nplain,\\nThe Erl-King s pale daughter glide past\\nthrough the rain\\nO yes, my loved treasure, I knew it full\\nsoon\\nIt was the gray willow that danced to the\\nmoon.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0040.jp2"}, "39": {"fulltext": "SONG\\nNor patriot valor, desperate grown,\\nSought freedom in the grave\\nShall we, too, bend the stubborn head,\\nIn Freedom s temple born,\\nDress our pale cheek in timid smile,\\nTo hail a master in our isle,\\nOr brook a victor s scorn\\nNo though destruction o er the land\\nCome pouring as a flood,\\nThe sun, that sees our falling day,\\nShall mark our sabres deadly sway,\\nAnd set that night in blood.\\nFor gold let Gallia s legions fight,\\nOr plunder s bloody gain\\nUnbribed, unb ought, our swords we draw,\\nTo guard our king, to fence our law,\\nNor shall their edge be vain.\\nIf ever breath of British gale\\nShall fan the tri-color,\\nOr footstep of invader rude,\\nWith rapine foul, and red with blood,\\nPollute our happy shore,\\nThen farewell home and farewell friends\\nAdieu each tender tie\\nResolved, we mingle in the tide,\\nWhere charging squadrons furious ride,\\nTo conquer or to die.\\nTo horse to horse the sabres gleam\\nHigh sounds our bugle call\\nCombined by honor s sacred tie,\\nOur word is Laws and Liberty I\\nMarch forward, one and all\\nSONG\\nFROM GOETZ VON BERLICHINGEN\\nIt was a little naughty page,\\nHa ha\\nWould catch a bird was closed in cage.\\nSa sa\\nHa ha\\nSa sa\\nHe seized the cage, the latch did draw,\\nHa! ha!\\nAnd in he thrust his knavish paw.\\nSa sa\\nHa ha\\nSa sa\\nERL-KING\\nO, come and go with me, no longer delay,\\nOr else, silly child, I will drag thee\\naway.\\nO father O father now, now keep your\\nhold,\\nThe Erl-King has seized me his grasp is\\nso cold\\nSore trembled the father he spurred thro\\nthe wild,\\nClasping close to his bosom his shuddering\\nchild\\nHe reaches his dwelling in doubt and in\\ndread,\\nBut, clasped to his bosom, the infant was\\ndead\\nWAR-SONG\\nOF THE ROYAL EDINBURGH LIGHT\\nDRAGOONS\\nIn 1797 Scott s ardor led to the formation of\\nthe Royal Edinburgh Light Dragoons, and he\\nserved in it as quartermaster. In 1798, when\\na French invasion was threatened, Mr. Skene\\nwas one day reciting the German Kriegslied\\n1 Der Abschied s Tag ist Da, and the next\\nmorning Scott showed the following piece\\nwhich was adopted as the troop-song.\\nTo horse to horse the standard flies,\\nThe bugles sound the call\\nThe Gallic navy stems the seas,\\nThe voice of battle s on the breeze,\\nArouse ye, one and all\\nFrom high Dunedin s towers we come,\\nA band of brothers true\\nOur casques the leopard s spoils surround,\\nWith Scotland s hardy thistle crowned\\nWe boast the red and blue.\\nThough tamely crouch to Gallia s frown\\nDull Holland s tardy train\\nTheir ravished toys though Romans\\nmourn\\nThough gallant Switzers vainly spurn,\\nAnd, foaming, gnaw the chain\\nOh had they marked the avenging call\\nTheir brethren s murder gave,\\nDisunion ne er their ranks had mown,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0041.jp2"}, "40": {"fulltext": "IO\\nEARLY BALLADS AND LYRICS\\nThe bird dashed out, and gained the thorn,\\nHa ha\\nAnd laughed the silly fool to scorn\\nSa sa\\nHa ha\\nSa sa\\nSONGS\\nFROM THE HOUSE OF ASPEN\\nLockhart .calls attention to the fact that the\\nfirst of these lyrics has the metre, and not a\\nlittle of the spirit, of the boat-song of Rod-\\nerick Dbu and Clan Alpin and that the sec-\\nond is the first draft of The Maid of Toro.\\nJoy to the victor, the sons of old Aspen\\nJoy to the race of the battle and scar\\nGlory s proud garland triumphantly grasp-\\nGenerous in peace, and victorious in war.\\nHonor acquiring,\\nValor inspiring,\\nBursting, resistless, through foemen they\\ngo;\\nWar-axes wielding,\\nBroken ranks yielding,\\nTill from the battle proud Roderic re-\\ntiring,\\nYields in wild rout the fair palm to his foe.\\nJoy to each warrior, true follower of As-\\npen\\nJoy to the heroes that gained the bold\\nday\\nHealth to our wounded, in agony gasping\\nPeace to our brethren that fell in the\\nfray\\nBoldly this morning,\\nRoderic s power scorning,\\nWell for their chieftain their blades did\\nthey wield\\nJoy blest them dying,\\nAs Maltingen flying,\\nLow laid his banners, our conquest\\nadorning,\\nTheir death-clouded eye-balls descried on\\nthe field\\nNow to our home, the proud mansion of\\nAspen\\nBend we, gay victors, triumphant away.\\nThere each fond damsel, her gallant youth\\nclasping,\\nShall wipe from his forehead the stains\\nof the fray.\\nListening the prancing\\nOf horses advancing\\nE en now on the turrets our maidens ap-\\npear.\\nLove our hearts warming,\\nSongs the night charming,\\nRound goes the grape in the goblet gay\\ndancing\\nLove, wine, and song, our blithe evening\\nshall cheer\\nII\\nSweet shone the sun on the fair lake of\\nToro,\\nWeak were the whispers that waved the\\ndark wood,\\nAs a fair maiden, bewildered in sorrow,\\nSighed to the breezes and wept to the\\nflood.\\nSaints, from the mansion of bliss lowly\\nbending,\\nVirgin, that hear st the poor suppliant s\\ncry,\\nGrant my petition, in anguish ascending,\\nMy Frederick restore, or let Eleanor die.\\nDistant and faint were the sounds of the\\nbattle\\nWith the breezes they rise, with the\\nbreezes they fail,\\nTill the shout, and the groan, and the con-\\nflict s dread rattle,\\nAnd the chase s wild clamor came load-\\ning the gale.\\nBreathless she gazed through the wood-\\nland so dreary,\\nSlowly approaching, a warrior was seen\\nLife s ebbing tide marked his footsteps so\\nweary,\\nCleft was his helmet, and woe was his\\nmien.\\nSave thee, fair maid, for our armies are\\nflying;\\nSave thee, fair maid, for thy guardian is\\nlow\\nCold on yon heath thy bold Frederick is\\n!y in g\\nFast through the woodland approaches\\nthe foe.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0042.jp2"}, "41": {"fulltext": "GLENFINLAS\\nii\\nin\\nRHEIN-WEIN LIED\\nWhat makes the troopers frozen courage\\nmuster\\nThe grapes of juice divine.\\nUpon the Rhine, upon the Rhine they\\ncluster\\nOh, blessed be the Rhine\\nLet fringe and furs, and many a rabbit\\nskin, sirs,\\nBedeck your Saracen\\nHe 11 freeze without what warms our\\nheart within, sirs,\\nWhen the night-frost crusts the fen.\\nBut on the Rhine, but on the Rhine they\\ncluster,\\nThe grapes of juice divine,\\nThat makes our troopers frozen courage\\nmuster\\nOh, blessed be the Rhine\\nGLENFINLAS\\nOR\\nLORD RONALD S CORONACH\\nThis ballad, written in the summer of 1799,\\nand first published in Monk Lewis s Tales of\\nWonder, was provided by Scott with a preface\\nwhich is here reproduced because of the sug-\\ngestion that Scott, in making thus his first use\\nof native, Scottish material, was affected by\\nhis German studies and translations. The prose\\npreface, it has been held, where he speaks in\\nhis natural voice, is more affecting than the\\nlofty and sonorous stanzas themselves that\\nthe vague tenor of the original dream loses,\\ninstead of gaining, by the expanded elabora-\\ntion of the detail. Be that as it may, here is\\nScott s preface\\nThe simple tradition, upon which the follow-\\ning stanzas are founded, runs thus While two\\nHighland hunters were passing the night in a\\nsolitary bothy, (a hut, built for the purpose of\\nhunting,) and making merry over their venison\\nand whiskey, one of them expressed a wish\\nthat they had pretty lasses to complete their\\nparty. The words were scarcely uttered, when\\ntwo beautiful young women, habited in green,\\nentered the hut, dancing and singing. One of\\nthe hunters was seduced by the siren who at-\\ntached herself particularly to him, to leave the\\nhut the other remained, and, suspicious of\\nthe fair seducers, continued to play upon a\\ntrump, or Jew s harp, some strain, consecrated\\nto the Virgin Mary. Day at length came, and\\nthe temptress vanished. Searching in the\\nforest, he found the bones of his unfortunate\\nfriend, who had been torn to pieces and de-\\nvoured by the fiend into whose toils he had\\nfallen. The place was from thence called the\\nGlen of the Green Women.\\nGlenfinlas is a tract of forest-ground, lying\\nin the Highlands of Perthshire, not far from\\nCallender, in Menteith. It was formerly a\\nroyal forest, and now belongs to the Earl of\\nMoray. This country, as well as the adja-\\ncent district of Balquidder, was, in times of\\nyore, chiefly inhabited by the Macgregors. To\\nthe west of the Forest of Glenfinlas lies Loch\\nKatrine, and its romantic avenue, called the\\nTroshachs. Benledi, Benmore, and Benvoir-\\nlich, are mountains in the same district, and\\nat no great distance from Glenfinlas. The\\nRiver Teith passes Callender and the Castle of\\nDoune, and joins the Forth near Stirling. The\\nPass of Lenny is immediately above Callender,\\nand is the principal access to the Highlands,\\nfrom that town. Glenartney is a forest, near\\nBenvoirlich. The whole forms a sublime tract\\nof Alpine scenery.\\nIt may be observed that the scenery of the\\nballad reappears in The Lady of the Lake, as\\nalso in Waverley and Rob Hoy.\\nFor them the viewless forms of air obey,\\nTheir bidding heed, and at their beck repair\\nThey know what spirit brews the stormful day,\\nAnd heartless oft, like moody madness stare,\\nTo see the phantom-train their secret work prepare.\\nCollins.\\nO hone a rie O hone a rie\\nThe pride of Albin s line is o er,\\nAnd fallen Glenartney s stateliest tree\\nWe ne er shall see Lord Ronald more\\nO sprung from great Macgillianore,\\nThe chief that never feared a foe,\\nHow matchless was thy broad claymore,\\nHow deadly thine unerring bow\\nWell can the Saxon widows tell\\nHow on the Teith s resounding shore io\\nThe boldest Lowland warriors fell,\\nAs down from Lenny s pass you bore.\\nBut o er his hills in festal day\\nHow blazed Lord Ronald s beltane-tree,\\nWhile youths and maids the light strath-\\nspey\\nSo nimbly danced with Highland glee", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0043.jp2"}, "42": {"fulltext": "12\\nEARLY BALLADS AND LYRICS\\nCheered by the strength of Ronald s shell,\\nE en age forgot his tresses hoar\\nBut now the loud lament we swell,\\nO, ne er to see Lord Ronald more 20\\nFrom distant isles a chieftain came\\nThe joys of Ronald s halls to find,\\nAnd chase with him the dark-brown game\\nThat bounds o er Albin s hills of wind.\\nT was Moy whom in Columba s isle\\nThe seer s prophetic spirit found,\\nAs, with a minstrel s fire the while,\\nHe waked his harp s harmonious sound.\\nlull many a spell to him was known\\nWhich wandering spirits shrink to hear\\nAnd many a lay of potent tone 31\\nWas never meant for mortal ear.\\nFor there, t is said, in mystic mood\\nHigh converse with the dead they hold,\\nAnd oft espy the fated shroud\\nThat shall the future corpse enfold.\\nO, so it fell that on a day,\\nTo rouse the red deer from their den,\\nThe chiefs have ta en their distant way,\\nAnd scoured the deep Glenfinlas glen.\\nNo vassals wait their sports to aid, 41\\nTo watch their safety, deck their board;\\nTheir simple dress the Highland plaid,\\nTheir trusty guard the Highland sword.\\nThree summer days through brake and dell\\nTheir whistling shafts successful flew;\\nAnd still when dewy evening fell\\nThe quarry to their hut they drew.\\nIn gray Glenfinlas deepest nook\\nThe solitary cabin stood, 50\\nFast by Moneira s sullen brook,\\nWhich murmurs through that lonely\\nwood.\\nSoft fell the night, the sky was calm,\\nWhen three successive days had flown\\nAnd summer mist in dewy balm\\nSteeped heathy bank and mossy stone.\\nThe moon, half-hid in silvery flakes,\\nAfar her dubious radiance shed,\\nQuivering on Katrine s distant lakes,\\nAnd resting on Benledi s head. 60\\nNow in their hut in social guise\\nTheir sylvan fare the chiefs enjoy;\\nAnd pleasure laughs in Ronald s eyes,\\nAs many a pledge he quaffs to Moy.\\nWhat lack we here to crown our bliss,\\nWhile thus the pulse of joy beats high\\nWhat but fair woman s yielding kiss,\\nHer panting breath and melting eye\\nTo chase the deer of yonder shades,\\nThis morning left their father s pile 70\\nThe fairest of our mountain maids,\\nThe daughters of the proud Glengyle.\\nLong have I sought sweet Mary s heart,\\nAnd dropped the tear and heaved the\\nsigh\\nBut vain the lover s wily art\\nBeneath a sister s watchful eye.\\nBut thou mayst teach that guardian fair,\\nWhile far with Mary I am flown,\\nOf other hearts to cease her care,\\nAnd find it hard to guard her own. 80\\nTouch but thy harp, thou soon shalt see\\nThe lovely Flora of Glengyle,\\nUnmindful of her charge and me,\\nHang on thy notes twixt tear and smile\\nOr, if she choose a melting tale,\\nAll underneath the greenwood bough,\\nWill good Saint Oran s rule prevail,\\nStern huntsman of the rigid brow\\nSince Enrick s fight, since Morna s death,\\nNo more on me shall rapture rise, 9c\\nResponsive to the panting breath,\\nOr yielding kiss or melting eyes.\\nE en then, when o er the heath of woe\\nWhere sunk my hopes of love and fame,\\nI bade my harp s wild wailings flow,\\nOn me the Seer s sad spirit came.\\nThe last dread curse of angry heaven,\\nWith ghastly sights and sounds of woe\\nTo dash each glimpse of joy was given\\nThe gift the future ill to know.\\nThe bark thou saw st, yon summer morn,\\nSo gayly part from Oban s bay,\\nMy eye beheld her dashed and torn\\nFar on the rocky Colonsay.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0044.jp2"}, "43": {"fulltext": "GLENFINLAS\\ni3\\nI Thy Fergus too thy sister s son,\\nThou saw st with pride the gallant s\\npower,\\nAs marching gainst the Lord of Downe\\nHe left the skirts of huge Benmore.\\nThou only saw st their tartans wave 109\\nAs down Benvoirlich s side they wound,\\nHeard st but the pibroch answering brave\\nTo many a target clanking round.\\nI heard the groans, I marked the tears,\\nI saw the wound his bosom bore,\\nWhen on the serried Saxon spears\\nHe poured his clan s resistless roar.\\nAnd thou, who bidst me think of bliss,\\nAnd bidst my heart awake to glee,\\nAnd court like thee the wanton kiss\\nThat heart, O Ronald, bleeds for thee 120\\nI I see the death-damps chill thy brow\\nI hear thy Warning Spirit cry\\nThe corpse-lights dance they re gone,\\nand now\\nNo more is given to gifted eye\\nAlone enjoy thy dreary dreams,\\nSad prophet of the evil hour\\nSay, should we scorn joy s transient beams\\nBecause to-morrow s storm may lour\\n1 Or false or sooth thy words of woe, 129\\nClangillian s Chieftain ne er shall fear\\nHis blood shall bound at rapture s glow,\\nThough doomed to stain the Saxon spear.\\nE en now, to meet me in yon dell,\\nMy Mary s buskins brush the dew.\\nHe spoke, nor bade the chief farewell,\\nBut called his dogs and gay withdrew.\\nWithin an hour returned each hound,\\nIn rushed the rousers of the deer\\nThey howled in melancholy sound,\\nThen closely couched beside the Seer. 140\\nNo Ronald yet, though midnight came,\\nAnd sad were Moy s prophetic dreams,\\nAs, bending o er the dying flame,\\nHe fed the watch-fire s quivering gleams.\\nSudden the hounds erect their ears,\\nAnd sudden cease their moaning howl,\\nClose pressed to Moy, they mark their fears\\nBy shivering limbs and stifled growl.\\nUntouched the harp began to ring\\nAs softly, slowly, oped the door 150\\nAnd shook responsive every string\\nAs light a footstep pressed the floor.\\nAnd by the watch-fire s glimmering light\\nClose by the minstrel s side was seen\\nAn huntress maid, in beauty bright,\\nAll dropping wet her robes of green.\\nAll dropping wet her garments seem\\nChilled was her cheek, her bosom bare,\\nAs, bending o er the dying gleam,\\nShe wrung the moisture from her hair. 160\\nWith maiden blush she softly said,\\nO gentle huntsman, hast thou seen,\\nIn deep Glenfinlas moonlight glade,\\nA lovely maid in vest of green\\nWith her a chief in Highland pride\\nHis shoulders bear the hunter s bow,\\nThe mountain dirk adorns his side,\\nFar on the wind his tartans flow\\nAnd who art thou and who are they\\nAll ghastly gazing, Moy replied 170\\nAnd why, beneath the moon s pale ray,\\nDare ye thus roam Glenfinlas side\\nWhere wild Loch Katrine pours her tide,\\nBlue, dark, and deep, round many an isle,\\nOur father s towers o erhang her side,\\nThe castle of the bold Glengyle.\\nTo chase the dun Glenfinlas deer\\nOur woodland course this morn we bore,\\nAnd haply met while wandering here\\nThe son of great Macgillianore. 180\\nO, aid me then to seek the pair,\\nWhom, loitering in the woods, I lost\\nAlone I dare not venture there,\\nWhere walks, they say, the shrieking\\nghost.\\nYes, many a shrieking ghost walks there\\nThen first, my own sad vow to keep,\\nHere will I pour my midnight prayer,\\nWhich still must rise when mortals\\nsleep.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0045.jp2"}, "44": {"fulltext": "14\\nEARLY BALLADS AND LYRICS\\nO, first, for pity s gentle sake,\\nGuide a lone wanderer on her way 190\\nFor I must cross the haunted brake,\\nAnd reach my father s towers ere day.\\nFirst, three times tell each Ave-bead,\\nAnd thrice a Pater-noster say\\nThen kiss with me the holy rede\\nSo shall we safely wend our way.\\nO, shame to knighthood, strange and foul\\nGo, doff the bonnet from thy brow,\\nAnd shroud thee in the monkish cowl,\\nWhich best befits thy sullen vow. 200\\nNot so, by high Dunlathmon s fire,\\nThy heart was froze to love and joy,\\nWhen gayly rung thy raptured lyre\\nTo wanton Morna s melting eye.\\nWild stared the minstrel s eyes of flame\\nAnd high his sable locks arose,\\nAnd quick his color went and came\\nAs fear and rage alternate rose.\\nAnd thou when by the blazing oak\\nI lay, to her and love resigned, 210\\nSay, rode ye on the eddying smoke,\\nOr sailed ye on the midnight wind\\nNot thine a race of mortal blood,\\nNor old Glengyle s pretended line\\nThy dame, the Lady of the Flood\\nThy sire, the Monarch of the Mine.\\nHe muttered thrice Saint Oran s rhyme,\\nAnd thrice Saint Fillan s powerful\\nprayer\\nThen turned him to the eastern clime,\\nAnd sternly shook his coal-black hair. 220\\nAnd, bending o er his harp, he flung\\nHis wildest witch-notes on the wind\\nAnd loud and high and strange they rung,\\nAs many a magic change they find.\\nTall waxed the Spirit s altering form,\\nTill to the roof her stature grew\\nThen, mingling with the rising storm,\\nWith one wild yell away she flew.\\nRain beats, hail rattles, whirlwinds tear\\nThe slender hut in fragments flew 230\\nBut not a lock of Moy s loose hair\\nWas waved by wind or wet by dew.\\nWild mingling with the howling gale,\\nLoud bursts of ghastly laughter rise\\nHigh o er the minstrel s head they sail\\nAnd die amid the northern skies.\\nThe voice of thunder shook the wood,\\nAs ceased the more than mortal yell\\nAnd spattering foul a shower of blood\\nUpon the hissing firebrands fell. 240\\nNext dropped from high a mangled arm\\nThe fingers strained an half-drawn blade\\nAnd last, the life-blood streaming warm,\\nTorn from the trunk, a gasping head.\\nOft o er that head in battling field\\nStreamed the proud crest of high Ben-\\nmore\\nThat arm the broad claymore could wield\\nWhich dyed the Teith with Saxon gore.\\nWoe to Moneira s sullen rills\\nWoe to Glenfinlas dreary glen 250\\nThere never son of Albin s hills\\nShall draw the hunter s shaft agen\\nE en the tired pilgrim s burning feet\\nAt noon shall shun that sheltering den,\\nLest, journeying in their rage, he meet\\nThe wayward Ladies of the Glen.\\nAnd we behind the chieftain s shield\\nNo more shall we in safety dwell\\nNone leads the people to the field\\nAnd we the loud lament must swell. 260\\nO hone a rie O hone a rie\\nThe pride of Albin s line is o er\\nAnd fallen Glenartney s stateliest tree\\nWe ne er shall see Lord Ronald more\\nTHE EVE OF SAINT JOHN\\nThis ballad was written in the autumn of 1799\\nat Mertoun House, and was first published in\\nMonk Lewis s Tales of Wonder. Lockhart\\npoints out that it is the first of Scott s original\\npieces in which he uses the measure of his own\\nfavorite minstrels. The ballad was written at\\nthe playful request of Scott of Harden, who\\nwas the owner of the tower of Smailholm, when\\nWalter Scott begged him not to destroy it.\\nThe Baron of Smaylho me rose with day,\\nHe spurred his courser on,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0046.jp2"}, "45": {"fulltext": "THE EVE OF SAINT JOHN\\nJ 5\\nWithout stop or stay, down the rocky way,\\nThat leads to Brotherstone.\\nHe went not with the bold Buccleuch\\nHis banner broad to rear\\nHe went not gainst the English yew\\nTo lift the Scottish spear.\\nYet his plate-jack was braced and his hel-\\nmet was laced,\\nAnd his vaunt-brace of proof he wore 10\\nAt his saddle gerthe was a good steel\\nsperthe,\\nFull ten pound weight and more.\\nThe baron returned in three days space,\\nAnd his looks were sad and sour\\nAnd weary was his courser s pace\\nAs he reached his rocky tower.\\nHe came not from where Ancram Moor\\nEan red with English blood\\nWhere the Douglas true and the bold\\nBuccleuch\\nGainst keen Lord Evers stood. 20\\nYet was his helmet hacked and hewed,\\nHis acton pierced and tore,\\nHis axe and his dagger with blood im-\\nbrued,\\nBut it was not English gore.\\nHe lighted at the Chapellage,\\nHe held him close and still\\nAnd he whistled thrice for his little foot-\\npage,\\nHis name was English Will.\\nCome thou hither, my little foot-page,\\nCome hither to my knee 30\\nThough thou art young and tender of\\nage,\\nI think thou art true to me.\\nCome, tell me all that thou hast seen,\\nAnd look thou tell me true\\nSince I from Smaylho me tower have been,\\nWhat did thy lady do\\n*My lady, each night, sought the lonely\\nlight\\nThat burns on the wild Watchf old\\nFor from height to height the beacons\\nbright\\nOf the English foemen told. 40\\nThe bittern clamored from the moss,\\nThe wind blew loud and shrill\\nYet the craggy pathway she did cross\\nTo the eiry Beacon Hill.\\nI watched her steps, and silent came\\nWhere she sat her on a stone\\nNo watchman stood by the dreary flame,\\nIt burned all alone.\\nThe second night I kept her in sight\\nTill to the fire she came, 50\\nAnd, by Mary s might an armed knight\\nStood by the lonely flame.\\nAnd many a word that warlike lord\\nDid speak to my lady there\\nBut the rain fell fast and loud blew the\\nblast,\\nAnd I heard not what they were.\\nThe third night there the sky was fair,\\nAnd the mountain-blast was still,\\nAs again I watched the secret pair\\nOn the lonesome Beacon Hill. 60\\nAnd I heard her name the midnight\\nhour,\\nAnd name this holy eve\\nAnd say, Come this night to thy lady s\\nbower\\nAsk no bold baron s leave.\\nHe lifts his spear with the bold Buc-\\ncleuch\\nHis lady is all alone\\nThe door she 11 undo to her knight so true\\nOn the eve of good Saint John.\\nI cannot come I must not come\\nI dare not come to thee 70\\nOn the eve of Saint John I must wander\\nalone\\nIn thy bower I may not be.\\nNow, out on thee, faint-hearted knight\\nThou shouldst not say me nay\\nFor the eve is sweet, and when lovers\\nmeet\\nIs worth the whole summer s day.\\nAnd I 11 chain the blood-hound, and the\\nwarder shall not sound,\\nAnd rushes shall be strewed on the\\nstair;", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0047.jp2"}, "46": {"fulltext": "i6\\nEARLY BALLADS AND LYRICS\\nSo, by the black rood-stone and by holy\\nSaint John,\\nI conjure thee, my love, to be there 80\\nThough the blood-hound be mute and\\nthe rush beneath my foot,\\nAnd the warder his bugle should not\\nblow,\\nYet there sleepeth a priest in the chamber\\nto the east,\\nAnd my footstep he would know.\\nO, fear not the priest who sleepeth to\\nthe east,\\nFor to Dryburgh the way he has\\nta en\\nAnd there to say mass, till three days do\\npass,\\nFor the soul of a knight that is slayne.\\nHe turned him around and grimly he\\nfrowned\\nThen he laughed right scornfully 90\\nHe who says the mass-rite for the soul\\nof that knight\\nMay as well say mass for me\\nAt the lone midnight hour when bad\\nspirits have power\\nIn thy chamber will I be.\\nWith that he was gone and my lady left\\nalone,\\nAnd no more did I see.\\nThen changed, I trow, was that bold\\nbaron s brow\\nFrom the dark to the blood-red high;\\nNow, tell me the mien of the knight thou\\nhast seen,\\nFor, by Mary, he shall die 100\\nHis arms shone full bright in the beacon s\\nred light\\nHis plume it was scarlet and blue\\nOn his shield was a hound in a silver leash\\nbouud,\\nAnd his crest was a branch of the\\nyew.\\nThou liest, thou liest, thou little foot-\\npage,\\nLoud dost thou lie to me\\nFor that knight is cold and low laid in the\\nmould,\\nAil under the Eildon-tree.\\nYet hear but my word, my noble lord\\nFor I heard her name his name no\\nAnd that lady bright, she called the\\nknight\\nSir Richard of Coldinghame.\\nThe bold baron s brow then changed, I\\ntrow,\\nFrom high blood-red to pale\\nThe grave is deep and dark and the\\ncorpse is stiff and stark\\nSo I may not trust thy tale.\\nWhere fair Tweed flows round holy Mel-\\nrose,\\nAnd Eildon slopes to the plain,\\nFull three nights ago by some secret foe\\nThat gay gallant was slain. 120\\nThe varying light deceived thy sight,\\nAnd the wild winds drowned the name\\nFor the Dryburgh bells ring and the white\\nmonks do sing\\nFor Sir Richard of Coldinghame\\nHe passed the court-gate and he oped the\\ntower-gate,\\nAnd he mounted the narrow stair\\nTo the bartizan-seat where, with maids\\nthat on her wait,\\nHe found his lady fair.\\nThat lady sat in mournful mood\\nLooked over hill and vale 130\\nOver Tweed s fair flood and Mertoun s\\nwood,\\nAnd all down Teviotdale.\\nNow hail, now hail, thou lady bright\\nNow hail, thou baron true\\nWhat news, what news, from Ancram\\nfight?\\nWhat news from the bold Buccleuch\\nThe Ancram moor is red with gore,\\nFor many a Southern fell\\nAnd Buccleuch has charged us evermore\\nTo watch our beacons well. 140\\nThe lady blushed red, but nothing she\\nsaid\\nNor added the baron a word\\nThen she stepped down the stair to her\\nchamber fair,\\nAnd so did her moody lord.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0048.jp2"}, "47": {"fulltext": "THE GRAY BROTHER\\n17\\nIn sleep the lady mourned, and the baron\\ntossed and turned,\\nAnd oft to himself he said,\\nThe worms around him creep, and his\\nbloody grave is deep\\nIt cannot give up the dead\\nIt was near the ringing of matin-bell,\\nThe night was well-nigh done, 150\\nWhen a heavy sleep on that baron fell,\\nOn the eve of good Saint John.\\nThe lady looked through the chamber fair,\\nBy the light of a dying flame\\nAnd she was aware of a knight stood\\nthere\\nSir Richard of Coldinghame!\\nAlas away, away she cried,\\nFor the holy Virgin s sake\\nLady, I know who sleeps by thy side\\nBut, lady, he will not awake. 160\\nBy Eildon-tree for long nights three\\nIn bloody grave have I lain\\nThe mass and the death-prayer are said\\nfor me,\\nBut, lady, they are said in vain.\\nBy the baron s brand, near Tweed s fair\\nstrand,\\nMost foully slain I fell\\nAnd my restless sprite on the beacon s\\nheight\\nFor a space is doomed to dwell.\\nAt our trysting-place, for a certain space,\\nI must wander to and fro; 170\\nBut I had not had power to come to thy\\nbower\\nHadst thou not conjured me so.\\nLove mastered fear her brow she crossed\\nHow, Richard, hast thou sped\\nAnd art thou saved or art thou lost\\nThe vision shook his head\\nWho spilleth life shall forfeit life;\\nSo bid thy lord believe:\\nThat lawless love is guilt above,\\nThis awful sign receive. 180\\nHe laid his left palm on an oaken beam,\\nHis right upon her hand\\nThe lady shrunk and fainting sunk,\\nFor it scorched like a fiery brand.\\nThe sable score of fingers four\\nRemains on that board impressed\\nAnd f orevermore that lady wore\\nA covering on her wrist.\\nThere is a nun in Dryburgh bower\\nNe er looks upon the sun 190\\nThere is a monk in Melrose tower\\nHe speaketh word to none.\\nThat nun who ne er beholds the day r\\nThat monk who speaks to none\\nThat nun was Smaylho me s lady gay,,\\nThat monk the bold baron.\\nTHE GRAY BROTHER\\nA fragment written in 1799. The tradition,\\nsays Scott, upon which the tale is founded,\\nregards a house upon the barony of Gilmerton,\\nnear Lasswade, in Mid-lothian. This building,\\nnow called Gilmerton Grange, was originally\\nnamed Burndale, from the following tragic\\nadventure. The barony of Gilmerton belonged,\\nof yore, to a gentleman named Heron, who\\nhad one beautiful daughter. This young lady\\nwas seduced by the Abbot of Newbattle, a\\nrichly endowed abbey upon the banks of the\\nSouth Esk, now a seat of the Marquis of Lo-\\nthian. Heron came to the knowledge of this\\ncircumstance, and learned also that the lovers\\ncarried on their guilty intercourse by the con-\\nnivance of the lady s nurse, who lived at this\\nhouse of Gilmerton Grange, or Burndale. He\\nformed a resolution of bloody vengeance, un-\\ndeterred by the supposed sanctity of the cler-\\nical character or by the stronger claims of\\nnatural affection. Choosing-, therefore, a dark\\nand windy night, when the objects of his ven-\\ngeance were engaged in a stolen interview, he\\nset fire to a stack of dried thorns, and other\\ncombustibles, which he had caused to be piled\\nagainst the house, and reduced to a pile of\\nglowing ashes the dwelling, with all its in-\\nmates.\\nThe Pope he was saying the high, high\\nmass\\nAll on Saint Peter s day,\\nWith the power to him given by the saints\\nin heaven\\nTo wash men s sins away.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0049.jp2"}, "48": {"fulltext": "EARLY BALLADS AND LYRICS\\nThe Pope he was saying the blessed mass,\\nAnd the people kneeled around,\\nAnd from each man s soul his sins did pass,\\nAs he kissed the holy ground.\\nAnd all among the crowded throng\\nWas still, both limb and tongue, 10\\nWhile through vaulted roof and aisles aloof\\nThe holy accents rung.\\nAt the holiest word he quivered for fear,\\nAnd faltered in the sound\\nAnd when he would the chalice rear\\nHe dropped it to the ground.\\nThe breath of one of evil deed\\nPollutes our sacred day\\nHe has no portion in our creed,\\nNo part in what I say. 20\\nA being whom no blessed word\\nTo ghostly peace can bring,\\nA wretch at whose approach abhorred\\nRecoils each holy thing.\\nUp, up, unhappy haste, arise\\nMy adjuration fear\\nI charge thee not to stop my voice,\\nNor longer tarry here\\nAmid them all a pilgrim kneeled\\nIn gown of sackcloth gray 30\\nFar journeying from his native field,\\nHe first saw Rome that day.\\nFor forty days and nights so drear\\nI ween he had not spoke,\\nAnd, save with bread and water clear,\\nHis fast he ne er had broke.\\nAmid the penitential flock,\\nSeemed none more bent to pray\\nBut when the Holy Father spoke\\nHe rose and went his way. 40\\nAgain unto his native land\\nHis weary course he drew,\\nTo Lothian s fair and fertile strand,\\nAnd Pentland s mountains blue.\\nHis unblest feet his native seat\\nMid Eske s fair woods regain\\nThrough woods more fair no stream more\\nsweet\\nRolls to the eastern main.\\nAnd lords to meet the pilgrim came,\\nAnd vassals bent the knee 50\\nFor all mid Scotland s chiefs of fame\\nWas none more famed than he.\\nAnd boldly for his country still\\nIn battle he had stood,\\nAy, even when on the banks of Till\\nHer noblest poured their blood.\\nSweet are the paths, O passing sweet\\nBy Eske s fair streams that run,\\nO er airy steep through copsewood deep,\\nImpervious to the sun. 60\\nThere the rapt poet s step may rove,\\nAnd yield the muse the day\\nThere Beauty, led by timid Love,\\nMay shun the telltale ray;\\nFrom that fair dome where suit is paid\\nBy blast of bugle free,\\nTo Auchendinny s hazel glade\\nAnd haunted Woodhouselee.\\nWho knows not Melville s beechy grove\\nAnd Roslin s rocky glen, 7 o\\nDalkeith, which all the virtues love,\\nAnd classic Hawthornden\\nYet never a path from day to day\\nThe pilgrim s footsteps range,\\nSave but the solitary way\\nTo Burndale s ruined grange.\\nA woful place was that, I ween,\\nAs sorrow could desire\\nFor nodding to the fall was each crumbling\\nwall,\\nAnd the roof was scathed with fire. 80\\nIt fell upon a summer s eve,\\nWhile on Carnethy s head\\nThe last faint gleams of the sun s low\\nbeams\\nHad streaked the gray with red,\\nAnd the convent bell did vespers tell\\nNewbattle s oaks amoug,\\nAnd mingled with the solemn knell\\nOur Ladye s evening song\\nThe heavy knell, the choir s faint swell,\\nCame slowly down the wind, 90", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0050.jp2"}, "49": {"fulltext": "THE FIRE-KING\\n19\\nAnd on the pilgrim s ear they fell,\\nAs his wonted path he did find.\\nDeep sunk in thought, I ween, he was,\\nNor ever raised his eye,\\nUntil he came to that dreary place\\nWhich did all in ruins lie.\\nHe gazed on the walls, so scathed with\\nfire,\\nWith many a bitter groan\\nAnd there was aware of a Gray Friar\\nResting him on a stone. 100\\nNow, Christ thee save said the Gray\\nBrother\\nSome pilgrim thou seemest to be.\\nBut in sore amaze did Lord Albert gaze,\\nNor answer again made he.\\n4 0, come ye from east or come ye from\\nwest,\\nOr bring reliques from over the sea\\nOr come ye from the shrine of Saint James\\nthe divine,\\nOr Saint John of Beverley\\n4 I come not from the shrine of Saint James\\nthe divine,\\nNor bring reliques from over the sea no\\nI bring but a curse from our father, the\\nPope,\\nWhich forever will cling to me.\\nr Now, woful pilgrim, say not so\\nBut kneel thee down to me,\\nAnd shrive thee so clean of thy deadly sin\\nThat absolved thou mayst be.\\nAnd who art thou, thou Gray Brother,\\nThat I should shrive to thee,\\nWhen He to whom are given the keys of\\nearth and heaven\\nHas no power to pardon me 120\\nO, I am sent from a distant clime,\\nFive thousand miles away,\\nAnd all to absolve a foul, foul crime,\\nDone here twixt night and day.\\nThe pilgrim kneeled him on the sand,\\nAnd thus began his saye\\nWhen on his neck an ice-cold hand\\nDid that Gray Brother laye.\\nTHE FIRE-KING\\nThe blessings of the evil Genii, which are curses, were\\nupon him. Eastern Tale.\\nThis ballad, written in 1799, was published\\nin Tales of Wonder. The story, Seott says,\\nis partly historical, for it is recorded that, dur-\\ning the struggles of the Latin kingdom of Je-\\nrusalem, a Knight Templar called Saint-Alban\\ndeserted to the Saracens, and defeated the\\nChristians in many combats, till he was finally\\nrouted and slain in a conflict with King Bald-\\nwin, under the walls of Jerusalem.\\nBold knights and fair dames, to my harp\\ngive an ear,\\nOf love and of war and of wonder to hear\\nAnd you haply may sigh in the midst of\\nyour glee\\nAt the tale of Count Albert and fair Rosa-\\nlie.\\nO, see you that castle, so strong and so\\nhigh\\nAnd see you that lady, the tear in her eye\\nAnd see you that palmer from Palestine s\\nland,\\nThe shell on his hat and the staff in his\\nhand\\nNow, palmer, gray palmer, O, tell unto me,\\nWhat news bring you home from the Holy\\nCountrie IO\\nAnd how goes the warfare by Galilee s\\nstrand\\nAnd how fare our nobles, the flower of the\\nland?\\nO, well goes the warfare by Galilee s\\nwave,\\nFor Gilead and Nablous and Ramah we\\nhave\\nAnd well fare our nobles by Mount Le-\\nbanon,\\nFor the heathen have lost and the Chris-\\ntians have won.\\nA fair chain of gold mid her ringlets there\\nhung\\nO er the palmer s gray locks the fair chain\\nhas she flung:\\nO palmer, gray palmer, this chain be thy\\nfee\\nFor the news thou, hast brought from the\\nHoly Countrie. 20", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0051.jp2"}, "50": {"fulltext": "EARLY BALLADS AND LYRICS\\nAnd, palmer, good palmer, by Galilee s\\nwave,\\n0, saw ye Count Albert, the gentle and\\nbrave\\nWhen the Crescent went back and the Red-\\ncross rushed on,\\nO, saw ye him foremost on Mount Leba-\\nnon\\nO lady, fair lady, the tree green it grows\\nO lady, fair lady, the stream pure it flows\\nYour castle stands strong and your hopes\\nsoar on high,\\nBut, lady, fair lady, all blossoms to die.\\nThe green boughs they wither, the thun-\\nderbolt falls,\\nIt leaves of your castle but levin-scorched\\nwalls 30\\nThe pure stream runs muddy the gay\\nhope is gone\\nCount Albert is prisoner on Mount Leba-\\nnon.\\nO, she s ta en a horse should be fleet at\\nher speed\\nAnd she s ta en a sword should be sharp\\nat her need;\\nAnd she has ta en shipping for Palestine s\\nland,\\nTo ransom Count Albert from Soldanrie s\\nhand.\\nSmall thought had Count Albert on fair\\nRosalie,\\nSmall thought on his faith or his knight-\\nhood had he:\\nA heathenish damsel his light heart had\\nwon,\\nThe Soldan s fair daughter of Mount Le-\\nbanon. 40\\nO Christian, brave Christian, my love\\nwouldst thou be,\\nThree things must thou do ere I hearken\\nto thee\\nOur laws and our worship on thee shalt\\nthou take\\nAnd this thou shalt first do for Zulema s\\nsake.\\nAnd next, in the cavern where burns ever-\\nmore\\nThe mystical flame which the Curdmans\\nadore,\\nAlone and in silence three nights shalt\\nthou wake\\nAnd this thou shalt next do for Zulema\\nsake.\\nAnd last, thou shalt aid us with counsel\\nand hand,\\nTo drive the Frank robber from Palestine s\\nland 5C\\nFor my lord and my love then Count\\nAlbert I 11 take,\\nWhen all this is accomplished for ZJulema s\\nsake.\\nHe has thrown by his helmet and cross-\\nhandled sword,\\nRenouncing his knighthood, denying his\\nLord\\nHe has ta en the green caftan, and turban\\nput on,\\nFor the love of the maiden of fair Lebanon.\\nAnd in the dread cavern, deep deep under\\nground,\\nWhich fifty steel gates and steel portals\\nsurround,\\nHe has watched until daybreak, but sight\\nsaw he none,\\nSave the flame burning bright on its altar\\nof stone. 60\\nAmazed was the Princess, the Soldan\\namazed,\\nSore murmured the priests as on Albert\\nthey gazed\\nThey searched all his garments, and under\\nhis weeds\\nThey found and took from him his rosary\\nbeads.\\nAgain in the cavern, deep deep under\\nground,\\nHe watched the lone night, while the winds\\nwhistled round\\nFar off was their murmur, it came not\\nmore nigh,\\nThe flame burned unmoved and naught\\nelse did he spy.\\nLoud murmured the priests and amazed\\nwas the king,\\nWhile many dark spells of their witchcraft\\nthey sing 70\\nThey searched Albert s body, and, lo on\\nhis breast", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0052.jp2"}, "51": {"fulltext": "THE FIRE-KING\\n21\\nWas the sign of the Cross by his father\\nimpressed.\\nThe priests they erase it with care and\\nwith pain,\\nAnd the recreant returned to the cavern\\nagain;\\nBut as he descended a whisper there fell\\nIt was his good angel, who bade him fare-\\nwell\\nHigh bristled his hair, his heart fluttered\\nand beat,\\nAnd he turned him five steps, half resolved\\nto retreat\\nBut his heart it was hardened, his purpose\\nwas gone,\\nWhen he thought of the maiden of fair\\nLebanon. 80\\nScarce passed he the archway, the thresh-\\nold scarce trode,\\nWhen the winds from the four points of\\nheaven were abroad,\\nThey made each steel portal to rattle and\\nring,\\nAnd borne on the blast came the dread\\nFire-King.\\nFull sore rocked the cavern whene er he\\ndrew nigh,\\nThe fire on the altar blazed bickering and\\nhigh\\nIn volcanic explosions the mountains pro-\\nclaim\\nThe dreadful approach of the Monarch of\\nFlame.\\nUnmeasured in height, undistinguished in\\nform,\\nHis breath it was lightning, his voice it was\\nstorm 9 o\\nI ween the stout heart of Count Albert was\\ntame,\\nWhen he saw in his terrors the Monarch of\\nFlame.\\nIn his hand a broad falchion blue-glim-\\nmered through smoke,\\nAnd Mount Lebanon shook as the monarch\\nhe spoke:\\nj With this brand shalt thou conquer, thus\\nlong and no more,\\nTill thou bend to the Cross and the Virgin\\nadore.\\nThe cloud-shrouded arm gives the weapon;\\nand see\\nThe recreant receives the charmed gift on\\nhis knee:\\nThe thunders growl distant and faint\\ngleam the fires,\\nAs, borne on the whirlwind, the phantom\\nretires. 100\\nCount Albert has armed him the Paynim\\namong,\\nThough his heart it was false, yet his arm\\nit was strong\\nAnd the Red-cross waxed faint and the\\nCrescent came on,\\nFrom the day he commanded on Mount\\nLebanon.\\nFrom Lebanon s forests to Galilee s wave,\\nThe sands of Samaar drank the blood of\\nthe brave\\nTill the Knights of the Temple and\\nKnights of Saint John,\\nWith Salem s King Baldwin, against him\\ncame on.\\nThe war-cymbals clattered, the trumpets\\nreplied,\\nThe lances were couched, and they closed\\non each side no\\nAnd horseman and horses Count Albert\\no erthrew,\\nTill he pierced the thick tumult King\\nBaldwin unto.\\nAgainst the charmed blade which Count\\nAlbert did wield,\\nThe fence had been vain of the king s Red-\\ncross shield\\nBut a page thrust him forward the mon-\\narch before,\\nAnd cleft the proud turban the renegade\\nwore.\\nSo fell was the dint that Count Albert\\nstooped low\\nBefore the crossed shield to his steel\\nsaddlebow\\nAnd scarce had he bent to the Red-cross\\nhis head,\\nBonne Grace, Notre Dame! 1 he unwit-\\ntingly said. 120\\nSore sighed the charmed sword, for its\\nvirtue was o er,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0053.jp2"}, "52": {"fulltext": "EARLY BALLADS AND LYRICS\\nIt sprung from his grasp and was never\\nseen more;\\nBut true men have said that the light-\\nning s red wing\\nDid waft back the brand to the dread Fire-\\nKing.\\nHe clenched his set teeth and his gaunt-\\nleted hand\\nHe stretched with one buffet that page on\\nthe strand;\\nAs back from the stripling the broken\\ncasque rolled,\\nYou might see the blue eyes and the ring-\\nlets of gold.\\nShort time had Count Albert in horror to\\nstare\\nOn those death-swimming eyeballs and\\nblood-clotted hair 130\\n\u00e2\u0096\u00a0For down came the Templars, like Cedron\\nin flood,\\nAnd dyed their long lances in Saracen\\nblood.\\nThe Saracens, Curdmans, and Ishmaelites\\nyield\\nTo the scallop, the saltier, and crossleted\\nshield;\\nAnd the eagles were gorged with the in-\\nfidel dead\\nFrom Bethsaida s fountains to Naphthali s\\nhead.\\nThe battle is over on Bethsaida s plain.\\nO, who is yon Paynim lies stretched mid\\nthe slain\\nAnd who is yon page lying cold at his\\nknee\\nO, who but Count Albert and fair Rosa-\\nlie 140\\nThe lady was buried in Salem s blest\\nbound,\\nThe count he was left to the vulture and\\nhound\\nHer soul to high mercy Our Lady did\\nbring\\nHis went on the blast to the dread Fire-\\nKing.\\nYet many a minstrel in harping can tell\\nHow the Red-cross it conquered, the Cres-\\ncent it fell:\\nAnd lords and gay ladies have sighed mid\\ntheir glee\\nAt the tale of Count Albert and fair Rosa-\\nlie.\\nBOTHWELL CASTLE\\nA FRAGMENT\\n1799\\nWhen fruitful Clydesdale s apple-bowers\\nAre mellowing in the noon\\nWhen sighs round Pembroke s ruined,\\ntowers\\nThe sultry breath of June\\nWhen Clyde, despite his sheltering wood,\\nMust leave his channel dry,\\nAnd vainly o er the limpid flood\\nThe angler guides his fly\\nIf chance by Bothwell s lovely braes\\nA wanderer thou hast been,\\nOr hid thee from the summer s blaze\\nIn Blantyre s bowers of green,\\nFull where the copsewood opens wild\\nThy pilgrim step hath staid,\\nWhere Bothwell s towers in ruin piled\\nO erlook the verdant glade\\nAnd many a tale of love and fear\\nHath mingled with the scene\\nOf Bothwell s banks that bloomed so dear s\\nAnd Bothwell s bonny Jean.\\nO, if with rugged minstrel lays\\nUnsated be thy ear,\\nAnd thou of deeds of other days\\nAnother tale wilt hear,\\nThen all beneath the spreading beech,\\nFlung careless on the lea,\\nThe Gothic muse the tale shall teach\\nOf Bothwell s sisters three.\\nWight Wallace stood on Deckmont head,\\nHe blew his bugle round,\\nTill the wild bull in Cadyow wood\\nHas started at the sound.\\nSaint George s cross, o er Bothwell hung,\\nWas waving far and wide,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0054.jp2"}, "53": {"fulltext": "THE SHEPHERD S TALE\\n25\\nAnd from the lofty turret flung\\nIts crimson blaze on Clyde\\nAnd rising at the bugle blast\\nThat marked the Scottish foe,\\nOld England s yeomen mustered fast.\\nAnd bent the Norman bow.\\nTall in the midst Sir Aylmer rose,\\nProud Pembroke s Earl was he\\nWhile\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nTHE SHEPHERD S TALE\\nA FRAGMENT\\n1799\\nAnd ne er but once, my son, he says,\\nWas yon sad cavern trod,\\nIn persecution s iron days\\nWhen the land was left by God.\\nFrom Bewlie bog with slaughter red\\nA wanderer hither drew,\\nAnd oft he stopt and turned his head,\\nAs by fits the night wind blew\\nFor trampling round by Cheviot edge\\nWere heard the troopers keen, 10\\nAnd frequent from the Whitelaw ridge\\nThe death-shot flashed between.\\nThe moonbeams through the misty shower\\nOn yon dark cavern fell\\nThrough the cloudy night the snow gleamed\\nwhite,\\nWhich sunbeam ne er could quell.\\nYon cavern dark is rough and rude,\\nAnd cold its jaws of snow\\nBut more rough and rude are the men of\\nblood\\nThat hunt my life below 20\\nYon spell-bound den, as the aged tell,\\nWas hewn by demon s hands;\\nBut I had lourd melle with the fiends of\\nhell\\nThan with Clavers and his band.\\nHe heard the deep-mouthed bloodhound\\nbark,\\nHe heard the horses neigh,\\nHe plunged him in the cavern dark,\\nAnd downward sped his way.\\nNow faintly down the winding path\\nCame the cry of the faulting hound, 30\\nAnd the muttered oath of balked wrath\\nWas lost in hollow sound.\\nHe threw him on the flinted floor,\\nAnd held his breath for fear\\nHe rose and bitter cursed his foes,\\nAs the sounds died on his ear.\\nO, bare thine arm, thou battling Lord,\\nFor Scotland s wandering band\\nDash from the oppressor s grasp the sword.\\nAnd sweep him from the land 40\\nForget not thou thy people s groans\\nFrom dark Dunnotter s tower,\\nMixed with the sea-fowl s shrilly moans\\nAnd ocean s bursting roar\\n1 O, in fell Clavers hour of pride,\\nEven in his mightiest day,\\nAs bold he strides through conquest s tide,.\\nO, stretch him on the clay\\n1 His widow and his little ones,\\nO, may their tower of trust 5\u00c2\u00a9.\\nRemove its strong foundation stones,\\nAnd crush them in the dust\\nSweet prayers to me, a voice replied,\\nThrice welcome, guest of mine\\nAnd glimmering on the cavern side\\nA light was seen to shine.\\nAn aged man in amice brown\\nStood by the wanderer s side,\\nBy powerful charm a dead man s arm\\nThe torch s light supplied. 6c\\nFrom each stiff finger stretched upright\\nArose a ghastly flame,\\nThat waved not in the blast of night\\nWhich through the cavern came.\\nO, deadly blue was that taper s hue\\nThat flamed the cavern o er,\\nBut more deadly blue was the ghastly hue\\nOf his eyes who the taper bore.\\nHe laid on his head a hand like lead,\\nAs heavy, pale, and cold\\n7 C", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0055.jp2"}, "54": {"fulltext": "24\\nEARLY BALLADS AND LYRICS\\n4 Vengeance be thine, thou guest of mine,\\nIf thy heart be firm and bold.\\nBut if faint thy heart, and caitiff fear\\nThy recreant sinews know,\\nThe mountain erne thy heart shall tear,\\nThy nerves the hooded crow.\\nThe wanderer raised him undismayed\\nMy soul, by dangers steeled,\\nIs stubborn as my Border blade,\\nWhich never knew to yield. 80\\nAnd if thy power can speed the hour\\nOf vengeance on my foes,\\nTheirs be the fate from bridge and gate\\nTo feed the hooded crows.\\nThe Brownie looked him in the face,\\nAnd his color fled with speed\\n*I fear me, quoth he, uneath it will be\\nTo match thy word and deed.\\nIn ancient days when English bands\\nSore ravaged Scotland fair,\\nThe sword and shield of Scottish land\\nWas valiant Halbert Kerr.\\n90\\nA warlock loved the warrior well,\\nSir Michael Scott by name,\\nAnd he sought for his sake a spell to make,\\nShould the Southern foemen tame.\\nLook thou, he said, from Cessford\\nhead\\nAs the July sun sinks low,\\nAnd when glimmering white on Cheviot s\\nheight\\nThou shalt spy a wreath of snow, 100\\nThe spell is complete which shall bring to\\nthy feet\\nThe haughty Saxon foe.\\nFor many a year wrought the wizard here\\nIn Cheviot s bosom low,\\nTill the spell was complete and in July s\\nheat\\nAppeared December s snow\\nBut Cessford s Halbert never came\\nThe wondrous cause to know.\\nFor years before in Bowden aisle\\nThe warrior s bones had lain, no\\nAnd after short while by female guile\\nSir Michael Scott was slain.\\nBut me and my brethren in this cell\\nHis mighty charms retain,\\nAnd he that can quell the powerful spell\\nShall o er broad Scotland reign.\\nHe led him through an iron door\\nAnd up a winding stair,\\nAnd in wild amaze did the wanderer gaze\\nOn the sight which opened there. 120\\nThrough the gloomy night flashed ruddy\\nlight,\\nA thousand torches glow\\nThe cave rose high, like the vaulted sky,\\nO er stalls in double row.\\nIn every stall of that endless hall\\nStood a steed in barding bright\\nAt the foot of each steed, all armed save\\nthe head,\\nLay stretched a stalwart knight.\\nIn each mailed hand was a naked brand\\nAs they lay on the black bull s hide,\\nEach visage stern did upwards turn\\nWith eyeballs fixed and wide.\\nA launcegay strong, full twelve ells long,\\nBy every warrior hung\\nAt each pommel there for battle yare\\nA Jedwood axe was slung.\\nThe casque hung near each cavalier\\nThe plumes waved mournfully\\nAt every tread which the wanderer made\\nThrough the hall of gramarye. 14\\nThe ruddy beam of the torches gleam,\\nThat glared the warriors on,\\nReflected light from armor bright,\\nIn noontide splendor shone.\\nAnd onward seen in lustre sheen,\\nStill lengthening on the sight,\\nThrough the boundless hall stood steeds in\\nstall,\\nAnd by each lay a sable knight.\\nStill as the dead lay each horseman dread,\\nAnd moved nor limb nor tongue; 150\\nEach steed stood stiff as an earthfast cliff,\\nNor hoof nor bridle rung.\\nNo sounds through all the spacious hall\\nThe deadly still divide,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0056.jp2"}, "55": {"fulltext": "FREDERICK AND ALICE\\n25\\nSave where echoes aloof from the vaulted\\nroof\\nTo the wanderer s step replied.\\nAt length before his wondering eyes,\\nOn an iron column borne,\\nOf antique shape and giant size\\nAppeared a sword and horn. 160\\nI Now choose thee here, quoth his leader,\\n1 Thy venturous fortune try;\\nThy woe and weal, thy boot and bale,\\nIn yon brand and bugle lie.\\nTo the fatal brand he mounted his hand,\\nBut his soul did quiver and quail\\nThe life-blood did start to his shuddering\\nheart,\\nAnd left him wan and pale.\\nThe brand he forsook, and the horn he\\ntook\\nTo say a gentle sound 170\\nBut so wild a blast from the bugle brast\\nThat the Cheviot rocked around.\\nFrom Forth to Tees, from seas to seas,\\nThe awful bugle rung\\nOn Carlisle wall and Berwick withal\\nTo arms the warders sprung.\\nWith clank and clang the cavern rang,\\nThe steeds did stamp and neigh;\\nAnd loud was the yell as each warrior\\nfell\\nSterte up with whoop and cry. 180\\nWoe, woe, they cried, thou caitiff cow-\\nard,\\nThat ever thou wert born\\nWhy drew ye not the knightly sword\\nBefore ye blew the horn\\nThe morning on the mountain shone\\nAnd on the bloody ground,\\nHurled from the cave with shivered bone,\\nThe mangled wretch was found.\\nAnd still beneath the cavern dread\\nAmong the glidders gray, 190\\nA shapeless stone with lichens spread\\nMarks where the wanderer lay.\\nCHEVIOT\\nA FRAGMENT\\n1799\\nGo sit old Cheviot s crest below,\\nAnd pensive mark the lingering snow\\nIn all his scaurs abide,\\nAnd slow dissolving from the hill\\nIn many a sightless, soundless rill,\\nFeed sparkling Bowmont s tide.\\nFair shines the stream by bank and lea,\\nAs wimpling to the eastern sea\\nShe seeks Till s sullen bed,\\nIndenting deep the fatal plain\\nWhere Scotland s noblest, brave in vain,\\nAround their monarch bled.\\nAnd westward hills on hills you see,\\nEven as old Ocean s mightiest sea\\nHeaves high her waves of foam,\\nDark and snow -ridged from Cutsfeld\\nwold\\nTo the proud foot of Cheviot rolled,\\nEarth s mountain billows come.\\nFREDERICK AND ALICE\\nThis tale, written in 1801, and published in\\nTales of Wonder, is imitated, rather than\\ntranslated, says Scott, from a fragment intro-\\nduced in Goethe s Claudina von Villa Bella,\\nwhere it is sung by a member of a gang of\\nbanditti, to engage the attention of the family,\\nwhile his companions break into the castle.\\nFrederick leaves the land of France,\\nHomeward hastes his steps to measure,\\nCareless casts the parting glance\\nOn the scene of former pleasure.\\nJoying in his prancing steed,\\nKeen to prove his untried blade,\\nHope s gay dreams the soldier lead\\nOver mountain, moor, and glade.\\nHelpless, ruined, left forlorn,\\nLovely Alice wept alone, ic*\\nMourned o er love s fond contract torn,\\nHope, and peace, and honor flown.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0057.jp2"}, "56": {"fulltext": "26\\nEARLY BALLADS AND LYRICS\\nMark her breast s convulsive throbs\\nSee, the tear of anguish flows\\nMingling soon with bursting sobs,\\nLoud the laugh of frenzy rose.\\nWild she cursed, and wild she prayed\\nSeven long days and nights are o er:\\nDeath in pity brought his aid,\\nAs the village bell struck four. 20\\nFar from her, and far from France,\\nFaithless Frederick onward rides\\nMarking blithe the morning s glance\\nMantling o er the mountains sides.\\nHeard ye not the boding sound,\\nAs the tongue of yonder tower,\\nSlowly to the hills aroimd\\nTold the fourth, the fated hour\\nStarts the steed and snuffs the air,\\nYet no cause of dread appears 30\\nBristles high the rider s hair,\\nStruck with strange mysterious fears.\\nDesperate, as his terrors rise,\\nIn the steed the spur he hides;\\nFrom himself in vain he flies\\nAnxious, restless, on he rides.\\nSeven long days and seven long nights,\\nWild he wandered, woe the while\\nCeaseless care and causeless fright\\nUrge his footsteps many a mile. 40\\nDark the seventh sad night descends\\nRivers swell and rain-streams pour,\\nWhile the deafening thunder lends\\nAll the terrors of its roar.\\nWeary, wet, and spent with toil,\\nWhere his head shall Frederick hide\\nWhere, but in yon ruined aisle,\\nBy the lightning s flash descried.\\nTo the portal, dank and low,\\nFast his steed the wanderer bound\\nDown a ruined staircase slow,\\nNext his darkling way he wound.\\nLong drear vaults before him lie\\nGlimmering lights are seen to glide\\nBlessed Mary, hear my cry\\nDeign a sinner s steps to guide\\nso\\nOften lost their quivering beam,\\nStill the lights move slow before,\\nTill they rest their ghastly gleam\\nRight against an iron door. 60\\nThundering voices from within,\\nMixed with peals of laughter, rose\\nAs they fell, a solemn strain\\nLent its wild and wondrous close\\nMidst the din he seemed to hear\\nVoice of friends, by death removed;\\nWell he knew that solemn air,\\nT was the lay that Alice loved.\\nHark for now a solemn knell\\nFour times on the still night broke; 70\\nFour times at its deaden d swell,\\nEchoes from the ruins spoke.\\nAs the lengthened clangors die,\\nSlowly opes the iron door\\nStraight a banquet met his eye,\\nBut a funeral s form it wore\\nCoffins for the seats extend;\\nAll with black the board was spread\\nGirt by parent, brother, friend,\\nLong since number d with the dead 80\\nAlice, in her grave-clothes bound,\\nGhastly smiling, points a seat\\nAll arose with thundering sound\\nAll the expected stranger greet.\\nHigh their meagre arms they wave,\\nWild their notes of welcome swell\\nWelcome, traitor, to the grave\\nPerjured, bid the light farewell\\nCADYOW CASTLE\\nADDRESSED TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE\\nLADY ANNE HAMILTON\\nThis ballad was written in 1801 and included\\nin the third volume of Minstrelsy of the Scot-\\ntish Border.\\nWhen princely Hamilton s abode\\nEnnobled Cadyow s Gothic towers,\\nThe song went round, the goblet flowed,\\nAnd revel sped the laughing hours.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0058.jp2"}, "57": {"fulltext": "CADYOW CASTLE\\n2 7\\nThen, thrilling to the harp s gay sound,\\nSo sweetly rung each vaulted wall,\\nAnd echoed light the dancer s bound,\\nAs mirth and music cheered the hall.\\nBut Cadyow s towers in ruins laid,\\nAnd vaults by ivy mantled o er, 10\\nThrill to the music of the shade,\\nOr echo Evan s hoarser roar.\\nYet still of Cadyow s faded fame\\nYou bid me tell a minstrel tale,\\nAnd tune my harp of Border frame\\nOn the wild banks of Evandale.\\nFor thou, from scenes of courtly pride,\\nFrom pleasure s lighter scenes, canst\\nturn,\\nTo draw oblivion s pall aside\\nAnd mark the long-forgotten urn. 20\\nThen, noble maid at thy command\\nAgain the crumbled halls shall rise\\nLo as on Evan s banks we stand,\\nThe past returns the present flies.\\nWhere with the rock s wood-covered side\\nWere blended late the ruins green,\\nRise turrets in fantastic pride\\nAnd feudal banners flaunt between\\nWhere the rude torrent s brawling course\\nWas shagged with thorn and tangling\\nsloe, 30\\nThe ashler buttress braves its force\\nAnd ramparts frown in battled row.\\nT is night the shade of keep and spire\\nObscurely dance on Evan s stream\\nAnd on the wave the warder s fire\\nIs checkering the moonlight beam.\\nFades slow their light the east is gray\\nThe weary warder leaves his tower\\nSteeds snort, uncoupled stag-hounds bay,\\nAnd merry hunters quit the bower. 40\\nThe drawbridge falls they hurry out\\nClatters each plank and swinging chain,\\nAs, dashing o er, the jovial rout\\nUrge the shy steed and slack the rein.\\nFirst of his troop, the chief rode on\\nHis shouting merry-men throng behind\\nThe steed of princely Hamilton\\nWas fleeter than the mountain wind.\\nFrom the thick copse the roebucks bound,\\nThe startled red-deer scuds the plain, 50\\nFor the hoarse bugle s warrior-sound\\nHas roused their mountain haunts again.\\nThrough the huge oaks of Evandale,\\nWhose limbs a thousand years have worn,\\nWhat sullen roar comes down the gale\\nAnd drowns the hunter s pealing horn\\nMightiest of all the beasts of chase\\nThat roam in woody Caledon,\\nCrashing the forest in his race, 59\\nThe Mountain Bull comes thundering on.\\nFierce on the hunter s quivered band\\nHe rolls his eyes of swarthy glow,\\nSpurns with black hoof and horn the sand,\\nAnd tosses high his mane of snow.\\nAimed well the chieftain s lance has flown\\nStruggling in blood the savage lies;\\nHis roar is sunk in hollow groan\\nSound, merry huntsmen sound the\\npryse\\nT is noon against the knotted oak\\nThe hunters rest the idle spear 70\\nCurls through the trees the slender smoke,\\nWhere yeomen dight the woodland cheer.\\nProudly the chieftain marked his clan,\\nOn greenwood lap all careless thrown,\\nYet missed his eye the boldest man\\nThat bore the name of Hamilton.\\nWhy fills not Bothwellhaugh his place,\\nStill wont our weal and woe to share\\nWhy comes he not our sport to grace\\nWhy shares he not our hunter s fare 80\\nStern Claud replied with darkening face\\nGray Paisley s haughty lord was he\\nAt merry feast or buxom chase\\nNo more the warrior wilt thou see.\\nFew suns have set since Woodhouselee\\nSaw Bothwellhaugh s bright goblets\\nfoam,\\nWhen to his hearths in social glee\\nThe war-worn soldier turned him home.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0059.jp2"}, "58": {"fulltext": "28\\nEARLY BALLADS AND LYRICS\\nThere, wan from her maternal throes,\\nHis Margaret, beautiful and mild, 90\\nSate in her bower, a pallid rose,\\nAnd peaceful nursed her new-born child.\\nO change accursed past are those days\\nFalse Murray s ruthless spoilers came,\\nAnd, for the hearth s domestic blaze,\\nAscends destruction s volumed flame.\\nWhat sheeted phantom wanders wild\\nWhere mountain Eske through woodland\\nflows,\\nHer arms enfold a shadowy child\\nO is it she, the pallid rose 100\\n1 The wildered traveller sees her glide,\\nAnd hears her feeble voice with awe\\nRevenge, she cries, on Murray s pride\\nAnd woe for injured Bothwellhaugh\\nHe ceased and cries of rage and grief\\nBurst mingling from the kindred band,\\nAnd half arose the kindling chief,\\nAnd half unsheathed his Arran brand.\\nBut who o er bush, o er stream and rock,\\nRides headlong with resistless speed, 1 10\\nWhose bloody poniard s frantic stroke\\nDrives to the leap his jaded steed\\nWhose cheek is pale, whose eyeballs glare,\\nAs one some visioned sight that saw,\\nWhose hands are bloody, loose his hair\\nT is he t is he t is Bothwellhaugh.\\nFrom gory selle and reeling steed\\nSprung the fierce horseman with a bound.\\nAnd, reeking from the recent deed,\\nHe dashed his carbine on the ground. 120\\nSternly he spoke T is sweet to hear\\nIn good greenwood the bugle blown,\\nBut sweeter to Revenge s ear\\nTo drink a tyrant s dying groan.\\nYour slaughtered quarry proudly trode\\nAt dawning morn o er dale and down,\\nBut prouder base-born Murray rode\\nThrough old Linlithgow s crowded town.\\n1 From the wild Border s humbled side,\\nIn haughty triumph marched he, 130\\nWhile Knox relaxed his bigot pride\\nAnd smiled the traitorous pomp to see.\\nBut can stern Power, with all his vaunt,\\nOr Pomp, with all her courtly glare,\\nThe settled heart of Vengeance daunt,\\nOr change the purpose of Despair\\nWith hackbut bent, my secret stand,\\nDark as the purposed deed, I chose,\\nAnd marked where mingling in his band\\nTrooped Scottish pipes and English\\nbows. i\\nDark Morton, girt with many a spear,\\nMurder s foul minion, led the van\\nAnd clashed their broadswords in the\\nrear\\nThe wild Macfarlanes plaided clan.\\nGlencairn and stout Parkhead were nigh,\\nObsequious at their Regent s rein,\\nAnd haggard Lindesay s iron eye,\\nThat saw fair Mary weep in vain.\\nMid pennoned spears, a steely grove, 149\\nProud Murray s plumage floated high;\\nScarce could his trampling charger move,\\nSo close the minions crowded nigh.\\nFrom the raised vizor s shade his eye,\\nDark-rolling, glanced the ranks along,\\nAnd his steel truncheon, waved on high,\\nSeemed marshalling the iron throng.\\nBut yet his saddened brow confessed\\nA passing shade of doubt and awe\\nSome fiend was whispering in his breast,\\nBeware of injured Bothwellhaugh 160\\nThe death shot parts the charger\\nsprings\\nWild rises tumult s startling roar\\nAnd Murray s plumy helmet rings\\nRings on the ground to rise no more.\\nWhat joy the raptured youth can feel,\\nTo hear her love the loved one tell\\nOr he who broaches on his steel\\nThe wolf by whom his infant fell\\nBut dearer to my injured eye\\nTo see in dust proud Murray roll 170\\nAnd mine was ten times trebled joy\\nTo hear him groan his felon soul.\\nMy Margaret s spectre glided near,\\nWith pride her bleeding victim saw,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0060.jp2"}, "59": {"fulltext": "THE REIVER S WEDDING\\n29\\nAnd shrieked in his death-deafened ear,\\nRemember injured Bothwellhaugh\\nThen speed thee, noble Chatlerault\\nSpread to the wind thy bannered tree\\nEach warrior bend his Clydesdale bow!\\nMurray is fallen and Scotland free! 180\\nVaults every warrior to his steed\\nLoud bugles join their wild acclaim\\nMurray is fallen and Scotland freed\\nCouch, Arran, couch thy spear of flame\\nBut see the minstrel vision fails\\nThe glimmering spears are seen no\\nmore\\nThe shouts of war die on the gales,\\nOr sink in Evan s lonely roar.\\nFor the loud bugle pealing high,\\nThe blackbird whistles down the vale, 190\\nAnd sunk in ivied ruins lie\\nThe bannered towers of Evandale.\\nFor chiefs intent on bloody deed,\\nAnd Vengeance shouting o er the slain,\\nLo high-born Beauty rules the steed,\\nOr graceful guides the silken rein.\\nAnd long may Peace and Pleasure own\\nThe maids who list the minstrel s tale\\nNor e er a ruder guest be known\\nOn the fair banks of Evandale 200\\nTHE REIVER S WEDDING\\nA FRAGMENT\\n1802\\nO, will ye hear a mirthful bourd\\nOr will ye hear of courtesie\\nOr will ye hear how a gallant lord\\nWas wedded to a gay ladye\\nCa out the kye, quo the village herd,\\nAs he stood on the knowe,\\nCa this ane s nine and that ane s ten,\\nAnd bauld Lord William s cow.\\n9 Ah by my sooth, quoth William then,\\nAnd stands it that way now, 1\\nWhen knave and churl have nine and ten,\\nThat the lord has but his cow\\nI swear by the light of the Michaelmas\\nmoon,\\nAnd the might of Mary high,\\nAnd by the edge of my braidsword brown,\\nThey shall soon say Harden s kye.\\nHe took a bugle f rae his side,\\nWith names carved o er and o er\\nFull many a chief of meikle pride\\nThat Border bugle bore 20\\nHe blew a note baith sharp and hie\\nTill rock and water ran around\\nThreescore of moss-troopers and three\\nHave mounted at that bugle sound.\\nThe Michaelmas moon had entered then,\\nAnd ere she wan the full\\nYe might see by her light in Harden\\nglen\\nA bow o kye and a bassened bull.\\nAnd loud and loud in Harden tower\\nThe quaigh gaed round wi meikle glee\\nFor the English beef was brought in\\nbower 31\\nAnd the English ale flowed merrilie.\\nAnd mony a guest from Teviotside\\nAnd Yarrow s braes was there\\nWas never a lord in Scotland wide\\nThat made more dainty fare.\\nThey ate, they laughed, they sang and\\nquaffed,\\nTill naught on board was seen,\\nWhen knight and squire were boune to\\ndine,\\nBut a spur of silver sheen. 40\\nLord William has ta en his berry-brown\\nsteed\\nA sore shent man was he\\nWait ye, my guests, a little speed\\nWeel feasted ye shall be.\\nHe rode him down by Falsehope burn,\\nHis cousin dear to see,\\nWith him to take a riding turn\\nWat-draw-the-Sword was he.\\nAnd when he came to Falsehope glen,\\nBeneath the trysting-tree, 50\\nOn the smooth green was carved plain,\\nTo Lochwood bound are we.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0061.jp2"}, "60": {"fulltext": "3Q\\nEARLY BALLADS AND LYRICS\\nO, if they be gane to dark Lochwood\\nTo drive the Warden s gear,\\nBetwixt our names, I ween, there s feud\\nI 11 go and have my share\\n1 For little reck I for Johnstone s feud,\\nThe Warden though he be.\\nSo Lord William is away to dark Loch-\\nwood\\nWith riders barely three. 60\\nThe Warden s daughters in Lochwood sate,\\nWere all both fair and gay,\\nAll save the Lady Margaret,\\nAnd she was wan and wae.\\nThe sister Jean had a full fair skin,\\nAnd Grace was bauld and braw\\nBut the leal-fast heart her breast within\\nIt weel was worth them a\\nHer father s pranked her sisters twa\\nWith meikle joy and pride 70\\nBut Margaret maun seek Dundrennan s\\nwa\\nShe ne er can be a bride.\\nOn spear and casque by gallants gent\\nHer sisters scarfs were borne,\\nBut never at tilt or tournament\\nWere Margaret s colors worn.\\nHer sisters rode to Thirlstane bower,\\nBut she was left at hame\\nTo wander round the gloomy tower,\\nAnd sigh young Harden s name 80\\nOf all the knights, the knight most fair\\nFrom Yarrow to the Tyne,\\nSoft sighed the maid, is Harden s heir,\\nBut ne er can he be mine\\nOf all the maids, the foulest maid\\nFrom Teviot to the Dee,\\nAh sighing sad, that lady said,\\nCan ne er young Harden s be.\\nShe looked up the briery glen,\\nAnd up the mossy brae, 90\\nAnd she saw a score of her father s men\\nYclad in the Johnstone gray.\\nO, fast and fast they downwards sped\\nThe moss and briers among,\\nAnd in the midst the troopers led\\nA shackled knight along.\\nCHRISTIE S WILL\\nThe origin of this ballad is thus delivered by\\nScott In the reign of Charles I., when the\\nmoss-trooping practices were not entirely dis-\\ncontinued, the tower of Gilnockie, in the parish\\nof Cannoby, was occupied by William Arm-\\nstrong, called, for distinction s sake, Christie s\\nWill, a lineal descendant of the famous John\\nArmstrong, of Gilnockie, executed by James V.\\nThe hereditary love of plunder had descended\\nto this person with the family mansion and\\nupon some marauding party, he was seized, and\\nimprisoned in the tolbooth of Jedburgh. The\\nEarl of Traquair, Lord High Treasurer, hap-\\npening to visit Jedburgh, and knowing Chris-\\ntie s Will, inquired the cause of his confinement.\\nWill replied, he was imprisoned for stealing\\ntwo tethers (halters) but, upon being more\\nclosely interrogated, acknowledged that there\\nwere two delicate colts at the end of them. The\\njoke, such as it was, amused the Earl, who\\nexerted his interest, and succeeded in releasing\\nChristie s Will from bondage. Some time\\nafterwards, a lawsuit, of importance to Lord\\nTraquair, was to be decided in the Court of\\nSession and there was every reason to believe\\nthat the judgment would turn upon the voice\\nof the presiding judge, who has a casting vote,\\nin case of an equal division among his brethren.\\nThe opinion of the president was unfavorable\\nto Lord Traquair and the point was, therefore,\\nto keep him out of the way when the question\\nshould be tried. In this dilemma, the Earl had\\nrecourse to Christie s Will who, at once, of-\\nfered his service to kidnap the president. Upon\\ndue scrutiny, he found it was the judge s prac-\\ntice frequently to take the air, on horseback,\\non the sands of Leith, without an attendant.\\nIn one of these excursions, Christie s Will, who\\nhad long watched his opportunity, ventured to\\naccost the president, and engage him in con-\\nversation. His address and language were so\\namusing, that he decoyed the president into an\\nunfrequented and furzy common, called the\\nFrigate Whins, where, riding suddenly up to\\nhim, he pulled him from his horse, muffled\\nhim in a large cloak, which he had provided,\\nand rode off, with the luckless judge trussed\\nup behind him. Will crossed the country with\\ngreat expedition, by paths known only to per-\\nsons of his description, and deposited his weary\\nand terrified burden in an old castle, in Annan-\\ndale, called the Tower of Graham. The judge s\\nhorse beinj found, it was concluded he had", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0062.jp2"}, "61": {"fulltext": "CHRISTIE S WILL\\n3*\\nthrown his rider into the sea his friends went\\ninto mourning, and a successor was appointed\\nto his office. Meanwhile, the poor president\\nspent a heavy time in the vault of the castle.\\nHe was imprisoned, and solitary receiving- his\\nfood through an aperture in the wall, and never\\nhearing the sound of a human voice, save when\\na shepherd called his dog, by the name of\\nBatty, and when a female domestic called upon\\nMaudge, the cat. These, he concluded, were\\ninvocations of spirits for he held himself to\\nbe in the dungeon of a sorcerer. At length,\\nafter three months had elapsed, the lawsuit was\\ndecided in favor of Lord Traquair and Will\\nwas directed to set the president at liberty.\\nAccordingly, he entered the vault at dead of\\nnight, seized the president, muffled him once\\nmore in the cloak, without speaking a single\\nword, and, using the same mode of transpor-\\ntation, conveyed him to Leith sands, and set\\ndown the astonished judge on the very spot\\nwhere he had taken him up. The joy of his\\nfriends, and the less agreeable surprise of his\\nsuccessor, may be easily conceived, when he\\nappeared in court, to reclaim his office and\\nhonors. All embraced his own persuasion,\\nthat he had been spirited away by witchcraft\\nnor could he himself be convinced of the con-\\ntrary, until, many years afterwards, happening\\nto travel in Annandale, his ears were saluted\\nonce more with the sounds of Maudge and\\nBatty the only notes which had solaced his\\nlong confinement. This led to a discovery\\nof the whole story; but, in those disorderly\\ntimes, it was only laughed at, as a fair ruse de\\nguerre.\\nWild and strange as this tradition may\\nseem, there is little doubt of its foundation in\\nfact. The judge, upon whose person this ex-\\ntraordinary stratagem was practised, was Sir\\nAlexander Gibson, Lord Durie, collector of the\\nreports, well known in the Scottish law, under\\nthe title of Durie s Decisions. He was ad-\\nvanced to the station of an ordinary Lord of\\nSession. 10th July, 1621, and died, at his own\\nhouse of Durie, July, 1646. Betwixt these\\nperiods this whimsical adventure must have\\nhappened a date which corresponds with that\\nof the tradition.\\nThe ballad thus patched and embroidered\\nwas included by Scott in that section of Min-\\nstrelsy of the Scottish Border, which was given to\\nmodern imitations. The date may be set down\\nas 1802.\\nTraquair has ridden up Chapelhope,\\nAnd sae has he down by the Grey Mare s\\nTail;\\nHe never stinted the light gallop,\\nUntil he speered for Christie s Will.\\nNow Christie s Will peeped frae the tower,\\nAnd out at the shot-hole keeked he\\nAnd ever unlucky, quo 8 he, is the hour,\\nThat the Warden comes to speer for\\nme\\nGood Christie s Will, now, have nae fear I\\nNae harm, good Will, shall hap to thee\\nI saved thy life at the Jeddart air, n\\nAt the Jeddart air frae the justice tree.\\nBethink how ye sware, by the salt and the\\nbread,\\nBy the lightning, the wind, and the rain,,\\nThat if ever of Christie s Will I had need,\\nHe would pay me my service again.\\nGramercy, my lord, quo Christie s Will,\\nGramercy, my lord, for your grace to\\nme\\nWhen I turn my cheek, and claw my\\nneck,\\nI think of Traquair and the Jeddart\\ntree. 20\\nAnd he has opened the fair tower yate,\\nTo Traquair and a his companie\\nThe spule o the deer on the board he has\\nset,\\nThe fattest that ran on the Hutton Lee.\\nNow, wherefore sit ye sad, my lord\\nAnd wherefore sit ye mournf ullie\\nAnd why eat ye not of the venison I\\nshot,\\nAt the dead of night on Hutton Lee\\nO weel may I stint of feast and sport,\\nAnd in my mind be vexed sair 30\\nA vote of the canker d Session Court,\\nOf land and living will make me bare.\\nBut if auld Durie to heaven were flown,\\nOr if auld Durie to hell were gane,\\nOr if he could be but ten days\\nstoun\\nMy bonny braid lands would still be my\\nO, mony a time, my lord, he said,\\nI ve stown the horse frae the sleeping\\nloon\\nBut for you I 11 steal a beast as braid,\\nFor I 11 steal Lord Durie frae Edinburgh\\ntoun. 40", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0063.jp2"}, "62": {"fulltext": "32\\nEARLY BALLADS AND LYRICS\\n0, mony a time, my lord, he said,\\nI ve stown a kiss f rae a sleeping wench\\nBut for you I 11 do as kittle a deed,\\nFor I 11 steal an auld lurdane aff the\\nbench.\\nAnd Christie s Will is to Edinburgh gane\\nAt the Borough Muir then entered he\\nAnd as he passed the gallow-stane,\\nHe crossed his brow and he bent his\\nknee.\\nHe lighted at Lord Durie s door, 49\\nAnd there he knocked most manfullie\\nAnd up and spake Lord Durie sae stour,\\nWhat tidings, thou stalward groom, to\\nme\\nThe fairest lady in Teviotdale\\nHas sent, maist reverent sir, for thee\\nShe pleas at the Session for her land, a\\nhaill,\\nAnd fain she wad plead her cause to\\nthee.\\nBut how can I to that lady ride,\\nWith saving of my dignitie\\nOa curch and mantle ye may wear,\\nAnd in my cloak ye sail muffled be. 6o\\nWi curch on head, and cloak ower face,\\nHe mounted the judge on a palfrey fyne\\nHe rode away, a right round pace,\\nAnd Christie s Will held the bridle reyn.\\nThe Lothian Edge they were not o er,\\nWhen they heard bugles bauldly ring,\\nAnd, hunting over Middleton Moor,\\nThey met, I ween, our noble King.\\nWhen Willie looked upon our King,\\nI wot a frighted man was he 70\\nBut ever auld Durie was startled mair,\\nFor tyning of his dignitie.\\nThe King he crossed himself, iwis,\\nWhen as the pair came riding bye\\nAn uglier crone, and a sturdier loon,\\nI think, were never seen with eye\\nWillie has hied to the tower of Graeme,\\nHe took auld Durie on his back,\\nHe shot him down to the dungeon deep,\\nWhich garred his auld banes gie mony a\\ncrack. 80\\nFor nineteen days, and nineteen nights,\\nOf sun, or moon, or midnight stern,\\nAuld Durie never saw a blink,\\nThe lodging was sae dark and dern.\\nHe thought the warlocks o the rosy cross,\\nHad fanged him in their nets sae fast\\nOr that the gipsies glamoured gang\\nHad laired his learning at the last.\\nHey Batty, lad far yaud far yaud\\nThese were the morning sounds heard\\nhe 90\\nAnd ever Alack auld Durie cried,\\nThe de il is hounding his tykes on\\nme\\nAnd whiles a voice on Baudrons cried,\\nWith sound uncouth, and sharp, and hie\\nI have tar-barrelled mony a witch,\\nBut now, I think, thej^ ll clear scores wi\\nme\\nThe King has caused a bill be wrote,\\nAnd he has set it on the Tron,\\nHe that will bring Lord Durie back, 99\\nShall have five hundred merks and one.\\nTraquair has written a privie letter,\\nAnd he has sealed it wi his seal,\\n1 Ye may let the auld brock out o\\npoke\\nThe land s my ain, and a s gane weel.\\nthe\\nO Will has mounted his bonny black.\\nAnd to the tower of Graeme did trudge,\\nAnd once again, on his sturdy back,\\nHas he hente up the weary judge.\\nHe brought him to the council stairs,\\nAnd there full loudly shouted he, n\\nGie me my guerdon, my sovereign liege,\\nAnd take ye back your auld Durie\\nTHOMAS THE RHYMER\\nWhen Scott was engaged upon the Minstrelsy\\nof the Scottish Border, he had a long and an-\\nimated correspondence with the antiquarians\\nLeyden and Ellis, over the productions of\\nThomas of Ercildoune, known by the appel-\\nlation of The Rhymer. He purposed, at first,\\nincluding the ballad of Sir Tristrem in the Min-\\nstrelsy, but the material illustrative and inter-\\npretative of it swelled to such dimensions that", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0064.jp2"}, "63": {"fulltext": "THOMAS THE RHYMER\\n33\\nhe finally issued in 1804, after the Minstrelsy had\\nheen completed, The Metrical Romance of Sir\\nTristrem. Meanwhile, he had included in the\\nMinstrelsy the following ballads under the gen-\\neral head of Thomas the Rhymer. Although\\nthe third only is wholly Scott s, it seems best\\nto print in their sequence Part First, which\\nis a traditional version, Part Second, which\\nis altered from ancient prophesies, and Part\\nThird, which is modern and Scott s own.\\nPART FIRST\\nTRADITIONAL VERSION\\nTrue Thomas lay on Huntlie bank;\\nA ferlie he spied wi his ee\\nAnd there he saw a ladye bright,\\nCome riding down by the Eildon Tree.\\nHer shirt was o the grass-green silk,\\nHer mantle o the velvet fyne\\nAt ilka tett of her horse s mane,\\nHung fifty siller bells and nine.\\nTrue Thomas, he pulled aff his cap,\\nAnd louted low down to his knee, 10\\nAll hail, thou mighty Queen of Heaven\\nFor thy peer on earth I never did see.\\nO no, O no, Thomas, she said,\\nThat name does not belang to me\\nI am but the queen of fair Elfland,\\nThat am hither come to visit thee.\\nHarp and carp, Thomas, she said;\\nHarp and carp along wi me\\nAnd if ye dare to kiss my lips,\\nSure of your bodie I will be. 20\\nBetide me weal, betide me woe,\\nThat weird shall never daunton me.\\nSyne he has kissed her rosy lips,\\nAll underneath the Eildon Tree.\\nNow, ye maun go wi me, she said\\nTrue Thomas, ye maun go wi me\\nAnd ye maun serve me seven years,\\nThro weal or woe as may chance to\\nbe. y\\nShe mounted on her milk-white steed\\nShe s ta en true Thomas up behind\\nAnd aye, whene er her bridle rung,\\nThe steed flew swifter than the wind.\\n30\\nthey rade on, and farther on\\nThe steed gaed swifter than the wind\\nUntil they reached a desert wide,\\nAnd living land was left behind.\\nLight down, light down, now, true\\nThomas,\\nAnd lean your head upon my knee\\nAbide and rest a little space,\\nAnd I will shew you f erlies three. 40\\nO see ye not yon narrow road,\\nSo thick beset with thorns and briers\\nThat is the path of righteousness,\\nThough after it but few enquires.\\nAnd see ye not that braid braid road,\\nThat lies across that lily leven\\nThat is the path of wickedness,\\nThough some call it the road to heaven.\\n1 And see not ye that bonny road,\\nThat winds about the fernie brae 50\\nThat is the road to fair Elfland,\\nWhere thou and I this night maun gae.\\n1 But, Thomas, ye maun hold your tongue,\\nWhatever ye may hear or see\\nFor, if you speak word in Elflyn land,\\nYe 11 ne er get back to your ain coun-\\ntries\\nthey rade on, and farther on,\\nAnd they waded through rivers aboon\\nthe knee,\\nAnd they saw neither sun nor moon,\\nBut they heard the roaring of the sea. 60\\nIt was mirk mirk night, and there was nae\\nstern light,\\nAnd they waded through red blude to\\nthe knee\\nFor a the blude that s shed on earth\\nRins through the springs o that countrie.\\nSyne they came on to a garden green,\\nAnd she pu d an apple frae a tree\\ni Take this for thy wages, true Thomas\\nIt will give thee the tongue that can\\nnever lie.\\nMy tongue is mine ain, true Thomas said\\nA gudely gift ye wad gie to me 70\\n1 neither dought to buy nor sell,\\nAt fair or tryst where I may be.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0065.jp2"}, "64": {"fulltext": "34\\nEARLY BALLADS AND LYRICS\\nI dought neither speak to prince or peer,\\nNor ask of grace from fair ladye.\\nNow hold thy peace the lady said,\\nFor as I say, so must it be.\\nHe has gotten a coat of the even cloth,\\nAnd a pair of shoes of velvet green\\nAnd till seven years were gane and past,\\nTrue Thomas on earth was never seen. 80\\nPART SECOND\\nALTERED FROM ANCIENT PROPHECIES\\nWhen seven years were come and gane,\\nThe sun blinked fair on pool and stream;\\nAnd Thomas lay on Huntlie bank,\\nLike one awakened from a dream.\\nHe heard the trampling of a steed,\\nHe saw the flash of armor flee,\\nAnd he beheld a gallant knight\\nCome riding down by the Eildon-Tree.\\nHe was a stalwart knight, and strong\\nOf giant make he peared to be 10\\nHe stirred his horse, as he were wode,\\nWi gilded spurs, of faushion free.\\nSays Well met, well met, true Thomas\\nSome uncouth ferlies show to me.\\nSays Christ thee save, Corspatrick\\nbrave\\nThrice welcume, good Dunbar, to me\\nLight down, light down, Corspatrick\\nbrave\\nAnd I will show thee curses three,\\nShall gar fair Scotland greet and grane,\\nAnd change the green to the black\\nlivery. 20\\nA storm shall roar this very hour,\\nFrom Ross s Hills to Solway sea;\\nYe lied, ye lied, ye warlock hoar\\nFor the sun shines sweet on fauld and\\nlea.\\nHe put his hand on the Earlie s head\\nHe showed him a rock beside the sea,\\nWhere a king lay stiff beneath his steed,\\nAnd steel-dight nobles wiped their ee.\\nThe neist curse lights on Branxton hills\\nBy Flodden s high and heathery side, 30\\nShall wave a banner red as blude,\\nAnd chieftains throng wi meikle pride.\\nA Scottish King shall come full keen,\\nThe ruddy lion beareth he\\nA feathered arrow sharp, I ween,\\nShall make him wink and warre to see.\\nWhen he is bloody, and all to bledde,\\nThus to his men he still shall say\\nFor God s sake, turn ye back again,\\nAnd give yon southern folk a fray 40\\nWhy should I lose the right is mine\\nMy doom is not to die this day.\\nYet turn ye to the eastern hand,\\nAnd woe and wonder ye sail see\\nHow forty thousand spearmen stand,\\nWhere yon rank river meets the sea.\\nThere shall the lion lose the gylte,\\nAnd the libbards bear it clean away\\nAt Pinkyn Cleuch there shall be spilt\\nMuch gentil bluid that day. 50\\nEnough, enough, of curse and ban\\nSome blessings show thou now to me,\\nOr, by the faith o my bodie, Corspatrick\\nsaid,\\nYe shall rue the day ye e er saw me\\nThe first of blessings I shall thee show,\\nIs by a burn, that s called of bread\\nWhere Saxon men shall tine the bow,\\nAnd find their arrows lack the head.\\nBeside that brigg, out ower that burn,\\nWhere the water bickereth bright and\\nsheen 60\\nShall many a falling courser spurn,\\nAnd knights shall die in battle keen.\\n1 Beside a headless cross of stone,\\nThe libbards there shall lose the gree;\\nThe raven shall come, the erne shall go,\\nAnd drink the Saxon bluid sae free.\\nThe cross of stone they shall not know,\\nSo thick the corses there shall be.\\nBut tell me now, said brave Dunbar,\\nTrue Thomas, tell now unto me, 70", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0066.jp2"}, "65": {"fulltext": "THOMAS THE RHYMER\\n35\\nWhat man shall rule the isle Britain,\\nEven from the north to the southern\\nsea?\\nA French Queen shall bear the son,\\nShall rule all Britain to the sea;\\nHe of the Bruce s blood shall come,\\nAs near as in the ninth degree.\\nj The waters worship shall his race\\nLikewise the waves of the farthest\\nsea;\\nFor they shall ride over ocean wide, 79\\nWith hempen bridles, and horse of tree/\\nPART THIRD\\nWhen seven\\nmore were come and\\nyears\\ngone,\\nWas war through Scotland spread,\\nAnd Ruberslaw showed high Dunyon\\nHis beacon blazing red.\\nThen all by bonny Coldingknow,\\nPitched palliouns took their room,\\nAnd crested helms, and spears a-rowe,\\nGlanced gaily through the broom.\\nThe Leader, rolling to the Tweed,\\nResounds the ensenzie; 10\\nThey roused the deer from Caddenhead,\\nTo distant Torwoodlee.\\nThe feast was spread in Ercildoune,\\nIn Learmont s high and ancient hall:\\nAnd there were knights of great renown,\\nAnd ladies, laced in pall.\\nNor lacked they, while they sat at dine,\\nThe music nor the tale,\\nNor goblets of the blood-red wine,\\nNor mantling quaighs of ale. 20\\nTrue Thomas rose, with harp in hand,\\nWhen as the feast was done:\\nI (In minstrel strife, in Fairy Land,\\nThe elfin harp he won.)\\nHushed were the throng, both limb and\\ntongue,\\nAnd harpers for envy pale;\\nAnd armed lords leaned on their swords,\\nAnd hearkened to the tale.\\nIn numbers high, the witching tale\\nThe prophet poured along; 30\\nNo after bard might e er avail\\nThose numbers to prolong.\\nYet fragments of the lofty strain\\nFloat down the tide of years,\\nAs, buoyant on the stormy main,\\nA parted wreck appears.\\nHe sung King Arthur s Table Round:\\nThe Warrior of the Lake;\\nHow courteous Gawaine met the wound,\\nAnd bled for ladies sake. 40\\nBut chief, in gentle Tristrem s praise,\\nThe notes melodious swell;\\nWas none excelled in Arthur s days,\\nThe knight of Lionelle.\\nFor Marke, his cowardly uncle s right,\\nA venomed wound he bore;\\nWhen fierce Morholde he slew in fight,\\nUpon the Irish shore.\\nNo art the poison might withstand;\\nNo medicine could be found, 50\\nTill lovely Isolde s lily hand\\nHad probed the rankling wound.\\nWith gentle hand and soothing tongue\\nShe bore the leech s part;\\nAnd, while she o er his sick-bed hung,\\nHe paid her with his heart.\\nO fatal was the gift, I ween\\nFor, doomed in evil tide,\\nThe maid must be rude Cornwall s queen,\\nHis cowardly uncle s bride. 60\\nTheir loves, their woes, the gifted bard\\nIn fairy tissue wove;\\nWhere lords, and knights, and ladies\\nbright,\\nIn gay confusion strove.\\nThe Garde Joyeuse, amid the tale,\\nHigh reared its glittering head;\\nAnd Avalon s enchanted vale\\nIn all its wonders spread.\\nBrangwain was there, and Segramore,\\nAnd fiend-born Merlin s gramarye; 70\\nOf that famed wizard s mighty lore,\\nO who could sing but he", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0067.jp2"}, "66": {"fulltext": "36\\nEARLY BALLADS AND LYRICS\\nThrough many a maze the winning song\\nIn changeful passion led,\\nTill bent at length the listening throng\\nO er Tristrem s dying bed.\\nHis ancient wounds their scars expand,\\nWith agony his heart is wrung:\\nO where is Isolde s lilye hand,\\nAnd where her soothing tongue 80\\nShe comes she comes like flash of\\nflame\\nCan lovers footsteps fly:\\nShe comes she comes she only came\\nTo see her Tristrem die.\\nShe saw him die; her latest sigh\\nJoined in a kiss his parting breath;\\nThe gentlest pair, that Britain bare,\\nUnited are in death.\\nThere paused the harp: its lingering sound\\nDied slowly on the ear; 90\\nThe silent guests still bent around,\\nFor still they seemed to hear.\\nThen woe broke forth in murmurs weak,\\nNor ladies heaved alone the sigh;\\nBut, half ashamed, the rugged cheek\\nDid many a gauntlet dry.\\nOn Leader s stream, and Learmont s tower,\\nThe mists of evening close;\\nIn camp, in castle, or in bower,\\nEach warrior sought repose. 100\\nLord Douglas, in his lofty tent,\\nDreamed o er the woful tale;\\nWhen footsteps light, across the bent,\\nThe warrior s ear assail.\\nHe starts, he wakes; What, Richard, ho!\\nArise, my page, arise\\nWhat venturous wight, at dead of night,\\nDare step where Douglas lies\\nThen forth they rushed: by Leader s tide,\\nA selcouth sight they see no\\nA hart and hind pace side by side,\\nAs white as snow on Fairnalie.\\nBeneath the moon, with gesture proud,\\nThey stately move and slow;\\nNor scare they at the gathering crowd,\\nWho marvel as they go.\\nTo Learmont s tower a message sped,\\nAs fast as page might run;\\nAnd Thomas started from his bed,\\nAnd soon his clothes did on.\\nFirst he woxe pale, and then woxe red;\\nNever a word he spake but three\\nMy sand is run; my thread is spun;\\nThis sign regardeth me.\\nThe elfin harp his neck around,\\nIn minstrel guise, he hung;\\nAnd on the wind, in doleful sound,\\nIts dying accents rung.\\nThen forth he went; yet turned him oft\\nTo view his ancient hall:\\nOn the grey tower, in lustre soft,\\nThe autumn moonbeams fall;\\nAnd Leader s waves, like silver sheen,\\nDanced shimmering in the ray;\\nIn deepening mass, at distance seen,\\nBroad Soltra s mountains lay.\\nFarewell, my father s ancient tower\\nA long farewell, said he:\\nThe scene of pleasure, pomp, or power,\\nThou never more shalt be. 140\\nTo Learmont s name no foot of earth\\nShall here again belong,\\nAnd, on thy hospitable hearth,\\nThe hare shall leave her young.\\nAdieu adieu again he cried,\\nAll as he turned him roun\\nFarewell to Leader s silver tide\\nFarewell to Ercildoune\\nThe hart and hind approached the place,\\nAs lingering yet he stood 150\\nAnd there, before Lord Douglas face,\\nWith them he crossed the flood.\\nLord Douglas leaped on his berry-brown\\nsteed,\\nAnd spurred him the Leader o er;\\nBut, though he rode with lightning speed,\\nHe never saw them more.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0068.jp2"}, "67": {"fulltext": "HELLVELLYN\\n37\\nSome said to hill, and some to glen,\\nTheir wondrous course had been;\\nBut ne er in haunts of living men\\nAgain was Thomas seen. 160\\nTHE BARD S INCANTATION\\nof 1804, Scott was with his\\nwhere they had first met,\\nintelligence which led him\\nFrench force was about to\\nHe at once rode, within\\na hundred miles to Dalkeith,\\nis to rendezvous, and it was\\nhe composed the following\\nIn the autumn\\nwife at Gilsland,\\nwhen he received\\nto believe that a\\nland in Scotland,\\ntwenty-four hours,\\nwhere his troop wj\\non this ride that\\npoem.\\nThe forest of Glenmore is drear,\\nIt is all of black pine and the dark oak-\\ntree\\nAnd the midnight wind to the mountain\\ndeer\\nIs whistling the forest lullaby:\\nThe moon looks through the drifting\\nstorm,\\nBut the troubled lake reflects not her form,\\nFor the waves roll whitening to the land,\\nAnd dash against the shelvy strand.\\nThere is a voice among the trees\\nThat mingles with the groaning oak\\nThat mingles with the stormy breeze,\\nAnd the lake-waves dashing against the\\nrock;\\nThere is a voice within the wood,\\nThe voice of the bard in fitful mood;\\nHis song was louder than the blast,\\nAs the bard of Glenmore through the for-\\nest past.\\nWake ye from your sleep of death,\\nMinstrels and bards of other days\\nFor the midnight wind is on the heath,\\nAnd the midnight meteors dimly blaze\\nThe Spectre with his Bloody Hand\\nIs wandering through the wild wood-\\nland;\\nThe owl and the raven are mute for\\ndread,\\nAnd the time is meet to awake the dead\\nSouls of the mighty, wake and say\\nTo what high strain your harps were\\nstrung,\\nWhen Lochlin ploughed her billowy way\\nAnd on your shores her Norsemen\\nflung?\\nHer Norsemen trained to spoil and blood,\\nSkilled to prepare the raven s food,\\nAll by your harpings doomed to die\\nOn bloody Largs and Loncarty.\\nMute are ye all No murmurs strange\\nUpon the midnight breeze sail by,\\nNor through the pines with whistling\\nchange\\nMimic the harp s wild harmony\\nMute are ye now Ye ne er were mute\\nWhen Murder with his bloody foot,\\nAnd Rapine with his iron hand,\\nWere hovering near yon mountain\\nstrand.\\nO, yet awake the strain to tell,\\nBy every deed in song enrolled,\\nBy every chief who fought or fell,\\nFor Albion s weal in battle bold:\\nFrom Coilgach, first who rolled his car\\nThrough the deep ranks of Roman war,\\nTo him of veteran memory dear\\nWho victor died on Aboukir.\\nBy all their swords, by all their scars,\\nBy all their names, a mighty spell\\nBy all their wounds, by all their wars,\\nArise, the mighty strain to tell\\nFor fiercer than fierce Hengist s strain,\\nMore impious than the heathen Dane,\\nMore grasping than all-grasping Rome,\\nGaul s ravening legions hither come\\nThe wind is hushed and still the lake\\nStrange murmurs fill my tinkling ears,\\nBristles my hair, my sinews quake,\\nAt the dread voice of other years\\n4 When targets clashed and bugles rung,\\nAnd blades round warriors heads were\\nflung,\\nThe foremost of the band were we\\nAnd hymned the joys of Liberty\\nHELLVELLYN\\nIn the spring- of 1805, says Scott, a young\\ngentleman of talents, and of a most amiable\\ndisposition, perished by losing his way on the\\nmountain Hellvellyn. His remains were not\\ndiscovered till three months afterwards, when\\nthey were found guarded by a faithful terrier-\\nbitch, his constant attendant during frequent", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0069.jp2"}, "68": {"fulltext": "3\u00c2\u00a7\\nEARLY BALLADS AND LYRICS\\nsolitary rambles through the wilds of Cumber-\\nland and Westmoreland. The poem was writ-\\nten at the time.\\nI climbed the dark brow of the mighty\\nHellvellyn,\\nLakes and mountains beneath me\\ngleamed misty and wide;\\nAll was still save by fits, when the eagle\\nwas yelling,\\nAnd starting around me the echoes re-\\nplied.\\nOn the right, Striden-edge round the Red-\\ntarn was bending,\\nAnd Catchedicam its left verge was de-\\nfending,\\nOne huge nameless rock in the front was\\nascending,\\nWhen I marked the sad spot where the\\nwanderer had died.\\nDark green was that spot mid the brown\\nmountain heather,\\nWTiere the Pilgrim of Nature lay\\nstretched in decay,\\nLike the corpse of an outcast abandoned to\\nweather\\nTill the mountain- winds wasted the ten-\\nantless clay.\\nNor yet quite deserted, though lonely ex-\\ntended,\\nFor, faithful in death, his mute favorite\\nattended,\\nThe much-loved remains of her master\\ndefended,\\nAnd chased the hill-fox and the raven\\naway.\\nHow long didst thou think that his silence\\nwas slumber\\nWhen the wind waved his garment, how\\noft didst thou start\\nHow many long days and long weeks didst\\nthou number,\\nEre he faded before thee, the friend of\\nthy heart\\nAnd O, was it meet that no requiem\\nread o er him,\\nNo mother to weep and no friend to de-\\nplore him,\\nAnd thou, little guardian, alone stretched\\nbefore him\\nUnhonored the Pilgrim from life should\\ndepart\\nWhen a prince to the fate of the peasant\\nhas yielded,\\nThe tapestry waves dark round the dim-\\nlighted hall;\\nWith scutcheons of silver the coffin is\\nshielded,\\nAnd pages stand mute by the canopied\\npall:\\nThrough the courts at deep midnight the\\ntorches are gleaming;\\nIn the proudly arched chapel the banners\\nare beaming;\\nFar adown the long aisle sacred music is\\nstreaming,\\nLamenting a chief of the people should\\nfall.\\nBut meeter for thee, gentle lover of na-\\nture,\\nTo lay down thy head like the meek\\nmountain lamb,\\nWhen wildered he drops from some cliff\\nhuge in stature,\\nAnd draws his last sob by the side of his\\ndam.\\nAnd more stately thy couch by this desert\\nlake lying,\\nThy obsequies sung by the gray plover fly-\\ning.\\nWith one faithful friend but to witness thy\\ndying\\nIn the arms of Hellvellyn and Catche-\\ndicam.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0070.jp2"}, "69": {"fulltext": "THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL\\nINTRODUCTORY NOTE\\nWhen Scott was collecting material for the\\nthird volume of The Border Minstrelsy, he\\nwrote to Miss Seward that he meant to include\\nin it a sort of Romance of Border chivalry and\\nEnchantment, and when giving 1 the same infor-\\nmation to Mr. George Ellis, he adds that it is\\nin a light-horseman sort of stanza. In his\\nIntroduction which follows below, Scott gives\\nan account of the genesis of the poem and the\\ncircumstances of attending the first trial. He\\nwas wont to speak lightly of his verse, and it\\nwas with no affectation of modesty that he\\nwrote to Miss Seward: Was all the time I\\nwasted upon the Lay put together, for it\\nwas laid aside for long intervals, I am sure\\nit would not exceed six weeks. The last canto\\nwas written in three forenoons when I was\\nlying in quarters with our yeomanry. I leave\\nit with yourself to guess how little I can have\\nit in my most distant imagination to place my-\\nself upon a level with the great Bards you\\nhave mentioned, the very latchets of whose\\nshoes neither Southey nor I are worthy to un-\\nloose. As the first considerable poem of Scott s\\nown composition, it has a further interest, of-\\nten attaching to first productions, from the\\nveiled autobiographic element, for Lockhart\\nsays that it distinctly refers to a secret attach-\\nment which Scott cherished from almost the\\ndawn of the passion. This (however he\\nmay have disguised the story by mixing it up\\nwith the Quixotic adventure of the damsel in\\nthe green mantle) this was the early and\\ninnocent affection to which we owe the tender-\\nest pages, not only of Redgauntlet, but of The\\nLay of the Last Minstrel, and of Rokeby, and\\nwhich found its first poetic expression in the\\nlittle poem The Violet. In all of these works\\nthe heroine has certain distinctive features,\\ndrawn from one and the same haunting dream\\nof his manly adolescence. A more explicit\\nreference will be found in the head-note to\\nThe Violet, page 7.\\nIn his Introduction Scott treats the poem as\\na part of his literary history. He wrote the\\naccount a quarter of a century after the publi-\\ncation of the poem, and it is a pleasure to read\\nand compare with it the more familiar com-\\nment on the Lay which he sends at the time of\\nits publication in the freedom of correspond-\\nence to Miss Seward.\\n39\\nEdinburgh, 21st March, 1805.\\nMy dear Miss Seward, I am truly\\nhappy that you found any amusement in The\\nLay of the Last Minstrel. It has great faults,\\nof which no one can be more sensible than I\\nam myself. Above all, it is deficient in that\\nsort of continuity which a story ought to have,\\nand which, were it to write again, I would en-\\ndeavour to give it. But I began and wandered\\nforward, like one in a pleasant country, getting\\nto the top of one hill to see a prospect, and to\\nthe bottom of another to enjoy a shade and\\nwhat wonder if my course has been devious and\\ndesultory, and many of my excursions alto-\\ngether unprofitable to the advance of my jour-\\nney The Dwarf Page is also an excrescence,\\nand I plead guilty to all the censures concern-\\ning him. The truth is he has a history, and it\\nis this The story of Gilpin Horner was told\\nby an old gentleman to Lady Dalkeith, and\\nshe, much diverted with his act, really believ-\\ning so grotesque a tale, insisted that I should\\nmake it into a Border ballad. I don t know\\nif ever you saw my lovely chief tainess if you\\nhave, you must be aware that it is impossible\\nfor any one to refuse her request, as she has\\nmore of the angel in face and temper than any\\none alive so that if she had asked me to write\\na ballad on a broomstick, I must have at-\\ntempted it. I began a few verses to be called\\nThe Goblin Page and they lay long by me,\\ntill the applause of some friends whose judg-\\nment I valued induced me to resume the poem\\nso on I wrote, knowing no more than the man in\\nthe moon how I was to end. At length the story\\nappeared so uncouth, that I was fain to put\\nit into the mouth of my old Minstrel lest\\nthe nature of it should be misunderstood, and I\\nshould be suspected of setting up a new school\\nof poetry, instead of a feeble attempt to imi-\\ntate the old. In the process of the romance,\\nthe page, intended to be a principal person in\\nthe work, contrived (from the baseness of his\\nnatural propensities, I suppose) to slink down\\nstairs into the kitchen, and now he must e en\\nabide there.\\nI mention these circumstances to you, and\\nto any one whose applause I value, because I\\nam unwilling you should suspect me of trifling\\nwith the public in malice prepense. As to the\\nherd of critics, it is impossible for me to pay", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0071.jp2"}, "70": {"fulltext": "4\u00c2\u00b0\\nTHE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL\\nmuch attention to them, for, as they do not\\nunderstand what I call poetry, we talk in a\\nforeign language to each other. Indeed, many\\nof these gentlemen appear to me to be a sort of\\ntinkers, who, unable to make pots and pans, set\\nup for menders of them, and, God knows, often\\nmake two holes in patching one. The sixth\\ncanto is altogether redundant; for the poem\\nshould certainly have closed with the union of\\nthe lovers, when the interest, if any, was at an\\nend. But what could I do I had my book\\nand my page still on my hands, and must get\\nrid of them at all events. Manage them as I\\nwould, their catastrophe must have been insuf-\\nficient to occupy an entire canto so I was fain\\nto eke it out with the songs of the minstrels. I\\nwill now descend from the confessional, which\\nI think I have occupied long enough for the\\npatience of my fair confessor. I am happy\\nyou are disposed to give me absolution, notwith-\\nstanding all my sins.\\nScott refers in his Introduction to the im-\\nmediate success of his venture, and Lockhart\\nsupplies details which substantiate his state-\\nment that in the history of British Poetry\\nnothing had ever equalled the demand for\\nThe Lay of the Last Minstrel. The success\\nunquestionably confirmed Scott in his resolu-\\ntion to devote himself to the literary life, yet\\nit is interesting to note how persistently he\\nheld to his theoretical doctrine that litera-\\nture should be a subsidiary means of support,\\nor as he puts it, a staff and not a crutch. It\\nwas while urging again this doctrine in a letter\\nto Crabbe in 1812 that he lets fall the fact, no-\\nwhere else referred to by him, that he wrote\\nThe Lay of the Last Minstrel for the purpose\\nof buying a new horse for the Volunteer Cav-\\nalry.\\nWhen first published early in January, 1805,\\nthe poem was introduced by the following\\nPreface\\nThe poem, now offered to the Public, is in-\\ntended to illustrate the customs and manners\\nwhich anciently prevailed on the Borders of\\nEngland and Scotland. The inhabitants living\\nin a state partly pastoral and partly warlike,\\nand combining habits of constant depredation\\nwith the influence of a rude spirit of chivalry,\\nwere often engaged in scenes highly susceptible\\nof poetical ornament. As the description of\\nscenery and manners was more the object of\\nthe Author than a combined and regular nar-\\nrative, the plan of the Ancient Metrical Ro-\\nmance was adopted, which allows greater lati-\\ntude, in this respect, than would be consistent\\nwith the dignity of a regular Poem. The same\\nmodel offered other facilities, as it permits an\\noccasional alteration of measure, which, in some\\ndegree, authorizes the change of rhythm in the\\ntext. The machinery, also, adopted from pop-\\nular belief, would have seemed puerile in a\\nPoem which did not partake of the rudeness of\\nthe old Ballad, or Metrical Romance.\\nFor these reasons, the Poem was put into\\nthe mouth of an ancient Minstrel, the last of\\nthe race, who, as he is supposed to have sur-\\nvived the Revolution, might have caught some-\\nwhat of the refinement of modern poetry, with-\\nout losing the simplicity of his original model.\\nThe date of the Tale itself is about the middle\\nof the sixteenth century, when most of the per-\\nsonages actually flourished. The time occu-\\npied by the action is Three Nights and Three\\nDays.\\nWhen Cadell took hold of the publication of\\nSir Walter s writings he projected that reissue\\nin uniform style of the prose and poetry, with\\nintroductions by the author, which resulted in\\nthe extraordinary sale, by which Scott s debts\\nwere paid and the fortunes of the author put\\non a firm foundation. It was for this edi-\\ntion of 1830 that Scott furnished the follow-\\ning\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nINTRODUCTION\\nA poem of nearly thirty years standing\\nmay be supposed hardly to need an Introduc-\\ntion, since, without one, it has been able to\\nkeep itself afloat through the best part of a\\ngeneration. Nevertheless, as, in the edition of\\nthe Waverley Novels now in course of publica-\\ntion [1830], I have imposed on myself the task\\nof saying something concerning the purpose\\nand history of each, in their turn, I am desirous\\nthat the Poems for which I first received some\\nmarks of the public favor should also be ac-\\ncompanied with such scraps of their literary\\n1 In this essay, printed in the 1830 edition of the\\nBorder Minstrelsy, Scott gives an account of his school-\\nboy attempts at writing verse, of his translations of Bur-\\nhistory as may be supposed to carry interest\\nalong with them. Even if I should be mis-\\ntaken in thinking that the secret history of\\nwhat was once so popular may still attract\\npublic attention and curiosity, it seems to me\\nnot without its use to record the manner and\\ncircumstances under which the present, and\\nother Poems on the same plan, attained for a\\nseason an extensive reputation.\\nI must resume the story of my literary la-\\nbors at the period at which I broke off in the\\nEssay on the Imitation of Popular Poetry, 1\\nger s Lenore and Der Wilde Jaeger (brought out in\\n1796 under the title of William and Helen, but a dead\\nloss to the publishers), of his subsequent versions of", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0072.jp2"}, "71": {"fulltext": "AUTHOR S INTRODUCTION\\n4i\\nwhen I had enjoyed the first gleam of public\\nfavor, by the success of the first edition of\\nthe Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border. The\\nsecond edition of that work, published in 1803,\\nproved, in the language of the trade, rather a\\nheavy concern. The demand in Scotland had\\nbeen supplied by the first edition, and the cu-\\nriosity of the English was not much awakened\\nby poems in the rude garb of antiquity, accom-\\npanied with notes referring to the obscure\\nfeuds of barbarous clans, of whose very names\\ncivilized history was ignorant. It was, on the\\nwhole, one of those books which are more\\npraised than they are read.\\nAt this time I stood personally in a different\\nposition from that which I occupied when I\\nfirst dipt my desperate pen in ink for other\\npurposes than those of my profession. In 1796,\\nwhen I first published the translations from\\nBurger, I was an insulated individual, with\\nonly my own wants to provide for, and having,\\nin a great measure, my own inclinations alone\\nto consult. In 1803, when the second edition\\nof the Minstrelsy appeared, I had arrived at a\\nperiod of life when men, however thoughtless,\\nencounter duties and circumstances which press\\nconsideration and plans of life upon the most\\ncareless minds. I had been for some time\\nmarried, was the father of a rising family,\\nand, though fully enabled to meet the conse-\\nquent demands upon me, it was my duty and\\ndesire to place myself in a situation which\\nwould enable me to make honorable provision\\nagainst the various contingencies of life.\\nIt may be readily supposed that the attempts\\nwhich I had made in literature had been un-\\nfavorable to my success at the bar. The god T\\ndess Themis is, at Edinburgh, and I suppose\\neverywhere else, of a peculiarly jealous dispo-\\nsition. She will not readily consent to share\\nher authority, and sternly demands from her\\nvotaries, not only that real duty be carefully\\nattended to and discharged, but that a certain\\nair of business shall be observed even in the\\nmidst of total idleness. It is prudent, if not\\nabsolutely necessary, in a young barrister, to\\nappear completely engrossed by his profession\\nhowever destitute of employment he may in\\nreality be, he ought to preserve, if possible, the\\nappearance of full occupation. He should,\\ntherefore, seem perpetually engaged among his\\nlaw-papers, dusting them, as it were and, as\\nOvid advises the fair,\\nSi nullus erit pulvis, tamen excute nullum. x\\nPerhaps such extremity of attention is more\\nsundry German dramas, of his first attempts at ballad\\nwriting Glenfinlas and The Eve of St. John, included\\nin Monk Lewis s Tales of Wonder in 1801), and of\\nhis first literary success in the Border Minstrelsy of\\n1802. W. J. R.\\nespecially required, considering the great num-\\nber of counsellors who are called to the bar,\\nand how very small a proportion of them are\\nfinally disposed, or find encouragement, to fol-\\nlow the law as a profession. Hence the number\\nof deserters is so great that the least lingering\\nlook behind occasions a young novice to be set\\ndown as one of the intending fugitives. Cer-\\ntain it is, that the Scottish Themis was at this\\ntime peculiarly jealous of any flirtation with\\nthe Muses, on the part of those who had ranged\\nthemselves under her banners. This was prob-\\nably owing to her consciousness of the superior\\nattractions of her rivals. Of late, however, she\\nhas relaxed in some instances in this particular,\\nan eminent example of which has been shown\\nin the case of my friend Mr. Jeffrey, who, after\\nlong conducting one of the most influential lit-\\nerary periodicals of the age with unquestion-\\nable ability, has been, by the general consent\\nof his brethren, recently elected to be their\\nDean of Faculty, or President, being the\\nhighest acknowledgment of his professional\\ntalents which they had it in their power to\\noffer. 2 But this is an incident much beyond\\nthe ideas of a period of thirty years distance,\\nwhen a barrister who really possessed any turn\\nfor lighter literature was at as much pains to\\nconceal it as if it had in reality been something\\nto be ashamed of and I could mention more\\nthan one instance in which literature and so-\\nciety have suffered much loss that jurispru-\\ndence might be enriched.\\nSuch, however, was not my case; for the\\nreader will not wonder that my open interfer-\\nence with matters of light literature diminished\\nmy employment in the weightier matters of\\nthe law. Nor did the solicitors, upon whose\\nchoice the counsel takes rank in his profession,\\ndome less than justice, by regarding others\\namong my contemporaries as fitter to discharge\\nthe duty due to their clients, than a young\\nman who was taken up with running after bal-\\nlads, whether Teutonic or national. My pro-\\nfession and I, therefore, came to stand nearly\\nupon the footing which honest Slender consoled,\\nhimself on having established with Mistress\\nAnne Page There was no great love between\\nus at the beginning, and it pleased Heaven to\\ndecrease it on farther acquaintance. I be-\\ncame sensible that the time was come when I\\nmust either buckle myself resolutely to the\\ntoil by day, the lamp by night, renouncing\\nall the Delilahs of my imagination, or bid adieu\\nto the profession of the law, and hold another\\ncourse.\\n1 If dust be none, yet brush that none away.\\n2 [Jeffrey conducted the Edinburgh Review for twen-\\nty-seven years. He retired the year before Scott wrote\\nthe above, and was elected Dean of the Faculty of Ad-\\nvocates.]", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0073.jp2"}, "72": {"fulltext": "42\\nTHE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL\\nI confess my own inclination revolted from\\nthe more severe choice, which might have heen\\ndeemed by many the wiser alternative. As\\nmy transgressions had heen numerous, my re-\\npentance must have been signalized by unu-\\nsual sacrifices. I ought to have mentioned that\\nsince my fourteenth or fifteenth year my health,\\noriginally delicate, had become extremely ro-\\nbust. From infancy I had labored under the\\ninfirmity of a severe lameness but, as I be-\\nlieve is usually the case with men of spirit\\nwho suffer under personal inconveniences of\\nthis nature, I had, since the improvement of\\nmy health, in defiance of this incapacitating\\ncircumstance, distinguished myself by the en-\\ndurance of toil on foot or horseback, having\\noften walked thirty miles a day, and rode\\nupwards of a hundred, without resting. In\\nthis manner I made many pleasant journeys\\nthrough parts of the country then not very ac-\\ncessible, gaining more amusement and instruc-\\ntion than I have been able to acquire since I\\nhave travelled in a more commodious manner.\\nI practised most sylvan sports also, with some\\nsuccess and with great delight. But these\\npleasures must have been all resigned, or used\\nwith great moderation, had I determined to re-\\ngain my station at the bar. It was even doubt-\\nful whether I could, with perfect character as\\na jurisconsult, retain a situation in a volunteer\\ncorps of cavalry, which I then held. The\\nthreats of invasion were at this time instant\\nand menacing the call by Britain on her\\nchildren was universal, and was answered by\\nsome, who like myself, consulted rather their\\ndesire than their ability to bear arms. My ser-\\nvices, however, were found useful in assisting\\nto maintain the discipline of the corps, being\\nthe point on which their constitution rendered\\nthem most amenable to military criticism. In\\nother respects the squadron was a fine one, con-\\nsisting chiefly of handsome men, well mounted\\nand armed at their own expense. My attention\\nto the corps took up a good deal of time and\\nwhile it occupied many of the happiest hours\\nof my life, it furnished an additional reason for\\nmy reluctance again to encounter the severe\\ncourse of study indispensable to success in the\\njuridical profession.\\nOn the other hand, my father, whose feelings\\nmight have been hurt by my quitting the bar,\\nhad been for two or three years dead, so that\\nI had no control to thwart my own inclina-\\ntion and my income being equal to all the\\ncomforts, and some of the elegancies, of life,\\nI was not pressed to an irksome labor by ne-\\ncessity, that most powerful of motives con-\\nsequently, I was the more easily seduced to\\nchoose the employment which was most agree-\\nable to me. This was yet the easier, that in\\n1800 I had obtained the preferment of Sheriff\\nof Selkirkshire, about \u00c2\u00a3300 a year in value,\\nand which was the more agreeable to me as in\\nthat county I had several friends and relations.\\nBut I did not abandon the profession to which\\nI had been educated without certain prudential\\nresolutions, which, at the risk of some ego-\\ntism, I will here mention not without the hope\\nthat they may be useful to young persons who\\nmay stand in circumstances similar to those in\\nwhich I then stood.\\nIn the first place, upon considering the lives\\nand fortunes of persons who had given them-\\nselves up to literature, or to the task of pleas-\\ning the public, it seemed to me that the\\ncircumstances which chiefly affected their hap-\\npiness and character were those from which\\nHorace has bestowed upon authors the epithet\\nof the Irritable Race. It requires no depth of\\nphilosophic reflection to perceive that the petty\\nwarfare of Pope with the Dunces of his period\\ncould not have been carried on without his suf-\\nfering the most acute torture, such as a man\\nmust endure from mosquitoes, by whose stings he\\nsuffers agony, although he can crush them in his\\ngrasp by myriads. Nor is it necessary to call to\\nmemory the many humiliating instances in which\\nmen of the greatest genius have, to avenge\\nsome pitiful quarrel, made themselves ridicu-\\nlous during their lives, to become the still\\nmore degraded objects of pity to future times.\\nUpon the whole, as I had no pretension to\\nthe genius of the distinguished persons who\\nhad fallen into such errors, I concluded there\\ncould be no occasion for imitating them in their\\nmistakes, or what I considered as such and, in\\nadopting literary pursuits as the principal occu-\\npation of my future life, I resolved, if possible,\\nto avoid those weaknesses of temper which\\nseemed to have most easily beset my more\\ncelebrated predecessors.\\nWith this view, it was my first resolution to\\nkeep as far as was in my power abreast of\\nsociety, continuing to maintain my place in gen-\\neral company, without yielding to the very nat-\\nural temptation of narrowing myself to what\\nis called literary society. By doing so, I im-\\nagined I should escape the besetting sin of\\nlistening to language which, from one motive\\nor other, is apt to ascribe a very undue degree\\nof consequence to literary pursuits, as if they\\nwere, indeed, the business, rather than the\\namusement, of life. The opposite course can\\nonly be compared to the injudicious conduct of\\none who pampers himself with cordial and\\nluscious draughts, until he is unable to endure\\nwholesome bitters. Like Gil Bias, therefore,\\nI resolved to stick by the society of my commis,\\ninstead of seeking that of a more literary cast,\\nand to maintain my general interest in what\\nwas going on around me, reserving the man of\\nletters for the desk and the library.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0074.jp2"}, "73": {"fulltext": "AUTHOR S INTRODUCTION\\n43\\nMy second resolution was a corollary from\\nthe first. I determined that, without shutting\\nmy ears to the voice of true criticism, I would\\npay no regard to that which assumes the form\\nof satire. I therefore resolved to arm myself\\nwith that triple brass of Horace, of which those\\nof my profession are seldom held deficient,\\nagainst all the roving warfare of satire, parody,\\nand sarcasm to laugh if the jest was a good\\none or, if otherwise, to let it hum and buzz\\nitself to sleep.\\nIt is to the observance of these rules (ac-\\ncording to my best belief) that, after a life of\\nthirty years engaged in literary labors of vari-\\nous kinds, I attribute my never having been\\nentangled in any literary quarrel or contro-\\nversy and, which is a still more pleasing re-\\nsult, that I have been distinguished by the\\npersonal friendship of my most approved con-\\ntemporaries of all parties.\\nI adopted, at the same time, another resolu-\\ntion, on which it may doubtless be remarked\\nthat it was well for me that I had it in my\\npower to do so, and that, therefore, it is a line\\nof conduct which, depending upon accident, can\\nbe less generally applicable in other cases.\\nYet I fail not to record this part of my plan,\\nconvinced that, though it may not be in every\\none s power to adopt exactly the same resolu-\\ntion, he may nevertheless, by his own exertions,\\nin some shape or other, attain the object on\\nwhich it was founded, namely, to secure the\\nmeans of subsistence, without relying exclu-\\nsively on literary talents. In this respect, I\\ndetermined that literature should be my staff,\\nbut not my crutch, and that the profits of my\\nliterary labor, however convenient otherwise,\\nshould not, if I could help it, become necessary\\nto my ordinary expenses. With this purpose I\\nresolved, if the interest of my friends could so\\nfar favor me, to retire upon any of the respect-\\nable offices of the law, in which persons of that\\nprofession are glad to take refuge, when they\\nfeel themselves, or are judged by others,\\nincompetent to aspire to its higher honors.\\nUpon such a post an author might hope to re-\\ntreat, without any perceptible alteration of\\ncircumstances, whenever the time should arrive\\nthat the public grew weary of his endeavors to\\nplease, or he himself should tire of the pen.\\nAt this period of my life, I possessed so many\\nfriends capable of assisting me in this object of\\nambition, that I could hardly overrate my own\\nprospects of obtaining the preferment to which\\nI limited my wishes and, in fact, I obtained,\\nin no long period, the reversion of a situation\\nwhich completely met them.\\nThus far all was well, and the Author had\\nbeen guilty, perhaps, of no great imprudence,\\n1 Thus it has been often remarked, that, in the open-\\ning couplets of Pope s translation of the Iliad, there are\\nwhen he relinquished his forensic practice with\\nthe hope of making some figure in the field of\\nliterature. But an established character with\\nthe public, in my new capacity, still remained\\nto be acquired. I have noticed that the trans-\\nlations from Burger had been unsuccessful, nor\\nhad the original poetry which appeared under\\nthe auspices of Mr. Lewis, in the Tales of Won-\\nder, in any great degree raised my reputa-\\ntion. It is true, I had private friends disposed\\nto second me in my efforts to obtain popular-\\nity. But I was sportsman enough to know,\\nthat if the greyhound does not run well, the\\nhalloos of his patrons will not obtain the prize\\nfor him.\\nNeither was I ignorant that the practice of\\nballad- writing was for the present out of fash-\\nion, and that any attempt to revive it, or to\\nfound a poetical character upon it, would cer-\\ntainly fail of success. The ballad measure itself,\\nwhich was once listened to as to an enchanting\\nmelody, had become hackneyed and sickening,\\nfrom its being the accompaniment of every\\ngrinding hand-organ and besides, a long work\\nin quatrains, whether those of the common\\nballad, or such as are termed elegiac, has an\\neffect upon the mind like that of the bed of\\nProcrustes upon the human body for, as it\\nmust be both awkward and difficult to carry\\non a long sentence from one stanza to another,\\nit follows that the meaning of each period\\nmust be comprehended within four lines, and\\nequally so that it must be extended so as\\nto fill that space. The alternate dilation and\\ncontraction thus rendered necessary is singu-\\nlarly unfavorable to narrative composition;\\nand the Gondibert of Sir William D Ave-\\nnant, though containing many striking pas-\\nsages, has never become popular, owing chiefly\\nto its being told in this species of elegiac verse.\\nIn the dilemma occasioned by this objec-\\ntion, the idea occurred to the Author of using\\nthe measured short line, which forms the struc-\\nture of so much minstrel poetry, that it may be\\nproperly termed the Romantic stanza, by way\\nof distinction and which appears so natural\\nto our language, that the very best of our poets\\nhave not been able to protract it into the verse\\nproperly called Heroic, without the use of epi-\\nthets which are, to say the least, unnecessary. 1\\nBut, on the other hand, the extreme facility of\\nthe short couplet, which seems congenial to our\\nlanguage, and was, doubtless for that reason,\\ntwo syllables forming a superfluous word in each line,\\nas may be observed by attending to such words as are\\nprinted in Italics.\\nAchilles wrath, to Greece the direful spring\\nOf woes unnumber d, heavenly goddess, sing\\nThat wrath which sent to Pluto s gloomy reign.\\nThe souls of mighty chiefs in battle slain,\\nWhose bones, unburied on the desert shore,\\nDevouring dogs and hungry vultures tore-", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0075.jp2"}, "74": {"fulltext": "44\\nTHE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL\\nso popular with our old minstrels, is, for the\\nsame reason, apt to prove a snare to the com-\\nposer who uses it in more modern days, by\\nencouraging 1 him in a habit of slovenly com-\\nposition. The necessity of occasional pauses\\noften forces the young poet to pay more atten-\\ntion to sense, as the boy s kite rises highest\\nwhen the train is loaded by a due counterpoise.\\nThe Author was therefore intimidated by what\\nByron calls the fatal facility of the octosyl-\\nlabic verse, which was otherwise better adapted\\nto his purpose of imitating the more ancient\\npoetry.\\nI was not less at a loss for a subject which\\nmight admit of being treated witb the simpli-\\ncity and wildness of the ancient ballad. But\\naccident dictated both a theme and measure\\nwhich decided the subject as well as the struc-\\nture of the poem.\\nThe lovely young Countess of Dalkeith,\\nafterwards Harriet Duchess of Buccleuch, had\\ncome to the land of her husband with the\\ndesire of making herself acquainted with its\\ntraditions and customs, as well as its manners\\nand history. All who remember this lady will\\nagree that the intellectual character of her\\nextreme beauty, the amenity and courtesy of\\nher manners, the soundness of her understand-\\ning, and her unbounded benevolence, gave\\nmore the idea of an angelic visitant than of a\\nbeing belonging to this nether world and such\\na thought was but too consistent with the short\\nspace she was permitted to tarry among us. 1\\nOf course, where all made it a pride and pleas-\\nure to gratify her wishes, she soon heard\\nenough of Border lore among others, an aged\\ngentleman of property, 2 near Langholm, com-\\nmunicated to her ladyship the story of Gilpin\\nHorner, a tradition in which the narrator, and\\nmany more of that country, were firm believers.\\nThe young Countess, much delighted with the\\nlegend, and the gravity and full confidence with\\nwhich it was told, enjoined on me as a task to\\ncompose a ballad on the subject. Of course, to\\nhear was to obey and thus the goblin story\\nobjected to by several critics as an excrescence\\nupon the poem was, in fact, the occasion of its\\nbeing written.\\nA chance similar to that which dictated the\\nsubject gave me also the hint of a new mode\\nof treating it. We had at that time the lease\\nof a pleasant cottage near Lasswade, on the\\nromantic banks of the Esk, to which we es-\\n1 [The Duchess of Buccleuch died in August, 1814.]\\n2 This was Mr Beattie of Mickledale, a man then con-\\nsiderably upwards of eighty, of a shrewd and sarcastic\\ntemper, which he did not at all times suppress, as the\\nfollowing anecdote will show A worthy clergyman,\\nnow deceased, with better good-will than tact, was en-\\ndeavoring to push the senior forward in his recollection\\nof Border ballads and legends, by expressing reiterated\\ncaped when the vacations of the Court permit-\\nted me so much leisure. Here I had the\\npleasure to receive a visit from Mr. Stoddart\\n(now Sir John Stoddart, Judge-Advocate at\\nMalta), who was at that time collecting the\\nparticulars which he afterwards embodied in\\nhis Remarks on Local Scenery in Scotland. I\\nwas of some use to him in procuring the in-\\nformation which he desired, and guiding him\\nto the scenes which he wished to see. In re-\\nturn, he made me better acquainted than I had\\nhitherto been with the poetic effusions which\\nhave since made the Lakes of Westmoreland,\\nand the authors by whom they have been sung,\\nso famous wherever the English tongue is\\nspoken.\\nI was already acquainted with the Joan of\\nArc, the Thalaba, and the Metrical Ballads\\nof Mr. Southey, which had found their way to\\nScotland, and were generally admired. But\\nMr. Stoddart, who had the advantage of per-\\nsonal friendship with the authors, and who pos-\\nsessed a strong memory with an excellent taste,\\nwas able to repeat to me many long specimens\\nof their poetry, which had not yet appeared in\\nprint. Amongst others, was the striking frag-\\nment called Christabel. by Mr. Coleridge,\\nwhich, from the singularly irregular structure\\nof the stanzas, and the liberty which it allowed\\nthe author to adapt the sound to the sense,\\nseemed to be exactly suited to such an extrav-\\naganza as I meditated on the subject of Gilpin\\nHorner. As applied to comic and humorous\\npoetry, this mescolanza of measures had been\\nalready used by Anthony Hall, Anstey, Dr.\\nWolcott, and others but it was in Christabel\\nthat I first found it used in serious poetry, and\\nit is to Mr. Coleridge that I am bound to make\\nthe acknowledgment due from the pupil to his\\nmaster. I observe that Lord Byron, in noti-\\ncing my obligations to Mr. Coleridge, which I\\nhave been always most ready to acknowledge,\\nexpressed, or was understood to express, a\\nhope that I did not write an unfriendly review\\non Mr. Coleridge s productions. On this sub-\\nject I have only to say that I do not even know\\nthe review which is alluded to and were I\\never to take the unbecoming freedom of censur-\\ning a man of Mr. Coleridge s extraordinary\\ntalents, it would be on account of the caprice\\nand indolence with which he has thrown from\\nhim, as if in mere wantonness, those unfinished\\nscraps of poetry, which, like the Torso of an-\\nsurprise at his wonderful memory. No, sir, said old\\nMickledale my memory is good for little, for it can-\\nnot retain what ought to be preserved. I can remember\\nall these stories about the auld riding days, which are\\nof no earthly importance but were you, reverend sir,\\nto repeat your best sermon in this drawing-room, I\\ncould not tell you half an hour afterwards what you had\\nbeen speaking about.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0076.jp2"}, "75": {"fulltext": "AUTHOR S INTRODUCTION\\n45\\ntiquity, defy the skill of his poetical brethren\\nto complete them. The charming fragments\\nwhich the author abandons to their fate, are\\nsurely too valuable to be treated like the proofs\\nof careless engravers, the sweepings of whose\\nstudios often make the fortune of some pains-\\ntaking collector.\\nI did not immediately proceed upon my\\nprojected labor, though I was now furnished\\nwith a subject, and with a structure of verse\\nwhich might have the effect of novelty to the\\npublic ear, and afford the Author an opportu-\\nnity of varying his measure with the variations\\nof a romantic theme. On the contrary, it was,\\nto the best of my recollection, more than a\\nyear after Mr. Stoddart s visit, that, by way of\\nexperiment, I composed the first two or three\\nstanzas of The Lay of the Last Minstrel. I\\nwas shortly afterwards visited by two intimate\\nfriends, one of whom still survives. They were\\nmen whose talents might have raised them to\\nthe highest station in literature, had they not\\npreferred exerting them in their own profession\\nof the law, in which they attained equal pre-\\nferment. I was in the habit of consulting them\\non my attempts at composition, having equal\\nconfidence in their sound taste and friendly\\nsincerity. 1 In this specimen I had, in the\\nphrase of the Highland servant, packed all\\nthat was my own at least, for I had also in-\\ncluded a line of invocation, a little softened,\\nfrom Coleridge\\nMary, mother, shield us well.\\nAs neither of my friends said much to me on\\nthe subject of the stanzas I showed them be-\\nfore their departure, I had no doubt that their\\ndisgust had been greater than their good-na-\\nture chose to express. Looking upon them,\\ntherefore, as a failure, I threw the manuscript\\ninto the fire, and thought as little more as I\\ncould of the matter. Some time afterwards I\\nmet one of my two counsellors, who inquired,\\nwith considerable appearance of interest, about\\nthe progress of the romance I had commenced,\\nand was greatly surprised at learning its fate.\\nHe confessed that neither he nor our mutual\\nfriend had been at first able to give a precise\\nopinion on a poem so much out of the common\\nroad but that as they walked home together\\nto the city, they had talked much on the sub-\\nject, and the result was an earnest desire that I\\nwould proceed with the composition. He also\\nadded, that some sort of prologue might be\\nnecessary, to place the mind of the hearers in\\nthe situation to understand and enjoy the poem,\\nand recommended the adoption of such quaint\\n1 One of these, William Erskine, esq. (Lord Kinned-\\nder), I have often had occasion to mention, and though\\nI may hardly he thanked for disclosing the name of the\\nmottoes as Spenser has used to announce the\\ncontents of the chapters of the Faery Queen,\\nsuch as\\nBabe s bloody hands may not be cleansed.\\nThe face of golden Mean\\nHer sisters two, Extremities,\\nStrive her to banish clean.\\nI entirely agreed with my friendly critic in\\nthe necessity of having some sort of pitch-pipe,\\nwhich might make readers aware of the object,\\nor rather the tone, of the publication. But I\\ndoubted whether, in assuming the oracular\\nstyle of Spenser s mottoes, the interpreter\\nmight not be censured as the harder to be\\nunderstood of the two. I therefore introduced\\nthe Old Minstrel, as an appropriate prolocutor\\nby whom the lay might be sung or spoken, and\\nthe introduction of whom betwixt the cantos\\nmight remind the reader at intervals of the\\ntime, place, and circumstances of the recitation.\\nThis species of cadre, or frame, afterwards af-\\nforded the poem its name of The Lay of the\\nLast Minstrel.\\nThe work was subsequently shown to other\\nfriends during its progress, and received the\\nimprimatur of Mr. Francis Jeffrey, who had\\nbeen already for some time distinguished by\\nhis critical talent.\\nThe poem, being once licensed by the critics\\nas fit for the market, was soon finished, proceed-\\ning at about the rate of a canto per week.\\nThere was, indeed, little occasion for pause or\\nhesitation, when a troublesome rhyme might\\nbe accommodated by an alteration of the\\nstanza, or where an incorrect measure might be\\nremedied by a variation of the rhyme. It was\\nfinally published in 1805, and may be regarded\\nas the first work in which the writer, who has\\nbeen since so voluminous, laid his claim to be\\nconsidered as an original author.\\nThe book was published by Longman and\\nCompany, and Archibald Constable and Com-\\npany. The principal of the latter firm was\\nthen commencing that course of bold and lib-\\neral industry which was of so much advantage\\nto his country, and might have been so to him-\\nself, but for causes which it is needless to enter\\ninto here. The work, brought out on the usual\\nterms of division of profits between the author\\nand publishers, was not long after purchased by\\nthem for \u00c2\u00a3500, to which Messrs. Longman and\\nCompany afterwards added \u00c2\u00a3100, in their own\\nunsolicited kindness, in consequence of the un-\\ncommon success of the work. It was hand-\\nsomely given to supply the loss of a fine horse,\\nwhich broke down suddenly while the Author\\nwas riding with one of the worthy publishers.\\nIt would be great affectation not to own\\nother, yet I cannot but state that the second is George\\nCranstoun, esq. now a Senator of the College of Justice\\nby the title of Lord Corehouse.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0077.jp2"}, "76": {"fulltext": "46\\nTHE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL\\nfrankly, that the Author expected some success\\nfrom The Lay of the Last Minstrel. The at-\\ntempt to return to a more simple and natural\\nstyle of poetry was likely to he welcomed, at\\na time when the puhlic had hecome tired of\\nheroic hexameters, with all the huckram and\\nhinding which belong- to them of later days.\\nBut whatever might have been his expecta-\\ntions, whether moderate; or unreasonable, the\\nresult left them far behind, for among those\\nwho smiled on the adventurous Minstrel were\\nnumbered the great names of William Pitt and\\nCharles Fox. Neither was the extent of the\\nsale inferior to the character of the judges who\\nreceived the poem with approbation. Upwards\\nof thirty thousand copies of the Lay were dis-\\nposed of by the trade and the Author had to\\nperform a task difficult to human vanity, when\\ncalled upon to make the necessary deductions\\nfrom his own merits, in a calm* attempt to\\naccount for his popularity.\\nA few additional remarks on the Author s\\nliterary attempts after this period, will be\\nfound in the Introduction to the Poem of\\nMarmion.\\nAbbotsfobd, April, 1830.\\nTHE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL\\nDum 7 elego, scripsisse pudet quia plurima cemo,\\nMe quoque qui feci judice, dig?ia lini.\\nTO THE\\nRIGHT HONORABLE\\nCHARLES, EARL OF DALKEITH,\\nTHIS POEM IS INSCRIBED BY\\nTHE AUTHOR\\nINTRODUCTION\\nThe way was long, the ;snnd was cold,\\nThe Minstrel was infirm and old;\\nHis withered cheek and tresses gray\\nSeemed to have known a better day;\\nThe harp, his sole remaining joy,\\nWas carried by an orphan boy.\\nThe last of all the bards was he,\\nWho sung of Border chivalry;\\nFor, well-a-day their date was fled,\\nHis tuneful brethren all were dead; 10\\nAnd he, neglected and oppressed,\\nWished to be with them and at rest.\\nNo more on prancing palfrey borne,\\nHe carolled, light as lark at morn;\\nNo longer courted and caressed,\\nHigh placed in hall, a welcome guest,\\nHe poured, to lord and lady gay,\\nThe unpremeditated lay:\\nOld times were changed, 4 old manners gone;\\nA stranger filled the Stuarts throne; 20\\nThe bigots of the iron time\\nHad called his harmless art a crime.\\nA wandering harper, scorned and poor,\\nHe begged his bread from door to door,\\nAnd tuned, to please a peasant s ear,\\nThe harp a king had loved to hear.\\nHe passed where Newark s stately tower\\nLooks out from Yarrow s birchen bower:\\nThe Minstrel gazed with wishful eye\\nNo humbler resting-place was nigh. 3 c\\nWith hesitating step at last\\nThe embattled portal arch he passed,\\nWhose ponderous grate and massy bar\\nHad oft rolled back the tide of war,\\nBut never closed the iron door\\nAgainst the desolate and poor.\\nThe Duchess marked his weary pace,\\nHis timid mien, and reverend face,\\nAnd bade her page the menials tell\\nThat they should tend the old man well: 40\\nFor she had known adversity,\\nThough born in such a high degree\\nIn pride of power, in beauty s bloom,\\nHad wept o er Monmouth s bloody tomb\\nWhen kindness had his wants supplied,\\nAnd the old man was gratified,\\nBegan to rise his minstrel pride;", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0078.jp2"}, "77": {"fulltext": "CANTO FIRST\\n47\\nAnd he began to talk anon\\nOf good Earl Francis, dead and gone,\\nAnd of Earl Walter, rest him God 50\\nA braver ne er to battle rode;\\nAnd how full many a tale he knew\\nOf the old warriors of Buccleuch:\\nAnd, would the noble Duchess deign\\nTo listen to an old man s strain,\\nThough stiff his hand, his voice though weak,\\nHe thought even yet, the sooth to speak,\\nThat, if she loved the harp to hear,\\nHe could make music to her ear.\\nThe humble boon was soon obtained; 60\\nThe aged Minstrel audience gained.\\nBut when he reached the room of state\\nWhere she with all her ladies sate,\\nPerchance he wished his boon denied:\\nFor, when to tune his harp he tried,\\nHis trembling hand had lost the ease\\nWhich marks security to please;\\nAnd scenes, long past, of joy and pain\\nCame wildering o er his aged brain\\nHe tried to tune his harp in vain. 70\\nThe pitying Duchess praised its chime,\\nAnd gave him heart, and gave him time,\\nTill every string s according glee\\nWas blended into harmony.\\nAnd then, he said, he would full fain\\nHe could recall an ancient strain\\nHe never thought to sing again.\\nIt was not framed for village churls,\\nBut for high dames and mighty earls;\\nHe had played it to King Charles the\\nGood 80\\nWhen he kept court in Holyrood;\\nAnd much he wished, yet feared, to try\\nThe long-forgotten melody.\\nAmid the strings his fingers strayed,\\nAnd an uncertain warbling made,\\nAnd oft he shook his hoary head.\\nBut when he caught the measure wild,\\nThe old man raised his face and smiled;\\nAnd lightened up his faded eye\\nWith all a poet s ecstasy 90\\nIn varying cadence, soft or strong,\\nHe swept the sounding chords along:\\nThe present scene, the future lot,\\nHis toils, his wants, were all forgot;\\nCold diffidence and age s frost\\nIn the full tide of song were lost;\\nEach blank, in faithless memory void,\\nThe poet s glowing thought supplied;\\nAnd, while his harp responsive rung,\\nT was thus the Latest Minstrel sung. 100\\nCANTO FIRST\\nThe feast was over in Branksome tower,\\nAnd the Ladye had gone to her secret\\nbower,\\nHer bower that was guarded by word and\\nby spell,\\nDeadly to hear, and deadly to tell\\nJesu Maria, shield us well\\nNo living wight, save the Ladye alone,\\nHad dared to cross the threshold stone.\\nThe tables were drawn, it was idlesse\\nall;\\nKnight and page and household squire\\nLoitered through the lofty hall, 10\\nOr crowded round the ample fire:\\nThe stag-hounds, weary with the chase,\\nLay stretched upon the rushy floor,\\nAnd urged in dreams the forest race,\\nFrom Teviot-stone to Eskdale-moor.\\nNine-and-twenty knights of fame\\nHung their shields in Branksome Hall\\nNine-and-twenty squires of name\\nBrought them their steeds to bower from\\nstall;\\nNine-and-twenty yeomen tall 20\\nWaited duteous on them all:\\nThey were all knights of mettle true,\\nKinsmen to the bold Buccleuch.\\nIV\\nTen of them were sheathed in steel,\\nWith belted sword and spur on heel;\\nThey quitted not their harness bright,\\nNeither by day nor yet by night:\\nThey lay down to rest,\\nWith corselet laced,\\nPillowed on buckler cold and hard; 30\\nThey carved at the meal\\nWith gloves of steel,\\nAnd they drank the red wine through the\\nhelmet barred.\\nTen squires, ten yeomen, mail-clad men,\\nWaited the beck of the warders ten;\\nThirty steeds, both fleet and wight,\\nStood saddled in stable day and night,\\nBarded with frontlet of steel, I trow,\\nAnd with Jedwood-axe at saddle-bow;", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0079.jp2"}, "78": {"fulltext": "48\\nTHE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL\\nA hundred more fed free in stall: 4 o\\nSuch was the custom of Branksome Hall.\\nVI\\nWhy do these steeds stand ready dight\\nWhy watch these warriors armed by night?\\nThey watch to hear the bloodhound bay-\\ning\\nThey watch to hear the war-horn bray-\\ning;\\nTo see Saint George s red cross stream-\\ning,\\nTo see the midnight beacon gleaming;\\nThey watch against Southern force and\\nguile,\\nLest Scroop or Howard or Percy s pow-\\ners\\nThreaten Branksome s lordly towers, 50\\nFrom Warkworth or Naworth or merry\\nCarlisle.\\nVII\\nSuch is the custom of Branksome Hall.\\nMany a valiant knight is here\\nBut he, the chieftain of them all,\\nHis sword hangs rusting on the wall\\nBeside his broken spear.\\nBards long shall tell\\nHow Lord Walter fell\\nWhen startled burghers fled afar\\nThe furies of the Border war, 60\\nWhen the streets of high Dunedin\\nSaw lances gleam and falchions redden,\\nAnd heard the slogan s deadly yell,\\nThen the Chief of Branksome fell.\\nVIII\\nCan piety the discord heal,\\nOr stanch the death-feud s enmity\\nCan Christian lore, can patriot zeal,\\nCan love of blessed charity\\nNo vainly to each holy shrine,\\nIn mutual pilgrimage they drew, 70\\nImplored in vain the grace divine\\nFor chiefs their own red falchions slew.\\nWhile Cessford owns the rule of Carr,\\nWhile Ettrick boasts the line of Scott,\\nThe slaughtered chiefs, the mortal jar,\\nThe havoc of the feudal war,\\nShall never, never be forgot\\nIn sorrow o er Lord Walter s bier\\nThe warlike foresters had bent,\\nAnd many a flower and many a tear\\nOld Teviot s maids and matrons lent;\\nBut o er her warrior s bloody bier\\nThe Ladye dropped nor flower nor tear\\nVengeance, deep-brooding o er the slain,\\nHad locked the source of softer woe,\\nAnd burning pride and high disdain\\nForbade the rising tear to flow;\\nUntil, amid his sorrowing clan,\\nHer son lisped from the nurse s knee,\\nAnd if I live to be a man,\\nMy father s death revenged shall be\\nThen fast the mother s tears did seek\\nTo dew the infant s kindling cheek.\\nAll loose her negligent attire,\\nAll loose her golden hair,\\nHung Margaret o er her slaughtered sire\\nAnd wept in wild despair.\\nBut not alone the bitter tear\\nHad filial grief supplied,\\nFor hopeless love and anxious fear\\nHad lent their mingled tide\\nNor in her mother s altered eye\\nDared she to look for sympathy.\\nHer lover gainst her father s clan\\nWith Carr in arms had stood,\\nWhen Mathouse-burn to Melrose ran\\nAll purple with their blood;\\nAnd well she knew her mother dread,\\nBefore Lord Cranstoun she should wed\\nWould see her on her dying bed.\\nOf noble race the Ladye came;\\nHer father was a clerk of fame\\nOf Bethune s line of Picardie:\\nHe learned the art that none may name\\nIn Padua, far beyond the sea.\\nMen said he changed his mortal frame\\nBy feat of magic mystery;\\nFor when in studious mood he paced\\nSaint Andrew s cloistered hall,\\nHis form no darkening shadow traced 120\\nUpon the sunny wall\\nXII\\nAnd of his skill, as bards avow,\\nHe taught that Ladye fair,\\nTill to her bidding she could bow\\nThe viewless forms of air.\\nAnd now she sits in secret bower\\nIn old Lord David s western tower,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0080.jp2"}, "79": {"fulltext": "CANTO FIRST\\n49\\nAnd listens to a heavy sound\\nThat moans the mossy turrets round.\\nIs it the roar of Teviot s tide, 130\\nThat chafes against the scaur s red side\\nIs it the wind, that swings the oaks\\nIs it the echo from the rocks\\nWhat may it be, the heavy sound,\\nThat moans old Branksoine s turrets\\nround\\nXIII\\nAt the sullen, moaning sound\\nThe ban-dogs bay and howl,\\nAnd from the turrets round\\nLoud whoops the startled owl.\\nIn the hall, both squire and knight 140\\nSwore that a storm was near,\\nAnd looked forth to view the night;\\nBut the night was still and clear\\nFrom the sound of Teviot s tide,\\nChafing with the mountain s side,\\nFrom the groan of the wind-swung oak,\\nFrom the sullen echo of the rock,\\nFrom the voice of the coming storm,\\nThe Ladye knew it well\\nIt was the Spirit of the Flood that\\nspoke, 150\\nAnd he called on the Spirit of the Fell.\\nxv\\nRIVER SPIRIT\\nSleep st thou, brother\\nMOUNTAIN SPIRIT\\nBrother, nay\\nOn my hills the moonbeams play.\\nFrom Craik-cross to Skelfhill-pen,\\nBy every rill, in every glen,\\nMerry elves their morris pacing,\\nTo aerial minstrelsy,\\nEmerald rings on browu heath tracing,\\nTrip it deft and merrily.\\nUp, and mark their nimble feet 160\\nUp, and list their music sweet\\nXVI\\nRIVER SPIRIT\\nTears of an imprisoned maiden\\nMix with my polluted stream;\\nMargaret of Branksome, sorrow-laden,\\nMourns beneath the moon s pale beam.\\nTell me, thou who view st the stars,\\nWhen shall cease these feudal jars\\nWhat shall be the maiden s fate\\nWho shall be the maiden s mate\\nMOUNTAIN SPIRIT\\nArthur s slow wain his course doth\\nroll 170\\nIn utter darkness round the pole;\\nThe Northern Bear lowers black and grim,\\nOrion s studded belt is dim;\\nTwinkling faint, and distant far,\\nShimmers through mist each planet star;\\n111 may I read their high decree:\\nBut no kind influence deign they shower\\nOn Teviot s tide and Branksome s tower\\nTill pride be quelled and love be free.\\nXVIII\\n8c\\nThe unearthly voices ceased,\\nAnd the heavy sound was still;\\nIt died on the river s breast,\\nIt died on the side of the hill.\\nBut round Lord David s tower\\nThe sound still floated near;\\nFor it rung in the Ladye s bower,\\nAnd it rung in the Ladye s ear.\\nShe raised her stately head,\\nAnd her heart throbbed high with pride:\\nYour mountains shall bend 190\\nAnd your streams ascend,\\nEre Margaret be our foeman s bride\\nXIX\\nThe Ladye sought the lofty hall,\\nWhere many a bold retainer lay,\\nAnd with jocund din among them all\\nHer son pursued his infant play.\\nA fancied moss-trooper, the boy\\nThe truncheon of a spear bestrode,\\nAnd round the hall right merrily\\nIn mimic foray rode. 200\\nEven bearded knights, in arms grown old,\\nShare in his frolic gambles bore,\\nAlbeit their hearts of rugged mold\\nWere stubborn as the steel they wore.\\nFor the gray warriors prophesied\\nHow the brave boy in future war\\nShould tame the Unicorn s pride,\\nExalt the Crescents and the Star.\\nxx\\nThe Ladye forgot her purpose high\\nOne moment and no more, 210\\nOne moment gazed with a mother s eye\\nAs she paused at the arched door;", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0081.jp2"}, "80": {"fulltext": "5\u00c2\u00b0\\nTHE LAV OF THE LAST MINSTREL\\nThen from amid the armed train\\nShe called to her William of Deloraine.\\nXXI\\nA stark moss-trooping Scott was he\\nAs e er couched Border lance by knee:\\nThrough Solway Sands, through Tarras\\nMoss,\\nBlindfold he knew the paths to cross;\\nBy wily turns, by desperate bounds,\\nHad baffled Percy s best bloodhounds; 220\\nIn Eske or Liddel fords were none\\nBut he would ride them, one by one\\nAlike to him was time or tide,\\nDecember s snow or July s pride;\\nAlike to him was tide or time,\\nMoonless midnight or matin prime\\nSteady of heart and stout of hand\\nAs ever drove prey from Cumberland;\\nFive times outlawed had he been 229\\nBy England s king and Scotland s queen.\\nXXII\\n4 Sir William of Deloraine, good at need,\\nMount thee on the wightest steed;\\nSpare not to spur nor stint to ride\\nUntil thou come to fair Tweedside;\\nAnd in Melrose s holy pile\\nSeek thou the Monk of Saint Mary s aisle.\\nGreet the father well from me;\\nSay that the fated hour is come,\\nAnd to-night he shall watch with thee,\\nTo win the treasure of the tomb: 240\\nFor this will be Saint Michael s night,\\nAnd though stars be dim the moon is bright,\\nAnd the cross of bloody red\\nWill point to the grave of the mighty\\ndead.\\nXXIII\\nWhat he gives thee, see thou keep;\\nStay not thou for food or sleep:\\nBe it scroll or be it book,\\nInto it, knight, thou must not look;\\nIf thou readest, thou art lorn\\nBetter hadst thou ne er been born 250\\nO swiftly can speed my dapple-gray steed,\\nWhich drinks of the Teviot clear;\\nEre break of day, the warrior gan say,\\nAgain will The here:\\nAnd safer by none may thy errand be done\\nThan, noble dame, bv me;\\nLetter nor line know I never one,\\nWere t my neck-verse at Hairibee.\\nxxv\\nSoon in his saddle sate he fast,\\nAnd soon the steep descent he passed, 260\\nSoon crossed the sounding barbican,\\nAnd soon the Teviot side he won.\\nEastward the wooded path he rode,\\nGreen hazels o er his basnet nod;\\nHe passed the Peel of Goldiland,\\nAnd crossed old Borthwick s roaring\\nstrand;\\nDimly he viewed the Moat-hill s mound,\\nWhere Druid shades still flitted round:\\nIn Hawick twinkled many a light;\\nBehind him soon they set in night; 270\\nAnd soon he spurred his courser keen\\nBeneath the tower of Hazeldean.\\nThe clattering hoofs the watchmen mark:\\nStand, ho thou courier of the dark.\\nFor Branksome, ho the knight rejoined,\\nAnd left the friendly tower behind.\\nHe turned him now from Teviotside,\\nAnd, guided by the tinkling rill,\\nNorthward the dark ascent did ride,\\nAnd gained the moor at Horseliehill; 280\\nBroad on the left before him lay\\nFor many a mile the Roman way.\\nXXVII\\nA moment now he slacked his speed,\\nA moment breathed his panting steed,\\nDrew saddle-girth and corselet-band,\\nAnd loosened in the sheath his brand.\\nOn Minto-crags the moonbeams glint,\\nWhere Barnhill hewed his bed of flint,\\nWho flung his outlawed limbs to rest\\nWhere falcons hang their giddy nest 290\\nMid cliffs from whence his eagle eye\\nFor many a league his prey could spy;\\nCliffs doubling, on their echoes borne,\\nThe terrors of the robber s horn;\\nCliffs which for many a later year\\nThe warbling Doric reed shall hear,\\nWhen some sad swain shall teach the grove\\nAmbition is no cure for love.\\nXXVIII\\nUnchallenged, thence passed Deloraine\\nTo ancient Riddel s fair domain, 300\\nWhere Aill, from mountains freed,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0082.jp2"}, "81": {"fulltext": "CANTO SECOND\\n5*\\nDown from the lakes did raving come;\\nEach wave was crested with tawny foam,\\nLike the mane of a chestnut steed.\\nIn vain no torrent, deep or broad,\\nMight bar the bold moss-trooper s road.\\nAt the first plunge the horse sunk low,\\nAnd the water broke o er the saddle-bow\\nAbove the foaming tide, I ween, 309\\nScarce half the charger s neck was seen;\\nFor he was barded from counter to tail,\\nAnd the rider was armed complete in mail;\\nNever heavier man and horse\\nStemmed a midnight torrent s force.\\nThe warrior s very plume, I say,\\nWas daggled by the dashing spray;\\nYet, through good heart and Our Ladye s\\ngrace,\\nAt length he gained the landing-place.\\nxxx\\nNow Bowden Moor the march-man won,\\nAnd sternly shook his plumed head, 320\\nAs glanced his eye o er Halidon;\\nFor on his soul the slaughter red\\nOf that unhallowed morn arose,\\nWhen first the Scott and Carr were foes;\\nWhen royal James beheld the fray,\\nPrize to the victor of the day;\\nWhen Home and Douglas in the van\\nBore down Buccleuch s retiring clan,\\nTill gallant Cessford s heart-blood dear\\nReeked on dark Elliot s Border spear. 330\\nIn bitter mood he spurred fast,\\nAnd soon the hated heath was past;\\nAnd far beneath, in lustre wan,\\nOld Melros rose and fair Tweed ran:\\nLike some tall rock with lichens gray,\\nSeemed, dimly huge, the dark Abbaye.\\nWhen Hawick he passed had curfew rung,\\nNow midnight lauds were in Melrose sung.\\nThe sound upon the fitful gale\\nIn solemn wise did rise and fail, 34 o\\nLike that wild harp whose magic tone\\nIs wakened by the winds alone.\\nBut when Melrose he reached t was silence\\nall;,\\nHe meetly stabled his steed in stall,\\nAnd sought the convent s lonely wall.\\nHere paused the harp; and with its swell\\nThe Master s fire and courage fell:\\nDejectedly and low he bowed,\\nAnd, gazing timid on the crowd,\\nHe seemed to seek in every eye 350\\nIf they approved his minstrelsy;\\nAnd, diffident of present praise,\\nSomewhat he spoke of former days,\\nAnd how old age and wandering long\\nHad done his hand and harp some wrong.\\nThe Duchess, and her daughters fair,\\nAnd every gentle lady there,\\nEach after each, in due degree,\\nGave praises to his melody;\\nHis hand was true, his voice was clear, 360\\nAnd much they longed the rest to hear.\\nEncouraged thus, the aged man\\nAfter meet rest again began.\\nCANTO SECOND\\nIf thou wouldst view fair Melrose aright,\\nGo visit it by the pale moonlight;\\nFor the gay beams of lightsome day\\nGild but to flout the ruins gray.\\nWhen the broken arches are black in\\nnight,\\nAnd each shafted oriel glimmers white;\\nWhen the cold light s uncertain shower\\nStreams on the ruined central tower;\\nWhen buttress and buttress, alternately,\\nSeem framed of ebon and ivory; 10\\nWhen silver edges the imagery,\\nAnd the scrolls that teach thee to live and\\ndie;\\nWhen distant Tweed is heard to rave,\\nAnd the owlet to hoot o er the dead man s\\ngrave,\\nThen go but go alone the while\\nThen view Saint David s ruined pile;\\nAnd, home returning, soothly swear\\nWas never scene so sad and fair\\nShort halt did Deloraine make there;\\nLittle recked he of the scene so fair: 20\\nWith dagger s hilt on the wicket strong\\nHe struck full loud, and struck full long.\\nThe porter hurried to the gate\\nWho knocks so loud, and knocks so late?*\\nFrom Branksome I, the warrior cried;\\nAnd straight the wicket opened wide:", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0083.jp2"}, "82": {"fulltext": "THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL\\nFor Branksome s chiefs had in battle stood\\nTo fence the rights of fair Melrose;\\nAnd lands and livings, many a rood,\\nHad gifted the shrine for their souls re-\\nBold Deloraine his errand said\\nThe porter bent his humble head;\\nWith torch in hand, and feet unshod,\\nAnd noiseless step, the path he trod:\\nThe arched cloister, far and wide,\\nRang to the warrior s clanking stride,\\nTill, stooping low his lofty crest,\\nHe entered the cell of the ancient priest,\\nAnd lifted his barred aventayle\\nTo hail the Monk of Saint Mary s aisle. 40\\nIV\\nThe Ladye of Branksome greets thee by\\nme,\\nSays that the fated hour is come,\\nAnd that to-night I shall watch with thee,\\nTo win the treasure of the tomb.\\nFrom sackcloth couch the monk arose,\\nWith toil his stiffened limbs he reared;\\nA hundred years had flung their snows\\nOn his thin locks and floating beard.\\nAnd strangely on the knight looked he,\\nAnd his blue eyes gleamed wild and\\nwide 50\\nAnd darest thou, warrior, seek to see\\nWhat heaven and hell alike would hide\\nMy breast in belt of iron pent,\\nWith shirt of hair and scourge of thorn,\\nFor threescore years, in penance spent,\\nMy knees those flinty stones have worn;\\nYet all too little to atone\\nFor knowing what should ne er be known.\\nWould st thou thy every future year\\nIn ceaseless prayer and penance drie, 60\\nYet wait thy latter end with fear\\nThen, daring warrior, follow me\\nVI\\nPenance, father, will I none\\nPrayer know I hardly one\\nFor mass or prayer can I rarely tarry,\\nSave to patter an Ave Mary,\\nWhen I ride on a Border foray.\\nOther prayer can I none;\\nSo speed me my errand, and let me be\\ngone.\\nVII\\nAgain on the knight looked the churchman\\nold, 70\\nAnd again he sighed heavily;\\nFor he had himself been a warrior bold,\\nAnd fought in Spain and Italy.\\nAnd he thought on the days that were long\\nsince by,\\nWhen his limbs were strong and his cour-\\nage was high:\\nNow, slow and faint, he led the way\\nWhere, cloistered round, the garden lay;\\nThe pillared arches were over their head,\\nAnd beneath their feet were the bones of\\nthe dead.\\nSpreading herbs and flowerets bright 80\\nGlistened with the dew of night;\\nNor herb nor floweret glistened there\\nBut was carved in the cloister arches as\\nfair.\\nThe monk gazed long on the lovely moon,\\nThen into the night he looked forth;\\nAnd red and bright tjbe streamers light\\nWere dancing in the glowing north.\\nSo had he seen, in fair Castile,\\nThe youth in glittering squadrons start,\\nSudden the flying jennet wheel, 90\\nAnd hurl the unexpected dart.\\nHe knew, by the streamers that shot so\\nbright,\\nThat spirits were riding the northern light.\\nIX\\nBy a steel-clenched postern door\\nThey entered now the chancel tall;\\nThe darkened roof rose high aloof\\nOn pillars lofty and light and small\\nThe keystone that locked each ribbed\\naisle\\nWas a fleur-de-lys or a quatre-f euille\\nThe corbels were carved grotesque and\\ngrim; 100\\nAnd the pillars, with clustered shafts so\\ntrim,\\nWith base and with capital flourished\\naround,\\nSeemed bundles of lances which garlands\\nhad bound.\\nFull many a scutcheon and banner riven\\nShook to the cold night-wind of heaven,\\nAround the screened altar s pale;", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0084.jp2"}, "83": {"fulltext": "CANTO SECOND\\n53\\nAnd there the dying lamps did burn\\nBefore thy low and lonely urn,\\nO gallant Chief of Otterburne\\nAnd thine, dark Knight of Liddes-\\ndale no\\nO fading honors of the dead\\nO high ambition lowly laid\\nXI\\nThe moon on the east oriel shone\\nThrough slender shafts of shapely stone,\\nBy foliaged tracery combined;\\nThou wouldst have thought some fairy s\\nhand\\nTwixt poplars straight the osier wand\\nIn many a freakish knot had twined,\\nThen framed a spell when the work was\\ndone,\\nAnd changed the willow wreaths to\\nstone. 120\\nThe silver light, so pale and faint,\\nShowed many a prophet and many a saint,\\nWhose image on the glass was dyed;\\nFull in the midst, his cross of red\\nTriumphant Michael brandished,\\nAnd trampled the Apostate s pride.\\nThe moonbeam kissed the holy pane,\\nAnd threw on the pavement a bloody stain.\\nXII\\nThey sate them down on a marble stone\\nA Scottish monarch slept below; 130\\nThus spoke the monk in solemn tone:\\nI was not always a man of woe\\nFor Paynim countries I have trod,\\nAnd fought beneath the Cross of God:\\nNow, strange to my eyes thine arms ap-\\npear,\\nAnd their iron clang sounds strange to my\\nIn these far climes it was my lot\\nTo meet the wondrous Michael Scott;\\nA wizard of such dreaded fame\\nThat when, in Salamanca s cave, 140\\nHim listed his magic wand to wave,\\nThe bells would ring in Notre Dame\\nSome of his skill he taught to me;\\nAnd, warrior, I could say to thee\\nThe words that cleft Eildon Hills in three,\\nAnd bridled the Tweed with a curb of\\nstone\\nBut to speak them were a deadly sin,\\nAnd for having but thought them my heart\\nwithin\\nA treble penance must be done.\\nr 5 o\\nXIV\\nWhen Michael lay on his dying bed,\\nHis conscience was awakened;\\nHe bethought him of his sinful deed,\\nAnd he gave me a sign to come with speed\\nI was in Spain when the morning rose,\\nBut I stood by his bed ere evening close.\\nThe words may not again be said\\nThat he spoke to me, on death-bed laid;\\nThey would rend this Abbaye s massy nave,\\nAnd pile it in heaps above his grave.\\nXV\\n1 I swore to bury his Mighty Book, 160\\nThat never mortal might therein look;\\nAnd never to tell where it was hid,\\nSave at his Chief of Branksome s need;\\nAnd when that need was past and o er,\\nAgain the volume to restore.\\nI buried him on Saint Michael s night,\\nWhen the bell tolled one and the moon\\nwas bright,\\nAnd I dug his chamber among the dead,\\nWhen the floor of the chancel was stained\\nred,\\nThat his patron s cross might over him\\nwave, 170\\nAnd scare the fiends from the wizard s\\ngrave.\\nXVI\\nIt was a night of woe and dread\\nWhen Michael in the tomb I laid;\\nStrange sounds along the chancel passed,\\nThe banners waved without a blast\\nStill spoke the monk, when the bell tolled\\none\\nI tell you, that a braver man\\nThan William of Deloraine, good at need,\\nAgainst a foe ne er spurred a steed;\\nYet somewhat was he chilled with\\ndread, 180\\nAnd his hair did bristle upon his head.\\nXVII\\nLo, warrior now, the cross of red\\nPoints to the grave of the mighty dead:\\nWithin it burns a wondrous light,\\nTo chase the spirits that love the night;\\nThat lamp shall burn unquenchably,\\nUntil the eternal doom shall be.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0085.jp2"}, "84": {"fulltext": "54\\nTHE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL\\nSlow moved the monk to the broad flag-\\nstone\\nWhich the bloody cross was traced upon:\\nHe pointed to a secret nook; i 9 o\\nAn iron bar the warrior took;\\nAnd the monk made a sign with his with-\\nered hand,\\nThe grave s huge portal to expand.\\nXVIII\\nWith beating heart to the task he went,\\nHis sinewy frame o er the gravestone\\nbent,\\nWith bar of iron heaved amain\\nTill the toil-drops fell from his brows like\\nrain.\\nIt was by dint of passing strength\\nThat he moved the massy stone at length.\\nI would you had been there to see 200\\nHow the light broke forth so gloriously,\\nStreamed upward to the chancel roof,\\nAnd through the galleries far aloof\\nNo earthly flame blazed e er so bright;\\nIt shone like heaven s own blessed light,\\nAnd, issuing from the tomb,\\nShowed the monk s cowl and visage pale,\\nDanced on the dark-browed warrior s mail,\\nAnd kissed his waving plume.\\nXIX\\nBefore their eyes the wizard lay, 210\\nAs if he had not been dead a day.\\nHis hoary beard in silver rolled,\\nHe seemed some seventy winters old;\\nA palmer s amice wrapped him round,\\nWith a wrought Spanish baldric bound,\\nLike a pilgrim from beyond the sea:\\nHis left hand held his Book of Might,\\nA silver cross was in his right\\nThe lamp was placed beside his knee.\\nHigh and majestic was his look, 220\\nAt which the fellest fiends had shook,\\nAnd all unruffled was his face:\\nThey trusted his soul had gotten grace.\\nXX\\nOften had William of Deloraine\\nRode through the battle s bloody plain,\\nAnd trampled down the warriors slain,\\nAnd neither known remorse nor awe,\\nYet now remorse and awe he owned\\nHis breath came thick, his head swam\\nround,\\nWhen this strange scene of death he\\nBewildered and unnerved he stood,\\nAnd the priest prayed fervently and loud t\\nWith eyes averted prayed he;\\nHe might not endure the sight to see\\nOf the man he had loved so brotherly.\\nXXI\\nAnd when the priest his death-prayer had\\nprayed,\\nThus unto Deloraine he said:\\nNow, speed thee what thou hast to do,\\nOr, warrior, we may dearly rue\\nFor those thou mayst not look upon 240\\nAre gathering fast round the yawning\\nstone\\nThen Deloraine in terror took\\nFrom the cold hand the Mighty Book,\\nWith iron clasped and with iron bound:\\nHe thought, as he took it, the dead man\\nfrowned\\nBut the glare of the sepulchral light\\nPerchance had dazzled the warrior s sight.\\nXXII\\nWhen the huge stone sunk o er the tomb,\\nThe night returned in double gloom,\\nFor the moon had gone down and the stars\\nwere few; 250\\nAnd as the knight and priest withdrew,\\nWith wavering steps and dizzy brain,\\nThey hardly might the postern gain.\\nT is said, as through the aisles they\\npassed,\\nThey heard strange noises on the blast;\\nAnd through the cloister-galleries small,\\nWhich at mid-height thread the chancel\\nwall,\\nLoud sobs, and laughter louder, ran,\\nAnd voices unlike the voice of man,\\nAs if the fiends kept holiday 260\\nBecause these spells were brought to-day.\\nI cannot tell how the truth may be;\\nI say the tale as t was said to me.\\nXXIII\\nNow, hie thee hence, the father said,\\nAnd when we are on death-bed laid,\\nO may our dear Ladye and sweet Saint\\nJohn\\nForgive our souls for the deed we have\\ndone\\nThe monk returned him to his cell,\\nAnd many a prayer and penance sped;\\nWhen the convent met at the noontide\\nbell, 270", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0086.jp2"}, "85": {"fulltext": "CANTO SECOND\\n55\\nThe Monk of Saint Mary s aisle was\\ndead\\nBefore the cross was the body laid,\\nWith hands clasped fast, as if still he\\nprayed.\\nXXIV\\nThe knight breathed free in the morning\\nwind,\\nAnd strove his hardihood to find\\nHe was glad when he passed the tomb-\\nstones gray\\nWhich girdle round the fair Abbaye\\nFor the mystic book, to his bosom pressed,\\nFelt like a load upon his breast,\\nAnd his joints, with nerves of iron\\ntwined, 280\\nShook like the aspen-leaves in wind.\\nFull fain was he when the dawn of day\\nBegan to brighten Cheviot gray;\\nHe joyed to see the cheerful light,\\nAnd he said Ave Mary as well as he might.\\nXXV\\nThe sun had brightened Cheviot gray,\\nThe sun had brightened the Carter s\\nside;\\nAnd soon beneath the rising day\\nSmiled Branksome towers and Teviot s\\ntide.\\nThe wild birds told their warbling tale, 290\\nAnd wakened every flower that blows;\\nAnd peeped forth the violet pale,\\nAnd spread her breast the mountain\\nrose.\\nAnd lovelier than the rose so red,\\nYet paler than the violet pale,\\nShe early left her sleepless bed,\\nThe fairest maid of Teviotdale.\\nWhy does fair Margaret so early awake,\\nAnd don her kirtle so hastilie\\nAnd the silken knots, which in hurry she\\nwould make, 300\\nWhy tremble her slender fingers to\\ntie?\\nWhy does she stop and look often around,\\nAs she glides down the secret stair;\\nAnd why does she pat the shaggy blood-\\nhound,\\nAs he rouses him up from his lair;\\nAnd, though she passes the postern alone,\\nWhy is not the watchman s bugle blown\\nXXVII\\nThe ladye steps in doubt and dread\\nLest her watchful mother hear her tread\\nThe ladye caresses the rough bloodhound\\nLest his voice should waken the castle\\nround; 311\\nThe watchman s bugle is not blown,\\nFor he was her foster father s son;\\nAnd she glides through the greenwood at\\ndawn of light\\nTo meet Baron Henry, her own true knight.\\nXXVIII\\nThe knight and ladye fair are met,\\nAnd under the hawthorn s boughs are\\nset.\\nA fairer pair were never seen\\nTo meet beneath the hawthorn green.\\nHe was stately and young and tall, 320\\nDreaded in battle and loved in hall;\\nAnd she, when love, scarce told, scarce\\nhid,\\nLent to her cheek a livelier red,\\nWhen the half sigh her swelling breast\\nAgainst the silken ribbon pressed,\\nWhen her blue eyes their secret told,\\nThough shaded by her locks of gold\\nWhere would you find the peerless fair\\nWith Margaret of Branksome might com-\\npare\\nXXIX\\n33c\\nAnd now, fair dames, methinks I see\\nYou listen to my minstrelsy;\\nYour waving locks ye backward throw,\\nAnd sidelong bend your necks of snow.\\nYe ween to hear a melting tale\\nOf two true lovers in a dale;\\nAnd how the knight, with tender fire,\\nTo paint his faithful passion strove,\\nSwore he might at her feet expire,\\nBut never, never cease to love;\\nAnd how she blushed, and how she\\nsighed, 340\\nAnd, half consenting, half denied,\\nAnd said that she would die a maid\\nYet, might the bloody feud be stayed,\\nHenry of Cranstoun, and only he,\\nMargaret of Branksome s choice should be\\nAlas fair dames, your hopes are vain\\nMy harp has lost the enchanting strain;\\nIts lightness would my age reprove:\\nMy hairs are gray, my limbs are old,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0087.jp2"}, "86": {"fulltext": "56\\nTHE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL\\nMy heart is dead, my veins are cold: 350\\nI may not, must not, sing of love.\\nXXXI\\nBeneath an oak, mossed o er by eld,\\nThe Baron s dwarf his courser held,\\nAnd held his crested helm and spear:\\nThat dwarf was scarce an earthly man,\\nIf the tales were true that of him ran\\nThrough all the Border far and near.\\nT was said, when the Baron a-hunting\\nrode\\nThrough Reedsdale s glens, but rarely trod,\\nHe heard a voice cry, Lost lost\\nlost 360\\nAnd, like tennis-ball by racket tossed,\\nA leap of thirty feet and three\\nMade from the gorse this elfin shape,\\nDistorted like some dwarfish ape,\\nAnd lighted at Lord Cranstoun s knee.\\nLord Cranstoun was some whit dismayed\\nT is said that five good miles he rade,\\nTo rid him of his company;\\nBut where he rode one mile, the dwarf ran\\nfour, 369\\nAnd the dwarf was first at the castle door.\\nXXXII\\nUse lessens marvel, it is said:\\nThis elfish dwarf with the Baron staid;\\nLittle he ate, and less he spoke,\\nNor mingled with the menial flock;\\nAnd oft apart his arms he tossed,\\nAnd often muttered, Lost lost lost\\nHe was waspish, arch, and litherlie,\\nBut well Lord Cranstoun served he\\nAnd he of his service was full fain;\\nTor once he had been ta en or slain, 380\\nAn it had not been for his ministry.\\nAll between Home and Hermitage\\nTalked of Lord Cranstoun s Goblin Page.\\nFor the Baron went on pilgrimage,\\nAnd took with him this elfish page,\\nTo Mary s Chapel of the Lowes;\\nFor there, beside Our Ladye s lake,\\nAn offering he had sworn to make,\\nAnd he would pay his vows.\\nBut the Ladye of Branksome gathered a\\nband 390\\nOf the best that would ride at her com-\\nmand;\\nThe trysting-place was Newark Lee.\\nWat of Harden came thither amain,\\nAnd thither came John of Thirlestane,\\nAnd thither came William of Deloraine;\\nThey were three hundred spears and\\nthree.\\nThrough Douglas-burn, up Yarrow stream,\\nTheir horses prance, their lances gleam.\\nThey came to Saint Mary s lake ere day,\\nBut the chapel was void and the Baron\\naway. 400\\nThey burned the chapel for very rage,\\nAnd cursed Lord Cranstoun s Goblin Page.\\nXXXIV\\nAnd now, in Branksome s good green-\\nwood,\\nAs under the aged oak he stood,\\nThe Baron s courser pricks his ears,\\nAs if a distant noise he hears.\\nThe dwarf waves his long lean arm on\\nhigh,\\nAnd signs to the lovers to part and fly;\\nNo time was then to vow or sigh.\\nFair Margaret through the hazel-grove 410\\nFlew like the startled cushat-dove\\nThe dwarf the stirrup held and rein;\\nVaulted the knight on his steed amain,\\nAnd, pondering deep that morning s scene,\\nRode eastward through the hawthorns\\ngreen.\\nWhile thus he poured the lengthened\\ntale,\\nThe Minstrel s voice began to fail.\\nFull slyly smiled the observant page,\\nAnd gave the withered hand of age\\nA goblet, crowned with mighty wine, 420\\nThe blood of Velez scorched vine.\\nHe raised the silver cup on high,\\nAnd, while the big drop filled his eye,\\nPrayed God to bless the Duchess long,\\nAnd all who cheered a son of song.\\nThe attending maidens smiled to see\\nHow long, how deep, how zealously,\\nThe precious juice the Minstrel quaffed;\\nAnd he, emboldened by the draught,\\nLooked gayly back to them and laughed.\\nThe cordial nectar of the bowl 43 1\\nSwelled his old veins and cheered his\\nsoul;\\nA lighter, livelier prelude ran,\\nEre thus his tale again began.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0088.jp2"}, "87": {"fulltext": "CANTO THIRD\\n57\\nCANTO THIRD\\nAnd said I that my limbs were old,\\nAnd said I that my blood was cold,\\nAnd that my kindly fire was fled,\\nAnd my poor withered heart was dead,\\nAnd that I might not sing of love\\nHow could I to the dearest theme\\nThat ever warmed a minstrel s dream,\\nSo foul, so false a recreant prove\\nHow could I name love s very name,\\nNor wake my heart to notes of flame 10\\nIn peace, Love tunes the shepherd s\\nreed;\\nIn war, he mounts the warrior s steed;\\nIn halls, in gay attire is seen;\\nIn hamlets, dances on the green.\\nLove rules the court, the camp, the grove,\\nAnd men below, and saints above;\\nFor love is heaven, and heaven is love.\\nin\\nSo thought Lord Cranstoun, as I ween,\\nWhile, pondering deep the tender scene,\\nHe rode through Branksome s hawthorn\\ngreen. 20\\nBut the page shouted wild and shrill,\\nAnd scarce his helmet could he don,\\nWhen downward from the shady hill\\nA stately knight came pricking on.\\nThat warrior s steed, so dapple-gray,\\nWas dark with sweat and splashed with\\nclay,\\nHis armor red with many a stain:\\nHe seemed in such a weary plight,\\nAs if he had ridden the livelong night;\\nFor it was William of Deloraine. 30\\nBut no whit weary did he seem,\\nWhen, dancing in the sunny beam,\\nHe marked the crane on the Baron s crest\\nFor his ready spear was in his rest.\\nFew were the words, and stern and high,\\nThat marked the foemen s feudal hate;\\nFor question fierce and proud reply\\nGave signal soon of dire debate.\\nTheir very coursers seemed to know\\nThat each was other s mortal foe, 40\\nAnd snorted fire when wheeled around\\nTo give each knight his vantage-ground.\\nIn rapid round the Baron bent;\\nHe sighed a sigh and breathed a prayer j.\\nThe prayer was to his patron saint,\\nThe sigh was to his ladye fair.\\nStout Deloraine nor sighed nor prayed,\\nNor saint nor ladye called to aid;\\nBut he stooped his head, and couched his\\nspear,\\nAnd spurred his steed to full career. 50\\nThe meeting of these champions proud\\nSeemed like the bursting thunder-cloud.\\nVI\\nStern was the dint the Borderer lent\\nThe stately Baron backwards bent,\\nBent backwards to his horse s tail,\\nAnd his plumes went scattering on the\\ngale;\\nThe tough ash spear, so stout and true,\\nInto a thousand flinders flew.\\nBut Cranstoun s lance, of more avail,\\nPierced through, like silk, the Borderer s\\nmail; 60\\nThrough shield and jack and acton passed,\\nDeep in his bosom broke at last.\\nStill sate the warrior saddle-fast,\\nTill, stumbling in the mortal shock,\\nDown went the steed, the girthing broke,\\nHurled on a heap lay man and horse.\\nThe Baron onward passed his course,\\nNor knew so giddy rolled his brain\\nHis foe lay stretched upon the plain.\\nVII\\nBut when he reined his courser round, 70\\nAnd saw his foeman on the ground\\nLie senseless as the bloody clay,\\nHe bade his page to stanch the wound,\\nAnd there beside the warrior stay,\\nAnd tend him in his doubtful state,\\nAnd lead him to Branksome castle-gate:\\nHis noble mind was inly moved\\nFor the kinsman of the maid he loved.\\nThis shalt thou do without delay:\\nNo longer here myself may stay; 80\\nUnless the swifter I speed away,\\nShort shrift will be at my dying day.\\nVIII\\nAway in speed Lord Cranstoun rode;\\nThe Goblin Page behind abode\\nHis lord s command he ne er withstood,\\nThough small his pleasure to do good.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0089.jp2"}, "88": {"fulltext": "58\\nTHE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL\\nAs the corselet off be took,\\nThe dwarf espied the Mighty Book\\nMuch he marvelled a knight of pride\\nLike a book-bosomed priest should ride: 90\\nHe thought not to search or stanch the\\nwound\\nUntil the secret he had found.\\nIX\\nThe iron band, the iron clasp,\\nResisted long the elfin grasp;\\nFor when the first he had undone,\\nIt closed as he the next begun.\\nThose iron clasps, that iron band,\\nWould not yield to unchristened hand\\nTill he smeared the cover o er\\nWith the Borderer s curdled gore; 100\\nA moment then the volume spread,\\nAnd one short spell therein he read.\\nIt had much of glamour might,\\nCould make a ladye seem a knight,\\nThe cobwebs on a dungeon wall\\nSeem tapestry in lordly hall,\\nA nutshell seem a gilded barge,\\nA sheeling seem a palace large,\\nAnd youth seem age, and age seem\\nyouth\\nAH was delusion, nought was truth. no\\nHe had not read another spell,\\nWhen on his cheek a buffet fell,\\nSo fierce, it stretched him on the plain\\nBeside the wounded Deloraine.\\nFrom the ground he rose dismayed,\\nAnd shook his huge and matted head;\\nOne word he muttered and no more,\\nMan of age, thou smitest sore\\nNo more the elfin page durst try\\nInto the wondrous book to pry; 120\\nThe clasps, though smeared with Christian\\ngore,\\nShut faster than they were before.\\nHe hid it underneath his cloak.\\nNow, if you ask who gave the stroke,\\nI cannot tell, so mot I thrive;\\nIt was not given by man alive.\\nUnwillingly himself he addressed\\nTo do his master s high behest:\\nHe lifted up the living corse,\\nAnd laid it on the weary horse;\\nHe led him into Branksome Hall\\nBefore the beards of the warders all,\\nAnd each did after swear and say\\nThere only passed a wain of hay.\\nHe took him to Lord David s tower,\\nEven to the Ladye s secret bower;\\nAnd, but that stronger spells were spread,\\nAnd the door might not be opened,\\nHe had laid him on her very bed.\\nWhate er he did of gramarye I4 o\\nWas always done maliciously;\\nHe flung the warrior on the ground,\\nAnd the blood welled freshly from the\\nwound.\\nAs he repassed the outer court,\\nHe spied the fair young child at sport:\\nHe thought to train him to the wood;\\nFor, at a word, be it understood,\\nHe was always for ill, and never for good\\nSeemed to the boy some comrade gay\\nLed him forth to the woods to play; 150\\nOn the drawbridge the warders stout\\nSaw a terrier and lurcher passing out.\\nHe led the boy o er bank and fell,\\nUntil they came to a woodland brook;\\nThe running stream dissolved the spell,\\nAnd his own elfish shape he took.\\nCould he have had his pleasure vilde,\\nHe had crippled the joints of the noble\\nchild,\\nOr, with his fingers long and lean,\\nHad strangled him in fiendish spleen:\\nBut his awful mother he had in dread,\\nAnd also his power was limited;\\nSo he but scowled on the startled child,\\nAnd darted through the forest wild;\\nThe woodland brook he bounding crossed,\\nAnd laughed, and shouted, Lost lost\\nlost\\nFull sore amazed at the wondrous change,\\nAnd frightened, as a child might be,\\nAt the wild yell and visage strange,\\nAnd the dark words of gramarye, 17\\nThe child, amidst the forest bower,\\nStood rooted like a lily flower;\\nAnd when at length, with trembling pace,\\nHe sought to find where Branksome lay,\\nHe feared to see that grisly face\\nGlare from some thicket on his way.\\nThus, starting oft, he journeyed on,\\nAnd deeper in the wood is gone,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0090.jp2"}, "89": {"fulltext": "CANTO THIRD\\n59\\nFor aye the more he sought his way,\\nThe farther still he went astray, 180\\nUntil he heard the mountains round\\nKing to the baying of a hound.\\nxv\\nAnd hark and hark the deep-mouthed\\nbark\\nComes nigher still and nigher;\\nBursts on the path a dark bloodhound,\\nHis tawny muzzle tracked the ground,\\nAnd his red eye shot fire.\\nSoon as the wildered child saw he,\\nHe flew at him right furiouslie.\\nI ween you would have seen with joy 190\\nThe bearing of the gallant boy,\\nWhen, worthy of his noble sire,\\nHis wet cheek glowed twixt fear and ire\\nHe faced the bloodhound manfully,\\nAnd held his little bat on high;\\nSo fierce he struck, the dog, afraid,\\nAt cautious distance hoarsely bayed,\\nBut still in act to spring;\\nWhen dashed an archer through the glade,\\nAnd when he saw the hound was stayed, 200\\nHe drew his tough bowstring;\\nBut a rough voice cried, Shoot not, hoy\\nHo shoot not, Edward, t is a boy\\nThe speaker issued from the wood,\\nAnd checked his fellow s surly mood,\\nAnd quelled the ban-dog s ire:\\nHe was an English yeoman good\\nAnd born in Lancashire.\\nWell could he hit a fallow-deer\\nFive hundred feet him fro 210\\nWith hand more true and eye more clear\\nNo archer bended bow.\\nHis coal-black hair, shorn round and close,\\nSet off his sun-burned face;\\nOld England s sign, Saint George s cross,\\nHis barret-cap did grace;\\nHis bugle-horn hung by his side,\\nAll in a wolf-skin baldric tied;\\nAnd his short falchion, sharp and clear,\\nHad pierced the throat of many a deer. 220\\nXVII\\nHis kirtle, made of forest green,\\nReached scantly to his knee;\\nAnd, at his belt, of arrows keen\\nA furbished sheaf bore he;\\nHis buckler scarce in breadth a span,\\nNo longer fence had he;\\nHe never counted him a man,\\nWould strike below the knee:\\nHis slackened bow was in his hand,\\nAnd the leash that was his bloodhound s\\nband. 230\\nXVIII\\nHe would not do the fair child harm,\\nBut held him with his powerful arm,\\nThat he might neither fight nor flee;\\nFor when the red cross spied he,\\nThe boy strove long and violently.\\nNow, by Saint George, the archer cries,\\nEdward, methinks we have a prize\\nThis boy s fair face and courage free\\nShow he is come of high degree.\\nXIX\\nYes I am come of high degree, 240\\nFor I am the heir of bold Buccleuch;\\nAnd, if thou dost not set me free,\\nFalse Southron, thou shalt dearly rue\\nFor Walter of Harden shall come with\\nspeed,\\nAnd William of Deloraine, good at need,\\nAnd every Scott from Esk to Tweed;\\nAnd, if thou dost not let me go,\\nDespite thy arrows and thy bow,\\nI 11 have thee hanged to feed the crow\\nGramercy for thy good-will, fair boy 250\\nMy mind was never set so high;\\nBut if thou art chief of such a clan,\\nAnd art the son of such a man,\\nAnd ever comest to thy command,\\nOur wardens had need to keep good\\norder:\\nMy bow of yew to a hazel wand,\\nThou It make them work upon the\\nBorder\\nMeantime, be pleased to come with me,\\nFor good Lord Dacre shalt thou see;\\nI think our work is well begun, 260\\nWhen we have taken thy father s son.\\nAlthough the child was led away,\\nIn Branksome still he seemed to stay,\\nFor so the Dwarf his part did play;\\nAnd, in the shape of that young boy,\\nHe wrought the castle much annoy.\\nThe comrades of the young Buccleuch\\nHe pinched and beat and overthrew;\\nNay, some of them he well-nigh slew.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0091.jp2"}, "90": {"fulltext": "6o\\nTHE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL\\nHe tore Dame Maudlin s silken tire,\\nAnd, as Syna Hall stood by the fire,\\nHe lighted the match of his bandelier,\\nAnd wofully scorched the hackbuteer.\\nIt may be hardly thought or said,\\nThe mischief that the urchin made,\\nTill many of the castle guessed\\nThat the young baron was possessed\\nWell I ween the charm he held\\nThe noble Ladye had soon dispelled,\\nBut she was deeply busied then 280\\nTo tend the wounded Deloraine.\\nMuch she wondered to find him lie\\nOn the stone threshold stretched along:\\nShe thought some spirit of the sky\\nHad done the bold moss-trooper wrong,\\nBecause, despite her precept dread,\\nPerchance he in the book had read;\\nBut the broken lance in his bosom stood,\\nAnd it was earthly steel and wood.\\nXXIII\\nShe drew the splinter from the wound, 290\\nAnd with a charm she stanched the\\nblood.\\nShe bade the gash be cleansed and bound:\\nNo longer by his couch she stood\\nBut she has ta en the broken lance,\\nAnd washed it from the clotted gore,\\nAnd salved the splinter o er and o er.\\nWilliam of Deloraine, in trance,\\nWhene er she turned it round and round,\\nTwisted as if she galled his wound;\\nThen to her maidens she did say, 300\\nThat he should be whole man and sound\\nWithin the course of a night and day.\\nFull long she toiled, for she did rue\\nMishap to friend so stout and true.\\nXXIV\\nSo passed the day the evening fell,\\nT was near the time of curfew bell;\\nThe air was mild, the wind was calm,\\nThe stream was smooth, the dew was balm\\nE en the rude watchman on the tower\\nEnjoyed and blessed the lovely hour. 310\\nFar more fair Margaret loved and blessed\\nThe hour of silence and of rest.\\nOn the high turret sitting lone,\\nShe waked at times the lute s soft tone,\\nTouched a wild note, and all between\\nThought of the bower of hawthorns green.\\nHer golden hair streamed free from band,\\nHer fair cheek rested on her hand,\\nHer blue eyes sought the west afar,\\nFor lovers love the western star. 32a\\nXXV\\nIs yon the star, o er Penchryst Pen,\\nThat rises slowly to her ken,\\nAnd, spreading broad its wavering light,\\nShakes its loose tresses on the night\\nIs yon red glare the western star\\nO, t is the beacon- blaze of war\\nScarce could she draw her tightened\\nbreath,\\nFor well she knew the fire of death\\nThe warder viewed it blazing strong,\\nAnd blew his war-note loud and long, 330\\nTill, at the high and haughty sound,\\nRock, wood, and river rung around.\\nThe blast alarmed the festal hall,\\nAnd startled forth the warriors all\\nFar downward in the castle-yard\\nFull many a torch and cresset glared;\\nAnd helms and plumes, confusedly tossed,\\nWere in the blaze half seen, half lost;\\nAnd spears in wild disorder shook,\\nLike reeds beside a frozen brook. 340\\nXXVII\\nThe seneschal, whose silver hair\\nWas reddened by the torches glare,\\nStood in the midst, with gesture proud,\\nAnd issued forth his mandates loud:\\nOn Penchryst glows a bale of fire,\\nAnd three are kindling on Priesthaughs-\\nwire;\\nRide out, ride out,\\nThe foe to scout\\nMount, mount for Branksome, every man I\\nThou, Todrig, warn the Johnstone clan, 350\\nThat ever are true and stout.\\nYe need not send to Liddesdale,\\nFor when they see the blazing bale\\nElliots and Armstrongs never fail.\\nRide, Alton, ride, for death and life,\\nAnd warn the warden of the strife\\nYoung Gilbert, let our beacon blaze,\\nOur kin and clan and friends to raise\\nXXVIII\\nFair Margaret from the turret head\\nHeard far below the coursers tread,\\n36a", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0092.jp2"}, "91": {"fulltext": "CANTO FOURTH\\n6r\\nWhile loud the harness rung,\\nAs to their seats with clamor dread\\nThe ready horsemen sprung:\\nAnd trampling hoofs, and iron coats,\\nAnd leaders voices, mingled notes,\\nAnd out and out\\nIn hasty rout,\\nThe horsemen galloped forth;\\nDispersing to the south to scout,\\nAnd east, and west, and north, 370\\nTo view their coming enemies,\\nAnd warn their vassals and allies.\\nXXIX\\nThe ready page with hurried hand\\nAwaked the need-fire s slumbering brand,\\nAnd ruddy blushed the heaven;\\nFor a sheet of flame from the turret high\\nWaved like a blood-flag on the sky,\\nAll flaring and uneven.\\nAnd soon a score of fires, I ween, 379\\nF rom height and hill and cliff were seen,\\nEach with warlike tidings fraught;\\nEach from each the signal caught;\\nEach after each they glanced to sight,\\nAs stars arise upon the night.\\nThey gleamed on many a dusky tarn,\\nHaunted by the lonely earn;\\nOn many a cairn s gray pyramid,\\nWhere urns of mighty chiefs lie hid;\\nTill high Dunedin the blazes saw\\nFrom Soltra and Dumpender Law, 390\\nAnd Lothian heard the Regent s order\\nThat all should bowne them for the Border.\\nThe livelong night in Branksome rang\\nThe ceaseless sound of steel;\\nThe castle-bell with backward clang\\nSent forth the larum peal.\\nWas frequent heard the heavy jar,\\nWhere massy stone and iron bar\\nWere piled on echoing keep and tower,\\nTo whelm the foe with deadly shower; 400\\nWas frequent heard the changing guard,\\nAnd watchword from the sleepless ward;\\nWhile, wearied by the endless din,\\nBloodhound and ban-dog yelled within.\\nXXXI\\nThe noble dame, amid the broil,\\nShared the gray seneschal s high toil,\\nAnd spoke of danger with a smile,\\nCheered the young knights, and council\\nsage\\nHeld with the chiefs of riper age.\\nNo tidings of the foe were brought, 410\\nNor of his numbers knew they aught,\\nNor what in time of truce he sought.\\nSome said that there were thousands\\nten;\\nAnd others weened that it was nought\\nBut Leven Clans or Tynedale men,\\nWho came to gather in black-mail;\\nAnd Liddesdale, with small avail,\\nMight drive them lightly back agen.\\nSo passed the anxious night away,\\nAnd welcome was the peep of day. 420\\nCeased the high sound the listening\\nthrong\\nApplaud the Master of the Song;\\nAnd marvel much, in helpless age,\\nSo hard should be his pilgrimage.\\nHad he no friend no daughter dear,\\nHis wandering toil to share and cheer\\nNo son to be his father s stay,\\nAnd guide him on the rugged way\\nAy, once he had but he was dead\\nUpon the harp he stooped his head, 430\\nAnd busied himself the strings withal,\\nTo hide the tear that fain would fall.\\nIn solemn measure, soft and slow,\\nArose a father s notes of woe.\\nCANTO FOURTH\\nSweet Teviot on thy silver tide\\nThe glaring bale-fires blaze no more;\\nNo longer steel-clad warriors ride\\nAlong thy wild and willowed shore;\\nWhere er thou wind st by dale or hill,\\nAll, all is peaceful, all is still,\\nAs if thy waves, since time was born,\\nSince first they rolled upon the Tweed,\\nHad only heard the shepherd s reed,\\nNor startled at the bugle-horn.\\nUnlike the tide of human time,\\nWhich, though it change in ceaseless\\nflow,\\nRetains each grief, retains each crime,\\nIts earliest course was doomed to know,\\nAnd, darker as it downward bears,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0093.jp2"}, "92": {"fulltext": "62\\nTHE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL\\nIs stained with past and present tears.\\nLow as that tide has ebbed with me,\\nIt still reflects to memory s eye\\nThe hour my brave, my only boy\\nFell by the side of great Dundee. 20\\nWhy, when the volleying musket played\\nAgainst the bloody Highland blade,\\nWhy was not I beside him laid\\nEnough he died the death of fame\\nEnough he died with conquering Graeme.\\nNow over Border dale and fell\\nFull wide and far was terror spread;\\nFor pathless marsh and mountain cell\\nThe peasant left his lowly shed.\\nThe frightened flocks and herds were pent 30\\nBeneath the peel s rude battlement;\\nAnd maids and matrons dropped the tear,\\nWhile ready warriors seized the spear.\\nFrom Branksome s towers the watchman s\\neye\\nDun wreaths of distant smoke can spy,\\nWhich, curling in the rising sun,\\nShowed Southern ravage was begun.\\nIV\\nNow loud the heedful gate-ward cried:\\nPrepare ye all for blows and blood\\nWatt Tinlinn, from the Liddel-side, 40\\nComes wading through the flood.\\nFull oft the Tynedale snatchers knock\\nAt his lone gate and prove the lock;\\nIt was but last Saint Barnabright\\nThey sieged him a whole summer night,\\nBut fled at morning; well they knew,\\nIn vain he never twanged the yew.\\nBight sharp has been the evening shower\\nThat drove him from his Liddel tower;\\nAnd, by my faith, the gate-ward said, 50\\nI think t will prove a Warden-raid.\\nWhile thus he spoke, the bold yeoman\\nEntered the echoing barbican.\\nHe led a small and shaggy nag,\\nThat through a bog, from hag to hag,\\nCould bound like any Billhope stag.\\nIt bore his wife and children twain;\\nA half -clothed serf was all their train:\\nHis wife, stout, ruddy, and dark-browed,\\nOf silver brooch and bracelet proud, 60\\nLaughed to her friends among the crowd.\\nHe was of stature passing tall,\\nBut sparely formed and lean withal:\\nA battered morion on his brow;\\nA leathern jack, as fence enow,\\nOn his broad shoulders loosely hung;\\nA Border axe behind was sluns;;\\nHis spear, six Scottish ells in^ length,\\nSeemed newly dyed with gore\\nHis shafts and bow, of wondrous\\nstrength, 7\\nHis hardy partner bore.\\nThus to the Ladye did Tinlinn show\\nThe tidings of the English foe\\nBelted Will Howard is marching here,\\nAnd hot Lord Dacre, with many a spear,\\nAnd all the German hackbut-men\\nWho have long lain at Askerten.\\nThey crossed the Liddel at curfew hour,\\nAnd burned my little lonely tower\\nThe fiend receive their souls therefor 80\\nIt had not been burnt this year and more.\\nBarnyard and dwelling, blazing bright,\\nServed to guide me on my flight,\\nBut I was chased the livelong night.\\nBlack John of Akeshaw and Fergus\\nGraeme\\nFast upon my traces came,\\nUntil I turned at Priesthaugh Scrogg,\\nAnd shot their horses in the bog,\\nSlew Fergus with my lance outright\\nI had him long at high despite 90\\nHe drove my cows last Fastern s night.\\nVII\\nNow weary scouts from Liddesdale,\\nFast hurrying in, confirmed the tale;\\nAs far as they could judge by ken,\\nThree hours would bring to Teviot s\\nstrand\\nThree thousand armed Englishmen.\\nMeanwhile, full many a warlike band,\\nFrom Teviot, Aill, and Ettrick shade,\\nCame in, their chief s defence to aid.\\nThere was saddling and mounting in\\nhaste, 100\\nThere was pricking o er moor and lea;\\nHe that was last at the trysting-place\\nWas but lightly held of his gay ladye.\\nVIII\\nFrom fair Saint Mary s silver wave,\\nFrom dreary Gamescleuch s dusky\\nheight,\\nHis ready lances Thirlestane brave\\nArrayed beneath a banner bright.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0094.jp2"}, "93": {"fulltext": "CANTO FOURTH\\n63\\nThe tressured fleur-de-luce he claims\\nTo wreathe his shield, since royal James,\\nEncamped by Fala s mossy wave, 1\\nThe proud distinction grateful gave\\nFor faith mid feudal jars;\\nWhat time, save Thirlestane alone,\\nOf Scotland s stubborn barons none\\nWould march to southern wars;\\nAnd hence, in fair remembrance worn,\\nYon sheaf of spears his crest has borne\\nHence his high motto shines revealed,\\nReady, aye ready, for the field.\\nAn aged knight, to danger steeled, 120\\nWith many a moss-trooper, came on;\\nAnd, azure in a golden field,\\nThe stars and crescent graced his shield,\\nWithout the bend of Murdieston.\\nWide lay his lands round Oakwood Tower,\\nAnd wide round haunted Castle-Ower;\\nHigh over Borthwick s mountain flood\\nHis wood-embosomed mansion stood;\\nIn the dark glen, so deep below,\\nThe herds of plundered England low, 130\\nHis bold retainers daily food,\\nAnd bought with danger, blows, and blood.\\nMarauding chief his sole delight\\nThe moonlight raid, the morning fight;\\nNot even the Flower of Yarrow s charms\\nIn youth might tame his rage for arms;\\nAnd still in age he spurned at rest,\\nAnd still his brows the helmet pressed,\\nAlbeit the blanched locks below\\nWere white as Dinlay s spotless snow. 140\\nFive stately warriors drew the sword\\nBefore their father s band;\\nA braver knight than Harden s lord\\nNe er belted on a brand.\\nScotts of Eskdale, a stalwart band,\\nCame trooping down the Todshawhill;\\nBy the sword they won their land,\\nAnd by the sword they hold it still.\\nHearken, Ladye, to the tale\\nHow thy sires won fair Eskdale. 150\\nEarl Morton was lord of that valley fair,\\nThe Beattisons were his vassals there.\\nThe earl was gentle and mild of mood,\\nThe vassals were warlike and fierce and\\nrude;\\nHigh of heart and haughty of word,\\nLittle they recked of a tame liege-lord.\\nThe earl into fair Eskdale came,\\nHomage and seigniory to claim:\\nOf Gilbert the Galliard a heriot he sought,\\nSaying, Give thy best steed, as a vassal\\nought. 160\\n1 Dear to me is my bonny white steed,\\nOft has he helped me at pinch of need;\\nLord and earl though thou be, I trow,\\nI can rein Bucksfoot better than thou.\\nWord on word gave fuel to fire,\\nTill so high blazed the Beattison s ire,\\nBut that the earl the flight had ta en,\\nThe vassals there their lord had slain.\\nSore he plied both whip and spur,\\nAs he urged his steed through Eskdale\\nmuir 170\\nAnd it fell down a weary weight,\\nJust on the threshold of Branksome gate.\\nThe earl was a wrathful man to see,\\nFull fain avenged would he be.\\nIn haste to Branksome s lord he spoke,\\nSaying, Take these traitors to thy yoke;\\nFor a cast of hawks, and a purse of gold.\\nAll Eskdale I ll sell thee, to have and\\nhold:\\nBeshrew thy heart, of the Beattisons clan\\nIf thou leavest on Eske a landed man 18c\\nBut spare Woodkerrick s lands alone,\\nFor he lent me his horse to escape upon.\\nA glad man then was Branksome bold,\\nDown he flung him the purse of gold;\\nTo Eskdale soon he spurred amain,\\nAnd with him five hundred riders has\\nta en.\\nHe left his merrymen in the midst of the\\nhill,\\nAnd bade them hold them close and still;\\nAnd alone he wended to the plain,\\nTo meet with the Galliard and all his\\ntrain. 190\\nTo Gilbert the Galliard thus he said\\nKnow thou me for thy liege-lord and\\nhead;\\nDeal not with me as with Morton tame,\\nFor Scotts play best at the roughest game.\\nGive me in peace my heriot due,\\nThy bonny white steed, or thou shalt rue.\\nIf my horn I three times wind,\\nEskdale shall long have the sound in\\nmind.\\nXII\\nLoudly the Beattison laughed in scorn;\\nLittle care we for thy winded horn. 200", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0095.jp2"}, "94": {"fulltext": "64\\nTHE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL\\nNe er shall it be the Galliard s lot\\nTo yield his steed to a haughty Scott.\\nWend thou to Branksome back on foot,\\nWith rusty spur and miry boot.\\nHe blew his bugle so loud and hoarse\\nThat the dun deer started at far Craik-\\ncross\\nHe blew again so loud and clear,\\nThrough the gray mountain-mist there did\\nlances appear;\\nAnd the third blast rang with such a\\ndin\\nThat the echoes answered from Pentoun-\\nlinn, 210\\nAnd all his riders came lightly in.\\nThen had you seen a gallant shock,\\nWhen saddles were emptied and lances\\nbroke\\nTor each scornful word the Galliard had\\nsaid\\nA Beattison on the field was laid.\\nHis own good sword the chieftain drew,\\nAnd he bore the Gailliard through and\\nthrough\\nWhere the Beattisons blood mixed with\\nthe rill,\\nThe Galliard s Haugh men call it still.\\nThe Scotts have scattered the Beattison\\nclan, 220\\nIn Eskdale they left but one landed man.\\nThe valley of Eske, from the mouth to the\\nsource,\\nWas lost and won for that bonny white\\nhorse.\\nWhitslade the Hawk, and Headshaw\\ncame,\\nAnd warriors more than I may name\\nFrom Yarrow-cleugh to Hindhaugh-swair,\\nFrom Woodhouselie to Chester-glen,\\nTrooped man and horse, and bow and\\nspear;\\nTheir gathering word was Bellenden.\\nAnd better hearts o er Border sod 230\\nTo siege or rescue never rode.\\nThe Ladye marked the aids come in,\\nAnd high her heart of pride arose;\\nShe bade her youthful son attend,\\nThat he might know his Father s friend,\\nAnd learn to face his foes:\\n1 The boy is ripe to look on war;\\nI saw him draw a cross-bow stiff,\\nAnd his true arrow struck afar\\nThe raven s nest upon the cliff; 240\\nThe red cross on a Southern bieas\\nIs broader than the raven s nest:\\nThou, Whitslade, shall teach\\nweapon to wield,\\nAnd o er him hold his father s shi\\nXIV\\nWell may you think the wily pag\\nCared not to face the Ladye sage.\\nHe counterfeited childish fear,\\nAnd shrieked, and shed full many\\nAnd moaned, and plained in manr\\nThe attendants to the Ladye to]\\nSome fairy, sure, had changed the\\nThat wont to be so free and bol\\nThen wrathful was the noble dam\\nShe blushed blood-red for very sh\\nHence ere the clan his faintnesi\\nHence with the weakling to Buccl\\nWatt Tinlinn, thou shalt be his gi\\nTo Rangleburn s lonely side.\\nSure, some fell fiend has cursed o\\nThat coward should e er be\\nmine\\nxv\\nA heavy task Watt Tinlinn had,\\nTo guide the counterfeited lad.\\nSoon as the palfrey felt the weigl\\nOf that ill-omened elfish freight,\\nHe bolted, sprung, and reared air\\nNor heeded bit nor curb nor rein.\\nIt cost Watt Tinlinn mickle toil\\nTo drive him but a Scottish mile;\\nBut as a shallow brook they cr\\nThe elf, amid the running stream\\nHis figure changed, like form in\\nAnd fled, and shouted, Lo\\nlost\\nFull fast the urchin ran and laug]\\nBut faster still a cloth-yard shaft\\nWhistled from startled Tinlinn s\\nAnd pierced his shoulder thr\\nthrough.\\nAlthough the imp might not be s\\nAnd though the wound soon heal\\nYet, as he ran, he yelled for pain\\nAnd Watt of Tinlinn, much agha;\\nRode back to Branksome fiery fa\\nXVI\\nSoon on the hill s steep verge he\\nThat looks o er Branksome s t\\nwood;", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0096.jp2"}, "95": {"fulltext": "CANTO FOURTH\\n65\\nAnd marti?l murmurs from below\\nProclaimed the approaching Southern foe.\\nThrough the dark wood, in mingled tone,\\nWere border pipes and bugles blown;\\nThe coursers neighing he could ken,\\nA measured tread of marching men;\\nWhile broke at times the solemn hum, 290\\nThe Almayn s sullen kettle-drum;\\nAnd banners tall, of crimson sheen,\\nAbove the copse appear;\\nAnd, glistening through the hawthorns\\ngreen,\\nShine helm and shield and spear.\\nXVII\\nLight forayers first, to view the ground,\\nSpurred their fleet coursers loosely round;\\nBehind, in close array, and fast,\\nThe Kendal archers, all in green,\\nObedient to the bugle blast, 300\\nAdvancing from the wood were seen.\\nTo back and guard the archer band,\\nLord Dacre s billmen were at hand:\\nA hardy race, on Irthing bred,\\nWith kirtles white and crosses red,\\nArrayed beneath the banner tall\\nThat streamed o er Acre s conquered wall;\\nAnd minstrels, as they marched in order,\\nPlayed, Noble Lord Dacre, he dwells on\\nthe Border.\\nXVIII\\nBehind the English bill and bow 310\\nThe mercenaries, firm and slow,\\nMoved on to fight in dark array,\\nBy Conrad led of Wolfenstein,\\nWho brought the band from distant Rhine,\\nAnd sold their blood for foreign pay.\\nThe camp their home, their law the sword,\\nThey knew no country, owned no lord\\nThey were not armed like England s sons,\\nBut bore the levin-darting guns;\\nBuff coats, all frounced and broidered\\no er, 320\\nAnd morsing-horns and scarfs they wore;\\nEach better knee was bared, to aid\\nThe warriors in the escalade;\\nAll as they marched, in rugged tongue\\nSongs of Teutonic feuds they sung.\\nXIX\\nBut louder still the clamor grew,\\nAnd louder still the minstrels blew,\\nWhen, from beneath the greenwood tree,\\nRode forth Lord Howard s chivalry;\\nHis men-at-arms, with glaive and spear, 330\\nBrought up the battle s glittering rear.\\nThere many a youthful knight, full keen\\nTo gain his spurs, in arms was seen,\\nWith favor in his crest, or glove,\\nMemorial of his ladye-love.\\nSo rode they forth in fair array,\\nTill full their lengthened lines display;\\nThen called a halt, and made a stand,\\nAnd cried, Saint George for merry Eng-\\nland!\\nXX\\nNow every English eye intent 340\\nOn Branksome s armed towers was bent;\\nSo near they were that they might know\\nThe straining harsh of each cross-bow;\\nOn battlement and bartizan\\nGleamed axe and spear and partisan;\\nFalcon and culver on each tower\\nStood prompt their deadly hail to shower;\\nAnd flashing armor frequent broke\\nFrom eddying whirls of sable smoke,\\nWhere upon tower and turret head 350\\nThe seething pitch and molten lead\\nReeked like a witch s caldron red.\\nWhile yet they gaze, the bridges fall,\\nThe wicket opes, and from the wall\\nRides forth the hoary seneschal.\\nXXI\\nArmed he rode, all save the head,\\nHis white beard o er his breastplate spread;\\nUnbroke by age, erect his seat,\\nHe ruled his eager courser s gait,\\nForced him with chastened fire to\\nprance, 360\\nAnd, high curvetting, slow advance:\\nIn sign of truce, his better hand\\nDisplayed a peeled willow wand;\\nHis squire, attending in the rear,\\nBore high a gauntlet on his spear.\\nWhen they espied him riding out,\\nLord Howard and Lord Dacre stout\\nSped to the front of their array,\\nTo hear what this old knight should say.\\nXXII\\nYe English warden lords, of you 370\\nDemands the ladye of Buccleuch,\\nWhy, gainst the truce of Border tide,\\nIn hostile guise ye dare to ride,\\nWith Kendal bow and Gilsland brand,\\nAnd all yon mercenary band,\\nUpon the bounds of fair Scotland", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0097.jp2"}, "96": {"fulltext": "66\\nTHE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL\\nMy Ladye reads you swith return;\\nAnd, if but one poor straw you burn,\\nOr do our towers so much molest\\nAs scare one swallow from her nest, 380\\nSaint Mary but we 11 light a brand\\nShall warm your hearths in Cumber-\\nland.\\nXXIII\\nA wrathful man was Dacre s lord,\\nBut calmer Howard took the word:\\nMay t please thy dame, Sir Seneschal,\\nTo seek the castle s outward wall,\\nOur pursuivant-at-arms shall show\\nBoth why we came and when we go.\\nThe message sped, the noble dame\\nTo the wall s outward circle came; 390\\nEach chief around leaned on his spear,\\nTo see the pursuivant appear.\\nAll in Lord Howard s livery dressed,\\nThe lion argent decked his breast;\\nHe led a boy of blooming hue\\nsight to meet a mother s view\\nIt was the heir of great Buccleuch.\\nObeisance meet the herald made,\\nAnd thus his master s will he said:\\nXXIV\\n1 It irks, high dame, my noble lords, 400\\nGainst ladye fair to draw their swords;\\nBut yet they may not tamely see,\\nAll through the Western Wardenry,\\nYour law-contemning kinsmen ride,\\nAnd burn and spoil the Border-side;\\nAnd ill beseems your rank and birth\\nTo make your towers a nemens-firth.\\nWe claim from thee William of Delo-\\nraine,\\nThat he may suffer march-treason pain.\\nIt was but last Saint Cuthbert s even 410\\nHe pricked to Stapleton on Leven,\\nHarried the lands of Richard Musgrave,\\nAnd slew his brother by dint of glaive.\\nThen, since a lone and widowed dame\\nThese restless riders may not tame,\\nEither receive within thy towers\\nTwo hundred of my master s powers,\\nOr straight they sound their warrison,\\nAnd storm and spoil thy garrison\\nAnd this fair boy, to London led, 420\\nShall good King Edward s page be bred.\\nHe ceased and loud the boy did cry,\\nAnd stretched his little arms on high,\\nImplored for aid each well-known face,\\nAnd strove to seek the dame s embrace.\\nA moment changed that Ladye s cheer,\\nGushed to her eye the unbidden tear;\\nShe gazed upon the leaders round,\\nAnd dark and sad each warrior frowned;\\nThen deep within her sobbing breast 4\\nShe locked the struggling sigh to rest,\\nUnaltered and collected stood,\\nAnd thus replied in dauntless mood\\nSay to your lords of high emprise\\nWho war on women and on boys,\\nThat either William of Deloraine\\nWill cleanse him by oath of march-treason\\nstain,\\nOr else he will the combat take\\nGainst Musgrave for his honor s sake.\\nNo knight in Cumberland so good 440\\nBut William may count with him kin and\\nblood.\\nKnighthood he took of Douglas sword,\\nWhen English blood swelled Ancram ford;\\nAnd but Lord Dacre s steed was wight,\\nAnd bare him ably in the flight,\\nHimself had seen him dubbed a knight.\\nFor the young heir of Branksome s line,\\nGod be his aid, and God be mine\\nThrough me no friend shall meet his doom;\\nHere, while I live, no foe finds room. 450\\nThen, if thy lords their purpose urge,\\nTake our defiance loud and high;\\nOur slogan is their lyke-wake dirge,\\nOur moat the grave where they shall lie.\\nXXVII\\nProud she looked round, applause to\\nclaim\\nThen lightened Thirlestane s eye of flame;\\nHis bugle Wat of Harden blew;\\nPensils and pennons wide were flung,\\nTo heaven the Border slogan rung, 459\\nSaint Mary for the young Buccleuch\\nThe English war-cry answered wide,\\nAnd forward bent each Southern spear;\\nEach Kendal archer made a stride,\\nAnd drew the bowstring to his ear;\\nEach minstrel s war-note loud was blown\\nBut, ere a gray-goose shaft had flown,\\nA horseman galloped from the rear.\\nXXVIII\\nAh noble lords he breathless said,\\nWhat treason has your march betrayed", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0098.jp2"}, "97": {"fulltext": "CANTO FOURTH\\n67\\nWhat make you here from aid so far, 470\\nBefore you walls, around you war\\nYour foemen triumph in the thought\\nThat in the toils the lion s caught.\\nAlready on dark Rubers! aw\\nThe Douglas holds his weapon-schaw;\\nThe lances, waving in his train,\\nClothe the dun heath like autumn grain;\\nAnd on the Liddel s northern strand,\\nTo bar retreat to Cumberland, 479\\nLord Maxwell ranks his merrymen good\\nBeneath the eagle and the rood;\\nAnd Jedwood, Eske, and Teviotdale,\\nHave to proud Angus come;\\nAnd all the Merse and Lauderdale\\nHave risen with haughty Home.\\nAn exile from Northumberland,\\nIn Liddesdale I ve wandered long,\\nBut still my heart was with merry Eng-\\nland,\\nAnd cannot brook my country s wrong;\\nAnd hard I Ve spurred all night, to show 490\\nThe mustering of the coming foe.\\nAnd let them come fierce Dacre cried;\\nFor soon yon crest, my father s pride,\\nThat swept the shores of Judah s sea,\\nAnd waved in gales of Galilee,\\nFrom Branksome s highest towers dis-\\nplayed,\\nShall mock the rescue s lingering aid\\nLevel each harquebuss on row;\\nDraw, merry archers, draw the bow;\\nUp, billmen, to the walls, and cry, 500\\nDacre for England, win or die\\nxxx\\nYet hear, quoth Howard, calmly hear,\\nNor deem my words the words of fear:\\nFor who, in field or foray slack,\\nSaw the Blanche Lion e er fall back\\nBut thus to risk our Border flower\\nIn strife against a kingdom s power,\\nTen thousand Scots gainst thousands three,\\nCertes, were desperate policy.\\nNay, take the terms the Ladye made 510\\nEre conscious of the advancing aid:\\nLet Musgrave meet fierce Deloraine\\nIn single fight, and if he gain,\\nHe gains for us; but if he s crossed,\\nT is but a single warrior lost:\\nThe rest, retreating as they came,\\nAvoid defeat and death and shame.\\nXXXI\\n111 could the haughty Dacre brook\\nHis brother warden s sage rebuke;\\nAnd yet his forward step he stayed, 520\\nAnd slow and sullenly obeyed.\\nBut ne er again the Border side\\nDid these two lords in friendship ride;\\nAnd this slight discontent, men say,\\nCost blood upon another day.\\nXXXII\\nThe pursuivant-at-arms again\\nBefore the castle took his stand;\\nHis trumpet called with parleying strain\\nThe leaders of the Scottish band;\\nAnd he defied, in Musgrave s right, 530\\nStout Deloraine to single fight.\\nA gauntlet at their feet he laid,\\nAnd thus the terms of fight he said:\\nIf in the lists good Musgrave s sword\\nVanquish the Knight of Deloraine,\\nYour youthful chieftain, Branksome s lord,\\nShall hostage for his clan remain;\\nIf Deloraine foil good Musgrave,\\nThe boy his liberty shall have.\\nHowe er it falls, the English band, 540\\nUnharming Scots, by Scots unharmed,\\nIn peaceful march, like men unarmed,\\nShall straight retreat to Cumberland.\\nXXXIII\\nUnconscious of the near relief,\\nThe proffer pleased each Scottish chief,\\nThough much the Ladye sage gain-\\nsaid;\\nFor though their hearts were brave and\\ntrue,\\nFrom Jedwood s recent sack they knew\\nHow tardy was the Regent s aid:\\nAnd you may guess the noble dame 550\\nDurst not the secret prescience own,\\nSprung from the art she might not name,\\nBy which the coming help was known.\\nClosed was the compact, and agreed\\nThat lists should be enclosed with speed\\nBeneath the castle on a lawn:\\nThey fixed the morrow for the strife,\\nOn foot, with Scottish axe and knife,\\nAt the fourth hour from peep of dawn\\nWhen Deloraine, from sickness freed, 560\\nOr else a champion in his stead,\\nShould for himself and chieftain stand\\nAgainst stout Musgrave, hand to hand.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0099.jp2"}, "98": {"fulltext": "68\\nTHE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL\\nXXXIV\\nI know right well that in their lay-\\nFull many minstrels sing and say\\nSuch combat should be made on horse,\\nOn foaming steed, in full career,\\nWith brand to aid, whenas the spear\\nShould shiver in the course:\\nBut he, the jovial harper, taught 570\\nMe, yet a youth, how it was fought,\\nIn guise which now I say\\nHe knew each ordinance and clause\\nOf Black Lord Archibald s battle-laws,\\nIn the old Douglas day.\\nHe brooked not, he, that scoffing tongue\\nShould tax his minstrelsy with wrong,\\nOr call his song untrue:\\nFor this, when they the goblet plied,\\nAnd such rude taunt had chafed his\\npride, 580\\nThe bard of Reull he slew.\\nOn Teviot s side in fight they stood,\\nAnd tuneful hands were stained with\\nblood,\\nWhere still the thorn s white branches\\nwave,\\nMemorial o er his rival s grave.\\nWhy should I tell the rigid doom\\nThat dragged my master to his tomb;\\nHow Ousenam s maidens tore their\\nhair,\\nWept till their eyes were dead and dim,\\nAnd wrung their hands for love of him 590\\nWho died at Jedwood Air\\nHe died his scholars, one by one,\\nTo the cold silent grave are gone;\\nAnd I, alas survive alone,\\nTo muse o er rivalries of yore,\\nAnd grieve that I shall hear no more\\nThe strains, with envy heard before;\\nFor, with my minstrel brethren fled,\\nMy jealousy of song is dead.\\nHe paused: the listening dames again\\nApplaud the hoary Minstrel s strain.\\nWith many a word of kindly cheer,\\nIn pity half, and half sincere,\\nMarvelled the Duchess how so well\\nHis legendary song could tell\\nOf ancient deeds, so long forgot;\\nOf feuds, whose memory was not;\\n600\\nOf forests, now laid waste and bare;\\nOf towers, which harbor now the hare;\\nOf manners, long since changed and\\nm gone; 6 ro\\nOf chiefs, who under their gray stone\\nSo long had slept that fickle Fame\\nHad blotted from her rolls their name,\\nAnd twined round some new minion s head\\nThe fading wreath for which they bled:\\nIn sooth, t was strange this old man s verse\\nCould call them from their marble hearse.\\nThe harper smiled, well pleased; for ne er\\nWas flattery lost on poet s ear.\\nA simple race they waste their toil 620\\nFor the vain tribute of a smile\\nE en when in age their flame expires,\\nHer dulcet breath can fan its fires:\\nTheir drooping fancy wakes at praise,\\nAnd strives to trim the short-lived blaze.\\nSmiled then, well pleased, the aged man,\\nAnd thus his tale continued ran.\\nCANTO FIFTH\\nCall it not vain: they do not err,\\nWho say that when the poet dies\\nMute Nature mourns her worshipper\\nAnd celebrates his obsequies;\\nWho say tall cliff and cavern lone\\nFor the departed bard make moan;\\nThat mountains weep in crystal rill;\\nThat flowers in tears of balm distil;\\nThrough his loved groves that breezes\\nsigh,\\nAnd oaks in deeper groan reply, 10\\nAnd rivers teach their rushing wave\\nTo murmur dirges round his grave.\\nNot that, in sooth, o er mortal urn\\nThose things inanimate can mourn,\\nBut that the stream, the wood, the gale,\\nIs vocal with the plaintive wail\\nOf those who, else forgotten long,\\nLived in the poet s faithful song,\\nAnd, with the poet s parting breath,\\nWhose memory feels a second death. 2\\nThe maid s pale shade, who wails her lot,\\nThat love, true love, should be forgot,\\nFrom rose and hawthorn shakes the tear\\nUpon the gentle minstrel s bier:", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0100.jp2"}, "99": {"fulltext": "CANTO FIFTH\\n69\\nThe phantom knight, his glory fled,\\nMourns o er the field he heaped with dead,\\nMounts the wild blast that sweeps amain\\nAnd shrieks along the battle-plain;\\nThe chief, whose antique crownlet long\\nStill sparkled in the feudal song, 30\\nNow, from the mountain s misty throne,\\nSees, in the thanedom once his own,\\nHis ashes undistinguished lie,\\nHis place, his power, his memory die;\\nHis groans the lonely caverns fill,\\nHis tears of rage impel the rill;\\nAll mourn the minstrel s harp unstrung,\\nTheir name unknown, their praise un-\\nsung.\\nill\\nScarcely the hot assault was stayed,\\nThe terms of truce were scarcely made, 40\\nWhen they could spy, from Branksome s\\ntowers.\\nThe advancing march of martial powers.\\nThick clouds of dust afar appeared,\\nAnd trampling steeds were faintly heard\\nBright spears above the columns dun\\nGlanced momentary to the sun;\\nAnd feudal banners fair displayed\\nThe bands that moved to Branksome s aid.\\nIV\\nVails not to tell each hardy clan,\\nFrom the fair Middle Marches came; 50\\nThe Bloody Heart blazed in the van,\\nAnnouncing Douglas, dreaded name\\nVails not to tell what steeds did spurn,\\nWhere the Seven Spears of Wedderburne\\nTheir men in battle-order set,\\nAnd Swinton laid the lance in rest\\nThat tamed of yore the sparkling crest\\nOf Clarence s Plantagenet.\\nNor list I say what hundreds more,\\nFrom the rich Merse and Lammermore, 60\\nAnd Tweed s fair borders, to the war,\\nBeneath the crest of old Dunbar\\nAnd Hepburn s mingled banners, come\\nDown the steep mountain glittering far,\\nAnd shouting still, A Home a Home\\nNow squire and knight, from Branksome\\nsent,\\nOn many a courteous message went:\\nTo every chief and lord they paid\\nMeet thanks for prompt and powerful aid,\\nAnd told them how a truce was made, 70\\nAnd how a day of fight was ta en\\nTwixt Musgrave and stout Deloraine;\\nAnd how the Ladye prayed them dear\\nThat all would stay the fight to see,\\nAnd deign, in love and courtesy,\\nTo taste of Branksome cheer.\\nNor, while they bade to feast each Scot,\\nWere England s noble lords forgot.\\nHimself, the hoary seneschal,\\nBode forth, in seemly terms to call 80\\nThose gallant foes to Branksome Hall.\\nAccepted Howard, than whom knight\\nWas never dubbed, more bold in fight,\\nNor, when from war and armor free,\\nMore famed for stately courtesy;\\nBut angry Dacre rather chose\\nIn his pavilion to repose.\\nNow, noble dame, perchance you ask\\nHow these two hostile armies met,\\nDeeming it were no easy task 9 o\\nTo keep the truce which here was set;\\nWhere martial spirits, all on fire,\\nBreathed only blood and mortal ire.\\nBy mutual inroads, mutual blows,\\nBy habit, and by nation, foes,\\nThey met on Teviot s strand\\nThey met and sate them mingled down,\\nWithout a threat, without a frown,\\nAs brothers meet in foreign land:\\nThe hands, the spear that lately grasped, 100\\nStill in the mailed gauntlet clasped,\\nWere interchanged in greeting dear;\\nVisors were raised and faces shown,\\nAnd many a friend, to friend made known,\\nPartook of social cheer.\\nSome drove the jolly bowl about;\\nWith dice and draughts some chased the\\nday;\\nAnd some, with many a merry shout,\\nIn riot, revelry, and rout,\\nPursued the football play. no\\nVII\\nYet, be it known, had bugles blown\\nOr sign of war been seen,\\nThose bands, so fair together ranged,\\nThose hands, so frankly interchanged,\\nHad dyed with gore the green:\\nThe merry shout by Teviot-side\\nHad sunk in war-cries wild and wide,\\nAnd in the groan of death;\\nAnd whingers, now in friendship bare,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0101.jp2"}, "100": {"fulltext": "7\u00c2\u00b0\\nTHE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL\\nThe social meal to part and share, 120\\nHad found a bloody sheath.\\nTwixt truce and war, such sudden change\\nWas not infrequent, nor held strange,\\nIn the old Border-day;\\nBut yet on Branksome s towers and town,\\nIn peaceful merriment, sunk down\\nThe sun s declining ray.\\nVIII\\nThe blithesome signs of wassail gay\\nDecayed not with the dying day;\\nSoon through the latticed windows tall 130\\nOf lofty Branksome s lordly hall,\\nDivided square by shafts of stone,\\nHuge flakes of ruddy lustre shone;\\nNor less the gilded rafters rang\\nWith merry harp and beakers clang;\\nAnd frequent, on the darkening plain,\\nLoud hollo, whoop, or whistle ran,\\nAs bands, their stragglers to regain,\\nGive the shrill watchword of their clan;\\nAnd revellers, o er their bowls, proclaim 140\\nDouglas or Dacre s conquering name.\\nIX\\nLess frequent heard, and fainter still,\\nAt length the various clamors died,\\nAnd you might hear from Branksome hill\\nNo sound but Teviot s rushing tide;\\nSave when the changing sentinel\\nThe challenge of his watch could tell;\\nAnd save where, through the dark profound,\\nThe clanging axe and hammer s sound\\nRung from the nether lawn; 150\\nFor many a busy hand toiled there,\\nStrong pales to shape and beams to square,\\nThe lists dread barriers to prepare\\nAgainst the morrow s dawn.\\nMargaret from hall did soon retreat,\\nDespite the dame s reproving eye;\\nNor marked she, as she left her seat,\\nFull many a stifled sigh:\\nFor many a noble warrior strove\\nTo win the Flower of Teviot s love, 160\\nAnd many a bold ally.\\nWith throbbing head and anxious heart,\\nAll in her lonely bower apart,\\nIn broken sleep she lay.\\nBy times, from silken couch she rose;\\nWhile yet the bannered hosts repose,\\nShe viewed the dawning day:\\nOf all the hundreds sunk to rest,\\nFirst woke the loveliest and the best.\\nXI\\nShe gazed upon the inner court,\\nWhich in the tower s tall shadow lay,\\nWhere coursers clang and stamp and snort\\nHad rung the livelong yesterday:\\nNow still as death; till stalking slow,\\nThe jingling spurs announced his\\ntread,\\nA stately warrior passed below;\\nBut when he raised his plumed head\\nBlessed Mary can it be\\nSecure, as if in Ousenam bowers,\\nHe walks through Branksome s hostile\\ntowers, 180\\nWith fearless step and free.\\nShe dared not sign, she dared not speak\\nO, if one page s slumbers break,\\nHis blood the price must pay\\nNot all the pearls Queen Mary wears,\\nNot Margaret s yet more precious tears,\\nShall buy his life a day.\\nXII\\nYet was his hazard small; for well\\nYou may bethink you of the spell\\nOf that sly urchin page: 190\\nThis to his lord he did impart,\\nAnd made him seem, by glamour art,\\nA knight from Hermitage.\\nUnchallenged, thus, the warder s post,\\nThe court, unchallenged, thus he crossed,\\nFor all the vassalage;\\nBut O, what magic s quaint disguise\\nCould blind fair Margaret s azure eyes\\nShe started from her seat;\\nWhile with surprise and fear she strove, 200\\nAnd both could scarcely master love\\nLord Henry s at her feet.\\nXIII\\nOft have I mused what purpose bad\\nThat foul malicious urchin had\\nTo bring this meeting round,\\nFor happy love s a heavenly sight,\\nAnd by a vile malignant sprite\\nIn such no joy is found;\\nAnd oft I ve deemed, perchance he\\nthought 209\\nTheir erring passion might have wrought\\nSorrow and sin and shame,\\nAnd death to Cranstoun s gallant Knight,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0102.jp2"}, "101": {"fulltext": "CANTO FIFTH\\n7i\\nAnd to the gentle Ladye bright\\nDisgrace and loss of fame.\\nBut earthly spirit could not tell\\nThe heart of them that loved so well.\\nTrue love s the gift which God has given\\nTo man alone beneath the heaven\\nIt is not fantasy s hot fire,\\nWhose wishes soon as granted fly; 221\\nIt liveth not in fierce desire,\\nWith dead desire it doth not die;\\nIt is the secret sympathy,\\nThe silver link, the silken tie,\\nWhich heart to heart, and mind to mind,\\nIn body and in soul can bind.\\nNow leave we Margaret and her knight,\\nTo tell you of the approaching fight.\\nTheir warning blasts the bugles blew,\\nThe pipe s shrill port aroused each\\nclan 230\\nIn haste the deadly strife to view,\\nThe trooping warriors eager ran:\\nThick round the lists their lances stood,\\nLike blasted pines in Ettrick wood\\nTo Branksome many a look they threw,\\nThe combatants approach to view,\\nAnd bandied many a word of boast\\nAbout the knight each favored most.\\nXV\\nMeantime full anxious was the dame;\\nFor now arose disputed claim 240\\nOf who should fight for Deloraine,\\nTwixt Harden and twixt Thirlestane.\\nThey gan to reckon kin and rent,\\nAnd frowning brow on brow was bent;\\nBut yet not long the strife for, lo\\nHimself, the Knight of Deloraine,\\nStrong, as it seemed, and free from pain,\\nIn armor sheathed from top to toe,\\nAppeared and craved the combat due.\\nThe dame her charm successful knew, 250\\nAnd the fierce chiefs their claims withdrew.\\nXVI\\nWhen for the lists they sought the plain,\\nThe stately Ladye s silken rein\\nDid noble Howard hold;\\nUnarmed by her side he walked,\\nAnd much in courteous phrase they talked\\nOf feats of arms of old.\\nCostly his garb his Flemish ruff\\nFell o er his doublet, shaped of buff,\\nWith satin slashed and lined; 260\\nTawny his boot, and gold his spur,\\nHis cloak was all of Poland fur,\\nHis hose with silver twined;\\nHis Bilboa blade, by Marchmen felt,\\nHung in a broad and studded belt;\\nHence, in rude phrase, the Borderers still\\nCalled noble Howard Belted Will.\\nXVII\\nBehind Lord Howard and the dame\\nFair Margaret on her palfrey came,\\nWhose footcloth swept the ground; 270\\nWhite was her wimple and her veil,\\nAnd her loose locks a chaplet pale\\nOf whitest roses bound;\\nThe lordly Angus, by her side,\\nIn courtesy to cheer her tried;\\nWithout his aid, her hand in vain\\nHad strove to guide her broidered rein.\\nHe deemed she shuddered at the sight\\nOf warriors met for mortal fight;\\nBut cause of terror, all unguessed, 280\\nWas fluttering in her gentle breast,\\nWhen, in their chairs of crimson placed,\\nThe dame and she the barriers graced.\\nPrize of the field, the young Buccleuch\\nAn English knight led forth to view;\\nScarce rued the boy his present plight,\\nSo much he longed to see the fight.\\nWithin the lists in knightly pride\\nHigh Home and haughty Dacre ride;\\nTheir leading staffs of steel they wield, 290\\nAs marshals of the mortal field,\\nWhile to each knight their care assigned\\nLike vantage of the sun and wind.\\nThen heralds hoarse did loud proclaim,\\nIn King and Queen and Warden s name,\\nThat none, while lasts the strife,\\nShould dare, by look or sign or word,\\nAid to a champion to afford,\\nOn peril of his life;\\nAnd not a breath the silence broke 300\\nTill thus the alternate heralds spoke\\nXIX\\nENGLISH HERALD\\nHere standeth Richard of Musgrave,\\nGood knight and true, and freely born,\\nAmends from Deloraine to crave,\\nFor foul despiteous scathe and scorn.\\nHe sayeth that William of Deloraine\\nIs traitor false by Border laws;", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0103.jp2"}, "102": {"fulltext": "72\\nTHE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL\\nThis with his sword he will maintain,\\nSo help him God and his good cause\\nxx\\nSCOTTISH HERALD\\n1 Here standeth William of Deloraine, 3 10\\nGood knight and true, of noble strain,\\nWho sayeth that foul treason s stain,\\nSince he bore arms ne er soiled his coat;\\nAnd that, so help him God above\\nHe will on Musgrave s body prove\\nHe lies most foully in his throat.\\nLORD DACRE\\nForward, brave champions, to the fight\\nSound trumpets\\nLORD HOME\\nGod defend the right\\nThen, Teviot, how thine echoes rang,\\nWhen bugle-sound and trumpet-clang 320\\nLet loose the martial foes,\\nAnd in mid-list, with shield poised high,\\nAnd measured step and wary eye,\\nThe combatants did close\\nXXI\\n111 would it suit your gentle ear,\\nYe lovely listeners, to hear\\nHow to the axe the helms did sound,\\nAnd blood poured down from many a\\nwound;\\nFor desperate was the strife and long,\\nAnd either warrior fierce and strong. 33 o\\nBut, were each dame a listening knight,\\nI well could tell how warriors fight;\\nFor I have seen war s lightning flashing,\\nSeen the claymore with bayonet clashing,\\nSeen through red blood the war-horse\\ndashing,\\nAnd scorned, amid the reeling strife,\\nTo yield a step for death or life.\\nXXII\\nT is done, t is done that fatal blow\\nHas stretched him on the bloody plain;\\nHe strives to rise brave Musgrave,\\nno 340\\nThence never shalt thou rise again\\nHe chokes in blood some friendly hand\\nUndo the visor s barred band,\\nUnfix the gorget s iron clasp,\\nAnd give him room for life to gasp\\nO, bootless aid haste, holy friar,\\nHaste, ere the sinner shall expire\\nOf all his guilt let him be shriven,\\nAnd smooth his path from earth to heaven\\nXXIII\\nIn haste the holy friar sped; 350\\nHis naked foot was dyed with red,\\nAs through the lists he ran;\\nUnmindful of the shouts on high\\nThat hailed the conqueror s victory,\\nHe raised the dying man;\\nLoose waved his silver beard and hair,\\nAs o er him he kneeled down in prayer\\nAnd still the crucifix on high\\nHe holds before his darkening eye;\\nAnd still he bends an anxious ear, 360\\nHis faltering penitence to hear\\nStill props him from the bloody sod,\\nStill, even when soul and body part,\\nPours ghostly comfort on his heart,\\nAnd bids him trust in God\\nUnheard he prays; the death -pang s\\no er\\nRichard of Musgrave breathes no more.\\nXXIV\\nAs if exhausted in the fight,\\nOr musing o er the piteous sight,\\nThe silent victor stands; 370\\nHis beaver did he not unclasp,\\nMarked not the shouts, felt not the grasp\\nOf gratulating hands.\\nWhen lo strange cries of wild surprise,\\nMingled with seeming terror, rise\\nAmong the Scottish bands\\nAnd all, amid the thronged array,\\nIn panic haste gave open way\\nTo a half-naked ghastly man,\\nWho downward from the castle ran: 38.\\nHe crossed the barriers at a bound,\\nAnd wild and haggard looked around,\\nAs dizzy and in pain;\\nAnd all upon the armed ground\\nKnew William of Deloraine\\nEach ladye sprung from seat with speed;\\nVaulted each marshal from his steed;\\nAnd who art thou, they cried,\\nWho hast this battle fought and won\\nHis plumed helm was soon undone 390\\nCranstoun of Teviot-side\\nFor this fair prize I ve fought and won,\\nAnd to the Ladye led her son.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0104.jp2"}, "103": {"fulltext": "CANTO FIFTH\\n^S\\nXXV\\nFull oft the rescued boy she kissed,\\nAnd often pressed him to her breast,\\nFor, under all her dauntless show,\\nHer heart had throbbed at every blow;\\nYet not Lord Cranstoun deigned she greet,\\nThough low he kneeled at her feet.\\nMe lists not tell what words were made, 4 oo\\nWhat Douglas, Home, and Howard said\\nFor Howard was a generous foe\\nAnd how the clan united prayed\\nThe Ladye would the feud forego,\\nAnd deign to bless the nuptial hour\\nOf Cranstoun s lord and Teviot s Flower.\\nXXVI\\nShe looked to river, looked to hill,\\nThought on the Spirit s prophecy,\\nThen broke her silence stern and still: 409\\nNot you, but Fate, has vanquished\\nme;\\nTheir influence kindly stars may shower\\nOn Teviot s tide and Branksome s tower,\\nFor pride is quelled and love is free.\\nShe took fair Margaret by the hand,\\nWho, breathless, trembling, scarce might\\nstand;\\nThat hand to Cranstoun s lord gave she:\\nAs I am true to thee and thine,\\nDo thou be true to me and mine\\nThis clasp of love our bond shall be,\\nFor this is your betrothing day, 420\\nAnd all these noble lords shall stay,\\nTo grace it with their company.\\nXXVII\\nAll as they left the listed plain,\\nMuch of the story she did gain:\\nHow Cranstoun fought with Deloraine,\\nAnd of his page, and of the book\\nWhich from the wounded knight he took;\\nAnd how he sought her castle high,\\nThat morn, by help of gramarye\\nHow, in Sir William s armor dight, 430\\nStolen by his page, while slept the knight,\\nHe took on him the single fight.\\nBut half his tale he left unsaid,\\nAnd lingered till he joined the maid.\\nCared not the Ladye to betray\\nHer mystic arts in view of day;\\nBut well she thought, ere midnight came,\\nOf that strange page the pride to tame,\\nFrom his foul hands the book to save,\\nAnd send it back to Michael s grave. 440\\nNeeds not to tell each tender word\\nTwixt Margaret and twixt Cranstoun s\\nlord;\\nNor how she told of former woes,\\nAnd how her bosom fell and rose\\nWhile he and Musgrave bandied blows.\\nNeeds not these lovers joys to tell;\\nOne day, fair maids, you 11 know them\\nwell.\\nXXVIII\\nWilliam of Deloraine some chance\\nHad wakened from his deathlike trance,\\nAnd taught that in the listed plain 450\\nAnother, in his arms and shield,\\nAgainst fierce Musgrave axe did wield,\\nUnder the name of Deloraine.\\nHence to the field unarmed he ran,\\nAnd hence his presence scared the clan,\\nWho held him for some fleeting wraith,\\nAnd not a man of blood and breath.\\nNot much this new ally he loved,\\nYet, when he saw what hap had proved,\\nHe greeted him right heartilie: 460\\nHe would not waken old debate,\\nFor he was void of rancorous hate,\\nThough rude and scant of courtesy;\\nIn raids he spilt but seldom blood,\\nUnless when men-at-arms withstood,\\nOr, as was meet, for deadly feud.\\nHe ne er bore grudge for stalwart blow,\\nTa en in fair fight from gallant foe.\\nAnd so t was seen of him e en now,\\nWhen on dead Musgrave he looked\\ndown: 470\\nGrief darkened on his rugged brow,\\nThough half disguised with a frown;\\nAnd thus, while sorrow bent his head,\\nHis foeman s epitaph he made:\\nXXIX\\nNow, Richard Musgrave, liest thou here,\\nI ween, my deadly enemy;\\nFor, if I slew thy brother dear,\\nThou slew st a sister s son to me;\\nAnd when I lay in dungeon dark\\nOf Naworth Castle long months three, 480\\nTill ransomed for a thousand mark,\\nDark Musgrave, it was long of thee\\nAnd, Musgrave, could our fight be tried,\\nAnd thou wert now alive, as I,\\nNo mortal man should us divide,\\nTill one, or both of us, did die\\nYet rest thee God for well I know\\nI ne er shall find a nobler foe.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0105.jp2"}, "104": {"fulltext": "n\\nTHE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL\\nIn all the northern counties here,\\nWhose word is Snaffle, spur, and spear, 49 o\\nThou wert the best to follow gear.\\nT was pleasure, as we looked behind,\\nTo see how thou the chase couldst wind,\\nCheer the dark bloodhound on his way,\\nAnd with the bugle rouse the fray\\nI d give the lands of Deloraine,\\nDark Musgrave were alive again.\\nxxx\\nSo mourned he till Lord Dacre s band\\nWere bowning back to Cumberland.\\nThey raised brave Musgrave from the\\nfield 500\\nAnd laid him on his bloody shield\\nOn levelled lances, four and four,\\nBy turns, the noble burden bore.\\nBefore, at times, upon the gale\\nWas heard the Minstrel s plaintive wail\\nBehind, four priests in sable stole\\nSung requiem for the warrior s soul;\\nAround, the horsemen slowly rode;\\nWith trailing pikes the spearmen trode;\\nAnd thus the gallant knight they bore 510\\nThrough Liddesdale to Leven s shore,\\nThence to Holme Coltrame s lofty nave,\\nAnd laid him in his father s grave.\\nThe harp s wild notes, though hushed the\\nsong,\\nThe mimic march of death prolong;\\nNow seems it far, and now a-near,\\nNow meets, and now eludes the ear,\\nNow seems some mountain side to sweep,\\nNow faintly dies in valley deep,\\nSeems now as if the Minstrel s wail, 520\\nNow the sad requiem, loads the gale;\\nLast, o er the warrior s closing grave,\\nRung the full choir in choral stave.\\nAfter due pause, they bade him tell\\nWhy he, who touched the harp so well,\\nShould thus, with ill-rewarded toil,\\nWander a poor and thankless soil,\\nWhen the more generous Southern Land\\nWould well requite his skilful hand.\\nThe aged harper, howsoe er\\nHis only friend, his harp, was dear,\\nLiked not to hear it ranked so\\nAbove his flowing poesy:\\n53\u00c2\u00b0\\nLess liked he still that scornful jeer\\nMisprized the land he loved so dear;\\nHigh was the sound as thus again\\nThe bard resumed his minstrel strain.\\nCANTO SIXTH\\nBreathes there the man, with soul so\\ndead,\\nWho never to himself hath said,\\nThis is my own, my native land\\nWhose heart hath ne er within him burned,\\nAs home his footsteps he hath turned\\nFrom wandering on a foreign strand\\nIf such there breathe, go, mark him well;\\nFor him no minstrel raptures swell;\\nHigh though his titles, proud his name, 9\\nBoundless his wealth as wish can claim,\\nDespite those titles, power, and pelf,\\nThe wretch, concentred all in self,\\nLiving, shall forfeit fair renown,\\nAnd, doubly dying, shall go down\\nTo the vile dust from whence he sprung,\\nUnwept, unhonored, and unsung.\\nO Caledonia, stern and wild,\\nMeet nurse for a poetic child\\nLand of brown heath and shaggy wood,\\nLand of the mountain and the flood, 20\\nLand of my sires what mortal hand\\nCan e er untie the filial band\\nThat knits me to thy rugged strand\\nStill, as I view each well-known scene,\\nThink what is now and what hath been, m\\nSeems as to me, of all bereft,\\nSole friends thy woods and streams were\\nleft;\\nAnd thus I love them better still,\\nEven in extremity of ill.\\nBy Yarrow s stream still let me stray, 30\\nThough none should guide my feeble way;\\nStill feel the breeze down Ettrick break,\\nAlthough it chill my withered cheek;\\nStill lay my head by Teviot-stone,\\nThough there, forgotten and alone,\\nThe bard may draw his parting groan.\\nNot scorned like me, to Branksome Hall\\nThe minstrels came at festive call;\\nTrooping they came from near and far,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0106.jp2"}, "105": {"fulltext": "CANTO SIXTH\\n75\\nThe jovial priests of mirth and war; 40\\nAlike for feast and fight prepared,\\nBattle and banquet both they shared.\\nOf late, before each martial clan\\nThey blew their death-note in the van,\\nBut now for every merry mate\\nRose the portcullis iron grate;\\nThey sound the pipe, they strike the string,\\nThey dance, they revel, and they sing,\\nTill the rude turrets shake and ring.\\nMe lists not at this tide declare\\nThe splendor of the spousal rite,\\nHow mustered in the chapel fair\\nBoth maid and matron, squire\\nknight\\nMe lists not tell of owches rare,\\nOf mantles green, and braided hair,\\nAnd kirtles furred with miniver;\\nWhat plumage waved the altar round,\\nHow spurs and ringing chainlets sound:\\nAnd hard it were for bard to speak\\nThe changeful hue of Margaret s cheek,\\nThat lovely hue which comes and flies,\\nAs awe and shame alternate rise\\nSo\\nand\\n60\\nSome bards have sung, the Ladye high\\nChapel or altar came not nigh,\\nNor durst the rites of spousal grace,\\nSo much she feared each holy place.\\nFalse slanders these: I trust right well,\\nShe wrought not by forbidden spell,\\nFor mighty words and signs have power\\nO er sprites in planetary hour; 70\\nYet scarce I praise their venturous part\\nWho tamper with such dangerous art.\\nBut this for faithful truth I say,\\nThe Ladye by the altar stood,\\nOf sable velvet her array,\\nAnd on her head a crimson hood,\\nWith pearls embroidered and entwined,\\nGuarded with gold, with ermine lined;\\nA merlin sat upon her wrist,\\nHeld by a leash of silken twist. 80\\nThe spousal rites were ended soon;\\nT was now the merry hour of noon,\\nAnd in the lofty arched hall\\nWas spread the gorgeous festival.\\nSteward and squire, with heedful haste,\\nMarshalled the rank of every guest;\\nPages, with ready blade, were there,\\nThe mighty meal to carve and share:\\nO er capon, heron-shew, and crane,\\nAnd princely peacock s gilded train, 90\\nAnd o er the boar-head, garnished brave,\\nAnd cygnet from Saint Mary s wave,\\nO er ptarmigan and venison,\\nThe priest had spoke his benison.\\nThen rose the riot and the din,\\nAbove, beneath, without, within\\nFor, from the lofty balcony,\\nRung trumpet, shalm, and psaltery:\\nTheir clanging bowls old warriors quaffed,\\nLoudlyithey spoke and loudly laughed; 100\\nWhispered young knights, in tone more\\nmild,\\nTo ladies fair, and ladies smiled.\\nThe hooded hawks, high perched on beam,\\nThe clamor joined with whistling scream,\\nAnd flapped their wings and shook their\\nbells,\\nIn concert with the stag-hounds yells.\\nRound go the flasks of ruddy wine,\\nFrom Bordeaux, Orleans, or the Rhine;\\nTheir tasks the busy sewers ply,\\nAnjl all is mirth and revelry. no\\nVII\\nThe Goblin Page, omitting still\\nNo opportunity of ill,\\nStrove now, while blood ran hot and high,\\nTo rouse debate and jealousy;\\nTill Conrad, Lord of Wolfenstein,\\nBy nature fierce, and warm with wine,\\nAnd now in humor highly crossed\\nAbout some steeds his band had lost,\\nHigh words to words succeeding still,\\nSmote with his gauntlet stout Hunthill, 120\\nA hot and hardy Rutherford,\\nWhom men called Dickon Draw-the-Sword.\\nHe took it on the page s saye,\\nHunthill had driven these steeds away.\\nThen Howard, Home, and Douglas rose,\\nThe kindling discord to compose;\\nStern Rutherford right little said,\\nBut bit his glove and shook his head.\\nA fortnight thence, in Inglewood, 129\\nStout Conrad, cold, and drenched in blood,\\nHis bosom gored with many a wound,\\nWas by a woodman s lyme-dog found:\\nUnknown the manner of his death,\\nGone was his brand, both sword and sheath;\\nBut ever from that time, t was said,\\nThat Dickon wore a Cologne blade.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0107.jp2"}, "106": {"fulltext": "7 6\\nTHE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL\\nThe dwarf, who feared his master s eye\\nMight his foul treachery espie,\\nNow sought the castle buttery,\\nWhere many a yeoman, bold and free, 140\\nRevelled as merrily and well\\nAs those that sat in lordly selle.\\nWatt Tinlinn there did frankly raise\\nThe pledge to Arthur Fire-the-Braes\\nAnd he, as by his breeding bound,\\nTo Howard s merrymen sent it round.\\nTo quit them, on the English side,\\nRed Roland Forster loudly cried,\\nA deep carouse to yon fair bride!\\nAt every pledge, from vat and pail, 150\\nFoamed forth in floods the nut-brown ale,\\nWhile shout the riders every one;\\nSuch day of mirth ne er cheered their\\nclan,\\nSince old Buccleuch the name did gain,\\nWhen in the cleuch the buck was ta en.\\nIX\\nThe wily page, with vengeful thought,\\nRemembered him of Tinlinn s yew,\\nAnd swore it should be dearly bought\\nThat ever he the arrow drew.\\nFirst, he the yeoman did molest 160\\nWith bitter gibe and taunting jest;\\nTold how he fled at Solway strife,\\nAnd how Hob Armstrong cheered his\\nwife;\\nThen, shunning still his powerful arm,\\nAt unawares he wrought him harm;\\nFrom trencher stole his choicest cheer,\\nDashed from his lips his can of beer;\\nThen, to his knee sly creeping on,\\nWith bodkin pierced him to the bone\\nThe venomed wound and festering joint 170\\nLong after rued that bodkin s point.\\nThe startled yeoman swore and spurned,\\nAnd board and flagons overturned.\\nRiot and clamor wild began;\\nBack to the hall the urchin ran,\\nTook in a darkling nook his post,\\nAnd grinned, and muttered, Lost lost\\nlost\\nBy this, the dame, lest farther fray\\nShould mar the concord of the day,\\nHad bid the minstrels tune their lay. 180\\nAnd first stepped forth old Albert Grseme,\\nThe minstrel of that ancient name\\nWas none who struck the harp so well\\nWithin the Land Debatable;\\nWell friended too, his hardy kin,\\nWhoever lost, were sure to win;\\nThey sought the beeves that made their\\nbroth\\nIn Scotland and in England both.\\nIn homely guise, as nature bade,\\nHis simple song the Borderer said. 190\\nXI\\nALBERT GE^EME\\nIt was an English ladye bright,\\n(The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall)\\nAnd she would marry a Scottish knight,\\nFor Love will still be lord of all.\\nBlithely they saw the rising sun,\\nWhen he shone fair on Carlisle wall;\\nBut they were sad ere day was done,\\nThough Love was still the lord of all.\\nHer sire gave brooch and jewel fine,\\nWhere the sun shines fair on Carlisle\\nwall 200\\nHer brother gave but a flask of wine,\\nFor ire that Love was lord of all.\\nFor she had lands both meadow and lea,\\nWhere the sun shines fair on Carlisle\\nwall;\\nAnd he swore her death, ere he would\\nsee\\nA Scottish knight the lord of all\\nXII\\nThat wine she had not tasted well,\\n(The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall)\\nWhen dead, in her true love s arms, she\\nfell,\\nFor Love was still the lord of all. 210\\nHe pierced her brother to the heart,\\nWhere the sun shines fair on Carlisl\\nwall\\nSo perish all would true love part,\\nThat Love may still be lord of all\\nAnd then he took the cross divine,\\nWhere the sun shines fair on Carlisle\\nwall,\\nAnd died for her sake in Palestine,\\nSo Love was still the lord of all.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0108.jp2"}, "107": {"fulltext": "CANTO SIXTH\\n77\\nNow all ye lovers, that faithful prove,\\n(The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall) 220\\nPray for their souls who died for love,\\nFor Love shall still be lord of all\\nXIII\\nAs ended Albert s simple lay,\\nArose a bard of loftier port,\\nFor sonnet, rhyme, and roundelay\\nRenowned in haughty Henry s court:\\nThere rung thy harp, unrivalled long,\\nFitztraver of the silver song\\nThe gentle Surrey loved his lyre 229\\nWho has not heard of Surrey s fame\\nHis was the hero s soul of fire,\\nAnd his the bard s immortal name,\\nAnd his was love, exalted high\\nBy all the glow of chivalry.\\nXIV\\nThey sought together climes afar,\\nAnd oft, within some olive grove,\\nWhen even came with twinkling star,\\nThey sung of Surrey s absent love.\\nHis step the Italian peasant stayed, 239\\nAnd deemed that spirits from on high,\\nRound where some hermit saint was laid,\\nWere breathing heavenly melody;\\nSo sweet did harp and voice combine\\nTo praise the name of Geraldine.\\nxv\\nFitztraver, O, what tongue may say\\nThe pangs thy faithful bosom knew,\\nWhen Surrey of the deathless lay\\nUngrateful Tudor s sentence slew\\nRegardless of the tyrant s frown,\\nHis harp called wrath and vengeance\\ndown. 250\\nHe left, for Naworth s iron towers,\\nWindsor s green glades and courtly bowers,\\nAnd, faithful to his patron s name,\\nWith Howard still Fitztraver came;\\nLord William s foremost favorite he,\\nAnd chief of all his minstrelsy.\\nFITZTRAVER\\nT was All-souls eve, and Surrey s heart\\nbeat high;\\nHe heard the midnight bell with anx-\\nious start,\\nWhich told the mystic hour, approaching\\nnigh,\\nWhen wise Cornelius promised by his\\nart 260\\nTo show to him the ladye of his heart,\\nAlbeit betwixt them roared the ocean\\ngrim;\\nYet so the sage had hight to play his\\npart,\\nThat he should see her form in life and\\nlimb,\\nAnd mark if still she loved and still she\\nthought of him.\\nXVII\\nDark was the vaulted room of grama-\\nrye,\\nTo which the wizard led the gallant\\nknight,\\nSave that before a mirror, huge and\\nhigh,\\nA hallowed taper shed a glimmering\\nlight\\nOn mystic implements of magic\\nmight, 270\\nOn cross, and character, and talisman,\\nAnd almagest, and altar, nothing\\nbright;\\nFor fitful was the lustre, pale and wan,\\nAs watch-light by the bed of some depart-\\ning man.\\nXVIII\\nBut soon, within that mirror huge and\\nhigh,\\nWas seen a self -emitted light to\\ngleam;\\nAnd forms upon its breast the earl gan\\nspy,\\nCloudy and indistinct as feverish\\ndream\\nTill, slow arranging and defined, they\\nseem\\nTo form a lordly and a lofty room, 280\\nPart lighted by a lamp with silver\\nbeam,\\nPlaced by a couch of Agra s silken loom,\\nAnd part by moonshine pale, and part was\\nhid in gloom.\\nFair all the pageant but how passing\\nfair\\nThe slender form which lay on couch\\nof Ind\\nO er her white bosom strayed her hazel\\nhair,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0109.jp2"}, "108": {"fulltext": "78\\nTHE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL\\nPale her dear cheek, as if for love she\\npined\\nAll in her night-robe loose she lay re-\\nclined,\\nAnd pensive read from tablet eburnine\\nSome strain that seemed her inmost\\nsoul to find: 290\\nThat favored strain was Surrey s rap-\\ntured line,\\nThat fair and lovely form the Lady Ger-\\naldine.\\nSlow rolled the clouds upon the lovely\\nform,\\nAnd swept the goodly vision all\\naway\\nSo royal envy rolled the murky storm\\nO er my beloved Master s glorious\\nday.\\nThou jealous, ruthless tyrant Hea-\\nven repay\\nOn thee, and on thy children s latest\\nline,\\nThe wild caprice of thy despotic sway,\\nThe gory bridal bed, the plundered\\nshrine, 300\\nThe murdered Surrey s blood, the tears of\\nGeraldine\\nXXI\\nBoth Scots and Southern chiefs prolong\\nApplauses of Fitztraver s song;\\nThese hated Henry s name as death,\\nAnd those still held the ancient faith.\\nThen from his seat with lofty air\\nRose Harold, bard of brave Saint Clair,\\nSaint Clair, who, feasting high at Home,\\nHad with that lord to battle come.\\nHarold was born where restless seas 310\\nHowl round the storm-swept Orcades\\nWhere erst Saint Clairs held princely sway\\nO er isle and islet, strait and bay;\\nStill nods their palace to its fall,\\nThy pride and sorrow, fair Kirkwall!\\nThence oft he marked fierce Pentland rave,\\nAs if grim Odin rode her wave,\\nAnd watched the whilst, with visage pale\\nAnd throbbing heart, the struggling sail\\nFor all of wonderful and wild 320\\nHad rapture for the lonely child.\\nXXII\\nAnd much of wild and wonderful\\nIn these rude isles might Fancy cull;\\nFor thither came in times afar\\nStern Lochlin s sons of roving war,\\nThe Norsemen, trained to spoil and blood,\\nSkilled to prepare the raven s food,\\nKings of the main their leaders brave,\\nTheir barks the dragons of the wave\\nAnd there, in many a stormy vale, 330\\nThe Scald had told his wondrous tale,\\nAnd many a Runic column high\\nHad witnessed grim idolatry.\\nAnd thus had Harold in his youth\\nLearned many a Saga s rhyme uncouth,\\nOf that Sea-Snake, tremendous curled,\\nWhose monstrous circle girds the world\\nOf those dread Maids whose hideous yell\\nMaddens the battle s bloody swell;\\nOf chiefs who, guided through the\\ngloom 340\\nBy the pale death-lights of the tomb,\\nRansacked the graves of warriors old,\\nTheir falchions wrenched from corpses\\nhold,\\nWaked the deaf tomb with war s alarms,\\nAnd bade the dead arise to arms\\nWith war and wonder all on flame,\\nTo Roslin s bowers young Harold came,\\nWhere, by sweet glen and greenwood tree,\\nHe learned a milder minstrelsy;\\nYet something of the Northern spell\\nMixed with the softer numbers well.\\nXXIII\\nHAKOLD\\nO, listen, listen, ladies gay\\nNo haughty feat of arms I tell;\\nSoft is the note, and sad the lay,\\nThat mourns the lovely Rosabelle.\\nMoor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew\\nAnd, gentle ladye, deign to stay\\nRest thee in Castle Ravensheuch,\\nNor tempt the stormy firth to-day.\\nThe blackening wave is edged with\\nwhite; 360\\nTo inch and rock the sea-mews fly;\\nThe fishers have heard the Water Sprite,\\nWhose screams forebode that wreck is\\nnigh.\\nLast night the gifted Seer did view\\nA wet shroud swathed round ladye gay;\\nThen stay thee, fair, in Ravensheuch:\\nWhy cross the gloomy firth to-day", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0110.jp2"}, "109": {"fulltext": "CANTO SIXTH\\n79\\nT is not because Lord Lindesay s heir\\nTo-night at Roslin leads the ball,\\nBut that my ladye-mother there 370\\nSits lonely in her castle-hall.\\nI T is not because the ring they ride,\\nAnd Lindesay at the ring rides well,\\nBut that my sire the wine will chide,\\nIf t is not filled by Rosabelle.\\nO er Roslin all that dreary night\\nA wondrous blaze was seen to gleam\\nT was broader than the watch-fire light,\\nAnd redder than the bright moonbeam.\\nIt glared on Roslin s castled rock, 380\\nIt ruddied all the copsewood glen;\\nT was seen from Dreyden s groves of oak,\\nAnd seen from caverned Hawthornden.\\nSeemed all on fire that chapel proud\\nWhere Roslin s chiefs uncoffined lie,\\nEach baron, for a sable shroud,\\nSheathed in his iron panoply.\\nSeemed all on fire within, around,\\nDeep sacristy and altar s pale;\\nShone every pillar foliage-bound, 390\\nAnd glimmered all the dead men s mail.\\nBlazed battlement and pinnet high,\\nBlazed every rose-carved buttress fair\\nSo still they blaze when fate is nigh\\nThe lordly line of high Saint Clair.\\nThere are twenty of Roslin s barons bold\\nLie buried within that proud chapelle;\\nEach one the holy vault doth hold\\nBut the sea holds lovely Rosabelle\\nAnd each Saint Clair was buried there, 400\\nWith candle, with book, and with knell;\\nBut the sea-caves rung and the wild winds\\nsung\\nThe dirge of lovely Rosabelle.\\nXXIV\\nSo sweet was Harold s piteous lay,\\nScarce marked the guests the darkened\\nhall,\\nThough, long before the sinking day,\\nA wondrous shade involved them all.\\nIt was not eddying mist or fog,\\nDrained by the sun from fen or bog;\\nOf no eclipse had sages told; 410\\nAnd yet, as it came on apace,\\nEach one could scarce his neighbor s face,\\nCould scarce his own stretched hand be-\\nhold.\\nA secret horror checked the feast,\\nAnd chilled the soul of every guest;\\nEven the high dame stood half aghast,\\nShe knew some evil on the blast;\\nThe elfish page fell to the ground,\\nAnd, shuddering, muttered, Found!\\nfound found\\nThen sudden through the darkened air 420\\nA flash of lightning came;\\nSo broad, so bright, so red the glare,\\nThe castle seemed on flame.\\nGlanced every rafter of the hall,\\nGlanced every shield upon the wall:\\nEach trophied beam, each sculptured stone,\\nWere instant seen and instant gone\\nFull through the guests bedazzled band\\nResistless flashed the levin-brand,\\nAnd filled the hall with smouldering\\nsmoke, 43 o\\nAs on the elfish page it broke.\\nIt broke with thunder long and loud,\\nDismayed the brave, appalled the proud,\\nFrom sea to sea the larum rung;\\nOn Berwick wall, and at Carlisle withal,\\nTo arms the startled warders sprung.\\nWhen ended was the dreadful roar,\\nThe elfish dwarf was seen no more\\nXXVI\\nSome heard a voice in Branksome Hall,\\nSome saw a sight, not seen by all; 44 o\\nThat dreadful voice was heard by some\\nCry, with loud summons, Gylbin, come\\nAnd on the spot where burst the brand,\\nJust where the page had flung him down,\\nSome saw an arm, and some a hand,\\nAnd some the waving of a gown.\\nThe guests in silence prayed and shook,\\nAnd terror dimmed each lofty look.\\nBut none of all the astonished train\\nWas so dismayed as Deloraine: 450\\nHis blood did freeze, his brain did burn,\\nT was feared his mind would ne er return\\nFor he was speechless, ghastly, wan,\\nLike him of whom the story ran,\\nWho spoke the spectre-hound in Man.\\nAt length by fits he darkly told,\\nWith broken hint and shuddering cold,\\nThat he had seen right certainly", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0111.jp2"}, "110": {"fulltext": "8o\\nTHE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL\\nA shape with amice wrapped around,\\nWith a wrought Spanish baldric bound, 460\\nLike pilgrim from beyond the sea;\\nAnd knew but how it mattered not\\nIt was the wizard, Michael Scott.\\nThe anxious crowd, with horror pale,\\nAll trembling heard the wondrous tale:\\nNo sound was made, no word was spoke,\\nTill noble Angus silence broke;\\nAnd he a solemn sacred plight\\nDid to Saint Bride of Douglas make,\\nThat he a pilgrimage would take 470\\nTo Melrose Abbey, for the sake\\nOf Michael s restless sprite.\\nThen each, to ease his troubled breast,\\nTo some blest saint his prayers addressed:\\nSome to Saint Modan made their vows,\\nSome to Saint Mary of the Lowes,\\nSome to the Holy Rood of Lisle,\\nSome to Our Lady of the Isle;\\nEach did his patron witness make\\nThat he such pilgrimage would take, 480\\nAnd monks should sing and bells should toll,\\nAll for the weal of Michael s soul.\\nWhile vows were ta en and prayers were\\nprayed,\\nT is said the noble dame, dismayed,\\nRenounced for aye dark magic s aid.\\nXXVIII\\nNought of the bridal will I tell,\\nWhich after in short space befell;\\nNor how brave sons and daughters fair\\nBlessed Teviot s Flower and Cranstoun s\\nheir:\\nAfter such dreadful scene t were vain 490\\nTo wake the note of mirth again.\\nMore meet it were to mark the day\\nOf penitence and prayer divine,\\nWhen pilgrim-chiefs, in sad array,\\nSought Melrose holy shrine.\\nXXIX\\nWith naked foot, and sackcloth vest,\\nAnd arms enfolded on his breast,\\nDid every pilgrim go;\\nThe standers-by might hear uneath\\nFootstep, or voice, or high-drawn breath, 500\\nThrough all the lengthened row:\\nNo lordly look nor martial stride,\\nGone was their glory, sunk their pride,\\nForgotten their renown;\\nSilent and slow, like ghosts, they glide\\n510\\nTo the high altar s hallowed side,\\nAnd there they knelt them down.\\nAbove the suppliant chieftains wave\\nThe banners of departed brave;\\nBeneath the lettered stones were laid\\nThe ashes of their fathers dead;\\nFrom many a garnished niche around\\nStern saints and tortured martyrs frowned\\nxxx\\nAnd slow up the dim aisle afar,\\nWith sable cowl and scapular,\\nAnd snow-white stoles, in order due,\\nThe holy fathers, two and two,\\nIn long procession came;\\nTaper and host and book they bare,\\nAnd holy banner, nourished fair 520\\nWith the Redeemer s name.\\nAbove the prostrate pilgrim band\\nThe mitred abbot stretched his hand,\\nAnd blessed them as they kneeled;\\nWith holy cross he signed them all,\\nAnd prayed they might be sage in hall\\nAnd fortunate in field.\\nThen mass was sung, and prayers were\\nsaid,\\nAnd solemn requiem for the dead;\\nAnd bells tolled out their mighty peal 530\\nFor the departed spirit s weal;\\nAnd ever in the office close\\nThe hymn of intercession rose;\\nAnd far the echoing aisles prolong\\nThe awful burden of the song,\\nDies ir^e, dies illa,\\nsolvet s^clum in favilla,\\nWhile the pealing organ rung.\\nWere it meet with sacred strain\\nTo close my lay, so light and vain, 540\\nThus the holy fathers sung:\\nHYMN FOR THE DEAD\\nThat day of wrath, that dreadful day,\\nWhen heaven and earth shall pass away,\\nWhat power shall be the sinner s stay\\nHow shall he meet that dreadful day\\nWhen, shrivelling like a parched scroll,\\nThe flaming heavens together roll,\\nWhen louder yot, and yet more dread,\\nSwells the high trump that wakes the dead\\nO, on that day, that wrathful day, 550\\nWhen man to judgment wakes from clay,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0112.jp2"}, "111": {"fulltext": "MARMION: INTRODUCTORY NOTE\\n81\\nBe Thou the trembling sinner s stay,\\nThough heaven and earth shall pass away\\nHushed is the harp the Minstrel gone.\\nAnd did he wander forth alone\\nAlone, in indigence and age,\\nTo linger out his pilgrimage\\nNo: close beneath proud Newark s tower\\nArose the Minstrel s lowly bower,\\nA simple hut; but there was seen 560\\nThe little garden hedged with green,\\nThe cheerful hearth, and lattice clean.\\nThere sheltered wanderers, by the blaze,\\nOft heard the tale of other days;\\nFor much he loved to ope his door,\\nAnd give the aid he begged before.\\nSo passed the winter s day; but still,\\nWhen summer smiled on sweet Bowhill,\\nAnd July s eve, with balmy breath,\\nWaved the blue-bells on Newark heath, 570\\nWhen throstles sung in Harehead-shaw,\\nAnd corn was green on Carterhaugh,\\nAnd flourished, broad, Blackandro s oak,\\nThe aged harper s soul awoke\\nThen would he sing achievements high\\nAnd circumstance of chivalry,\\nTill the rapt traveller would stay,\\nForgetful of the closing day;\\nAnd noble youths, the strain to hear,\\nForsook the hunting of the deer; 580\\nAnd Yarrow, as he rolled along,\\nBore burden to the Minstrel s song.\\nMARMION\\nA TALE OF FLODDEN FIELD\\nINTRODUCTORY NOTE\\nIn August, 1791, when Scott was twenty\\nyears of age, and shortly before he was called\\nto the bar, he made an excursion to North-\\numberland, ostensibly for fishing but with\\nthe keen scent for things and places histor-\\nical which possessed him from his earliest\\nyears, he revelled especially in the associations\\nwhich rose to mind in all the neighborhood.\\nWe are amidst places, he writes to his friend\\nCJerk,. renowned by the feats of former days\\neach hill is crowned with a tower or camp, or\\ncairn, and in no situation can you be near more\\nfields of battle Flodden, Otterburn, Chevy\\nChase, Ford Castle, Chillingham Castle, Cop-\\nland Castle, and many another scene of blood\\nare within the compass of a forenoon s ride.\\nOften as I have wished for your company, I\\nnever did it more earnestly than when I rode\\nover Flodden Edge. I knew your taste for\\nthese things, and could have undertaken to\\ndemonstrate, that never was an affair more\\ncompletely bungled than that day s work was.\\nSuppose one army posted upon the face of a\\nhill, and secured by high grounds projecting\\non each flank, with the river Till in front, a\\ndeep and still river, winding through a very\\nextensive valley called Milfield Plain, and the\\nonly passage over it by a narrow bridge, which\\nthe Scots artillery, from the hill, could in a\\nmoment have demolished. Add, that the Eng-\\nlish must have hazarded a battle while their\\ntroops, which were tumultuously levied, re-\\nmained together and that the Scots, behind\\nwhom the country was opened to Scotland, had\\nnothing to do but to wait for the attack as they\\nwere posted. Yet, did two thirds of the army,\\nactuated by the perfervidium ingenium Scoto-\\nrum, rush down and give an opportunity to\\nStanley to occupy the ground they had quitted,\\nby coming over the shoulder of the hill, while\\nthe other third, under Lord Home, kept their\\nground, and having seen their king and about\\n10,000 of their countrymen cut to pieces, re-\\ntired into Scotland without loss. For the rea-\\nson of the bridge not being destroyed while\\nthe English passed, I refer you to Pitscottie,\\nwho narrates at large, and to whom I give\\ncredit for a most accurate and clear descrip-\\ntion, agreeing perfectly with the ground.\\nSeventeen years later Scott availed himself\\nof this visit to make the battle on Flodden\\nField the culminating scene of the second\\ngreat poem which he gave the public. As he\\nstates in his Introduction, printed below, he\\nhad retired from his profession, and since the\\npublication of The Lay of the Last Minstrel\\nhad been engaged in editing Dryden. But he\\nwas also now the quarry at which the pub-\\nlishers were flying, and Constable especially\\nwas spreading his wings for that large enter-\\nprise in which Scott was to play so promi-\\nnent a part. As Scott further states in his\\nIntroduction, Constable made him a munificent\\noffer of a thousand guineas for the as yet un-", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0113.jp2"}, "112": {"fulltext": "82\\nMARMION\\nfinished poem of Marmion, and the offer came\\njust as Scott was in special need of money to\\naid his brother Thomas, then withdrawing\\nfrom his profession as Writer to the Signet.\\nThe first reference which Scott makes to his\\npoem is in a letter to Miss Seward dated Edin-\\nburgh, 20 February, 1S07 I have at length\\nfixed on the title of my new poem, which is to\\nbe christened, from the principal character,\\nMarmion, or A Tale of Flodden Field. There\\nare to be six Cantos, and an introductory Epis-\\ntle to each, in the style of that which I send\\nto you as a specimen. In the legendary part\\nof the work, Knights, Squires and Steeds\\nshall enter, on the stage. I am not at all\\nafraid of my patriotism being a sufferer in the\\ncourse of the tale. It is very true that my\\nfriend Leyden has said\\nAlas that Scottish maid should sing\\nThe combat where her lover fell,\\nThat Scottish Bard should wake the string\\nThe triumph of our foes to tell.\\nBut we may say with Francis I. that at Flod-\\nden all was lost but our honor, an exception\\nwhich includes everything that is desirable for\\na poet.\\nThe difficulties into which his brother\\nThomas had fallen were connected with the\\nbusiness affairs of the Marquis of Abercorn, for\\nwhom Thomas Scott had been manager. The\\nconsequence of my brother s failure, Scott\\nwrote later to Miss Seward, was that the whole\\naffairs of these extensive estates were thrown\\nupon my hands in a state of unutterable con-\\nfusion, so that to save myself from ruin [he\\nwas security for his brother] I was obliged to\\nlend my constant and unremitting attention\\nto their reestablishment. All this, however,\\nthough it delayed his poem, produced no es-\\ntrangement from Lord and Lady Abercorn,\\nand on 10 September, 1807, he writes to the\\nlatter from Ashestiel, I have deferred writing\\nfrom day to day, my dear Lady Abercorn,\\nuntil I should be able to make good my pro-\\nmise of sending you the first two cantos of Mar-\\nmion and on 22 January, 1808, he writes to\\nthe same, I have finished Marmion, and your\\nLadyship will do me the honor, I hope, to ac-\\ncept a copy very soon. In the sixth and last\\ncanto I have succeeded better than I had ven-\\ntured to hope, for I had a battle to fight, and\\nI dread hard blows almost as much in poetry\\nas in common life. He had thought of asking\\nLord Abercorn to let him dedicate Marmion to\\nhim, but was deterred by hearing him express\\nhis general dislike to dedications.\\nLoekhart points out that Scott was doubt-\\nless indebted for the death scene in Marmion\\nto Goethe s Goetz von Berlichingen of the Iron\\nHand, which Scott had translated ten years\\nbefore but Scott himself, as was his wont,\\nmade but few allusions to the origin of any\\nparts of the poem. He did, indeed, in a letter\\nto Miss Seward, 23 November, 1807, give\\nslight explanation of one point, when he wrote\\nMy reason for transporting Marmion from\\nLichfield was to make good the minstrel pro-\\nphecy of Constance s song. Why I shoulc\\never have taken him there I cannot very wel\\nsay. Attachment to the place, its locality\\nwith respect to Tamworth, the ancient seat oj\\nthe Marmions, partly, perhaps, the whim o:\\ntaking a slap at Lord Brooke en passant, joinec\\nin suggesting the idea which I had not time to\\nbring out or finish. And in a letter to Lady\\nLouisa Stuart from Edinburgh, 3 March, 1808\\nhe writes this unusually full explanation o:\\none passage in the poem\\nI have thought on your reading about th(\\ndeath of Constance, and with all the respec\\nwhich (sans phrase) I entertain for everything\\nyou honor me with, I have not made up mj\\nmind to the alteration, and here are my rea\\nsons. Clare has no wish to embitter Marmion\\nlast moments, and is only induced to mention\\nthe death of Constance because she observes\\nthat the wounded man s anxiety for her de-\\nliverance prevents his attending to his owe\\nspiritual affairs. It seems natural, however\\nthat knowing by the Abbess, or however you\\nplease, the share which Marmion had in the\\nfate of Constance, she should pronounce the\\nline assigned to her in such a manner as per-\\nfectly conveyed to his conscience the whole\\ntruth, although her gentleness avoided convey-\\ning it in direct terms. We are to consider\\ntoo, that Marmion had from various workings\\nof his own mind been led to suspect the fate\\nof Constance, so that, the train being ready\\nlaid, the slightest hint of her fate communicated\\nthe whole tale of terror to his conviction.\\nWere I to read the passage, I would hesitate a\\nlittle, like one endeavoring to seek a soft mode\\nof conveying painful intelligence\\nIn vain for Constance is your zeal\\nShe died at Holy Isle.\\nPerhaps after all this is too fine spun, and re-\\nquires more from my gentle readers to fill up\\nmy sketch than I am entitled to exact. But\\nI would rather put in an explanatory couplet\\ndescribing Clare s manner of speaking the\\nwords, than make her communication more\\nfull and specific But the couplet he did not\\nadd.\\nLoekhart in his Life throws a little further\\nlight on the construction of Marmion by quot-\\ning from a narrative by Mr. Guthrie Wright,\\nwho had succeeded Thomas Scott in the\\ncharge of the Abercorn estate. In the sum-\\nmer of 1807, he writes, I had the pleasure of", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0114.jp2"}, "113": {"fulltext": "INTRODUCTORY NOTE\\n83\\nmaking a trip with Sir Walter to Dumfries,\\nfor the purpose of meeting- the late Lord Aber-\\ncorn on his way with his family to Ireland.\\nHis Lordship did not arrive for two or three\\ndays after we reached Dumfries, and we em-\\nployed the interval in visiting Sweetheart\\nAbbey, Caerlaverock Castle, and some other\\nancient buildings in the neighborhood.\\n[Sir Walter] recited poetry and old legends\\nfrom morn till night, and in short it is impossi-\\nble that anything could be more delightful\\nthan his society but what I particularly al-\\nlude to is the circumstance, that at that time\\nhe was writing Marmion, the three or four\\nfirst cantos of which he had with him, and\\nwhich he was so good as to read to me. It is\\nunnecessary to say how much I was enchanted\\nwith them but as he good-naturedly asked\\nme to state any observations that occurred to\\nme, I said in joke that it appeared to me he\\nhad brought his hero by a very strange route\\ninto Scotland. Why, says I, did ever\\nmortal coming from England to Edinburgh go\\nby Gifford, Crichton Castle, Borthwick Castle,\\nand over the top of Blackford Hill? Not\\nonly is it a circuitous detour, but there never\\nwas a road that way since the world was\\ncreated! That is a most irrelevant objec-\\ntion, said Sir Walter it was my good plea-\\nsure to bring Marmion by that route, for the\\npurpose of describing the places you have\\nmentioned, and the view from Blackford Hill\\nit was his business to find his road and pick\\nhis steps the best way he could. But, pray,\\nhow would you have me bring him Not by\\nthe post-road, surely, as if he had been trav-\\nelling in a mail-coach No, I replied\\nthere were neither post roads nor mail-\\ncoaches in those days but I think you might\\nhave brought him with a less chaiice of getting\\ninto a swamp, by allowing him to travel the\\nnatural route by Dunbar and the sea-coast;\\nand then he might have tarried for a space\\nwith the famous Earl of Angus, surnamed\\nBell-the-Cat, at his favorite residence of Tan-\\ntallon Castle, by which means you would have\\nhad not only that fortress with all his feudal\\nfollowers, but the Castle of Dunbar, the Bass,\\nand all the beautiful scenery of the Forth, to\\ndescribe. This observation seemed to strike\\nhim much, and after a pause he exclaimed\\nBy Jove, you are right I ought to have\\nbrought him that way and he added, but\\nbefore he and I part, depend upon it he shall\\nvisit Tantallon. He then asked me if I had\\never been there, and upon saying I had fre-\\nquently, he desired me to describe it, which I\\ndid and I verily believe it is from what I\\nthen said, that the accurate description con-\\ntained in the fifth canto was given at least\\nI never heard him say he had afterwards gone\\nto visit the castle and when the poem was\\npublished, I remember he laughed, and asked\\nme how I liked Tantallon.\\nThe dating of the several poetical Introduc-\\ntions gives a hint of Scott s abodes when he was\\nengaged upon Marmion. The first four are\\nfrom Ashestiel, and the scenes about that spot\\nbecame identified in his mind with the com-\\nposition of the poem. I well remember his\\nsaying, writes Lockhart, as I rode with him\\nacross the hills from Ashestiel to Newark one\\nday in his declining years Oh, man, I had\\nmany a grand gallop among these braes when\\nI was thinking of Marmion, but a trotting\\ncanny pony must serve me now. His friend,\\nMr. Skene, however, informs me that many of\\nthe more energetic descriptions, and particu-\\nlarly that of the battle of Flodden, were struck\\nout while he was in quarters again with his\\ncavalry, in the autumn of 1807. In the in-\\ntervals of drilling, he says, Scott used to\\ndelight in walking his powerful black steed up\\nand down by himself upon the Portobello sands,\\nwithin the beating of the surge and now and\\nthen you would see him plunge in his spurs,\\nand go off as if at the charge, with the spray\\ndashing about him. As we rode back to Mus-\\nselburgh, he often came and placed himself be-\\nside me, to repeat the verses that he had been\\ncomposing during these pauses of our exer-\\ncise.\\nIt was a year after he began the poem that he\\nwrote the Introductory Epistle for Canto IV. at\\nAshestiel. The next month he wrote the fifth\\nintroduction in Edinburgh the last was writ-\\nten during the Christmas festivities of Mertoun\\nhouse, where, as Lockhart says, from the first\\ndays of his ballad-rhyming, down to the close\\nof his life, he, like his bearded ancestor, usu-\\nally spent that season with the immediate head\\nof the race.\\nThese epistles, it should be remarked, were\\nnot designed in the first instance to be inwoven\\nwith the romance. They were, in fact, an-\\nnounced early in 1807 in an advertisement as\\nSix Epistles from Ettrick Forest, and were to\\nhave been published in an independent volume.\\nIt is perhaps a happier fortune for readers of\\nthis day than for the first readers of Marmion\\nthat the epistles were thus inwoven, since they\\nserve so emphatically to connect Scott s friend-\\nships with his poetry the personal side of\\nauthorship in Scott s case is written thus indeli-\\nbly in the poem.\\nMarmion was published February 23, 1808,\\nand was seized with avidity by Scott s personal\\nfriends, and by the public, which called for new\\neditions in rapid succession. Every one natu-\\nrally compared it with The Lay of the Last Min-\\nstrel. Southey wrote frankly The story is\\nmade of better materials than the Lay, yet", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0115.jp2"}, "114": {"fulltext": "8 4\\nMARMION\\nthey are not so well fitted together. As a\\n\u00e2\u0096\u00a0whole, it has not pleased me so much in\\nparts, it has pleased nie more. There is no-\\nthing so finely conceived in your former poem\\nas the death of Marmion there is nothing-\\nfiner in its conception anywhere. The intro-\\nductory epistles I did not wish away, because,\\nas poems, they gave me great pleasure but I\\nwished them at the end of the volume, or at\\nthe beginning anywhere except where they\\nwere. My taste is perhaps peculiar in disliking\\nall interruptions in narrative poetry.\\nWordsworth, too, wrote with the freedom of\\nan accepted friend, and the frankness of these\\nbrother poets implies the candor also of Scott s\\nnature. I think your end has been attained.\\nThat it is not the end which I should wish you\\nto propose to yourself, you will be well aware,\\nfrom what you know of my notions of com-\\nposition, both as to matter and manner. In\\nthe circle of my acquaintance, it seems as well\\nliked as the Lay, though I have heard that in\\nthe world it is not so. Had the poem been\\nmuch better than the Lay, it could scarcely\\nhave satisfied the public, which has too much\\nof the monster, the moral monster, in its com-\\nposition.\\nMr. George Ellis, the accomplished antiqua-\\nrian scholar who had made the acquaintance\\nof Scott in the days of the Border Minstrelsy,\\nalso wrote at length, reflecting in his leisurely\\nletter the best judgment of the men of letters\\nof the day. After balancing the opinions of\\ncritics respecting the two poems, he concludes\\nMy own opinion is, that both the productions\\nare equally good in their different ways yet,\\nupon the whole, I had rather be the author of\\nMarmion than of the Lay. because I think its\\nspecies of excellence of much more difficult\\nattainment. What degree of bulk may be es-\\nsentially necessary to the corporeal part of an\\nEpic poem, I know not but sure I am that the\\nstory of Marmion might have furnished twelve\\nbooks as easily as six that the masterly\\ncharacter of Constance would not have been\\nless bewitching had it been much more mi-\\nnutely painted and that De Wilton might\\nhave been dilated with great ease, and even to\\nconsiderable advantage in short, that had\\nit been your intention merely to exhibit a\\nspirited romantic story, instead of making that\\nstory subservient to the delineation of the\\nmanners which prevailed at a certain period of\\nour history, the number and variety of your\\ncharacters would have suited any scale of\\npainting.\\nScott himself in a letter to Surtees, who had\\noffered him the subject of Prince Charlie, says\\nWhen you have read over Marmion, which\\nhas more individuality of character than the\\nLay, although it wants a sort of tenderness\\nwhich the personage of the old minstrel gave\\nto my first-born romance, you will be a better\\njudge whether I should undertake a work\\nwhich will depend less on incident and descrip\\ntion than on the power of distinguishing anc\\nmarking the dramatis persona;. 1 And it is i\\ncommentary on the confusion of literature and\\npolitics so characteristic of the day, that we\\nfind him writing to Lady Abercorn All the\\nWhigs here (in Edinburgh) are in arms against\\nMarmion. If I had satirized Fox, they could\\nhave borne it, but a secondary place for the god\\nof their idolatry puts them beyond the slender\\ndegree of patience which displaced patriots\\nusually possess. I make them welcome to\\ncry till they are hoarse against both the book\\nand author, as they are not in the habit of hav-\\ning majorities upon their side. I suppose the\\ncrossed critics of Holland House will take the\\nsame tone in your Metropolis. The allusion, of\\ncourse, is to the lines in the Introduction to\\nCanto I., beginning withline 126. In illustration\\nof the asperity of politics at the time, Scott\\nwrites to the same correspondent The\\nMorning Chronicle of the 29th March [1808] has\\nmade a pretty story of the cancel of page 10th\\nof Marmion which your Ladyship cannot but\\nrecollect was reprinted for the sole purpose of\\ninserting the lines suggested so kindly by the\\nMarquis\\nFor talents mourn, untimely lost,\\nWhen best employed and wanted most\\nI suppose from the carelessness of those who\\narranged the book for binding, this sheet may\\nnot in a copy or two have been right placed,\\nand the worthy Editor affirms kindly that this\\nwas done that I might have copies to send to\\nMr. Pitt s friends in which these lines do not\\noccur My publishers here, who for-\\nwarded the books, have written in great wrath\\nto contradict the story, and were surprised to\\nfind I had more inclination to laugh at it.\\nThis is a punishment for appropriating my\\nneighbor s goods. I suppose it would surprise\\nMr. Morning Chronicle considerably to know\\nthat the couplet in question was written by\\nso distinguished a friend of Mr. Pitt as Lord\\nAbercorn.\\nWe noted how Scott s youthful excursion\\ninto the Cheviot Hills found expression later\\nin Marmion. It is pleasant to recall that later\\njourney made with his family when Marmion\\nhad made Flodden Field famous. Halting at\\nFlodden, is Lockhart s narrative, to expound\\nthe field of battle to his young folks, he found\\nthat Marmion had, as might have been ex-\\npected, benefited the keeper of the public\\nhouse there very largely and the village Boni-\\nface, overflowing with gratitude, expressed his\\nanxiety to have a Scott s Head for his sign-post.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0116.jp2"}, "115": {"fulltext": "INTRODUCTORY NOTE\\n85\\nThe poet demurred to this proposal, and as-\\nsured mine host that nothing could be more\\nappropriate than the portraiture of a foaming\\ntankard, which already surmounted his door-\\nway. Why, the painter-man has not made\\nan ill job, said the landlord, but I would\\nfain have something 1 more connected with the\\nbook that has brought me so much good cus-\\ntom. He produced a well-thumbed copy, and\\nhanding it to the author, begged he would at\\nleast suggest a motto from the tale of Flodden\\nField. Scott opened the book at the death\\nscene of the hero, and his eye was immediately\\ncaught by the inscription in black letter\\nDrink, weary pilgrim, drink, and pray\\nFor the kind soul of Sibyl Grey, etc.\\nWell, my friend, said he, what more\\nwould you have You need but strike out\\none letter in the first of these lines, and make\\nyour painter-man, the next time he comes this\\nway, print between the jolly tankard and\\nyour own name\\nDrink, weary pilgrim, drink and pay.\\nScott was delighted to find, on his return, that\\nthis suggestion had been adopted, and for\\naught I know, the romantic legend may still\\nbe visible.\\nThe poem when first published was pre-\\nfaced by the following\\nADVERTISEMENT\\nIt is hardly to be expected that an author\\nwhom the public have honored with some\\ndegree of applause should not be again a tres-\\npasser on their kindness. Yet the author of\\nMarmion must be supposed to feel some anxi-\\nety concerning its success, since he is sensible\\nthat he hazards, by this second intrusion, any\\nreputation which his first poem may have pro-\\ncured him. The present story turns upon the\\nprivate adventures of a fictitious character, but\\nis called a Tale of Flodden Field, because the\\nhero s fate is connected with that memorable\\ndefeat and the causes which led to it. The de-\\nsign of the author was, if possible, to apprise\\nhis readers, at the outset, of the date of his\\nstory, and to prepare them for the manners of\\nthe age in which it is laid. Any historical nar-\\nrative, far more an attempt at epic composition,\\nexceeded his plan of a romantic tale yet he\\nmay be permitted to hope, from the popularity\\nof The Lay of the Last Minstrel, that an attempt\\nto paint the manners of the feudal times, upon\\na broader scale, and in the course of a more\\ninteresting story, will not be unacceptable to\\nthe public.\\nThe poem opens about the commencement\\nof August, and concludes with the defeat of\\nFlodden, 9th September, 1513.\\nASHESTIEL, 1808.\\nThe poem, as Scott wrote to Lady Abercorn,\\nin consequence of an unexampled demand was\\nhurried through the press again and a second\\nedition was quickly issued but second edi-\\ntions in those days were not second impres-\\nsions from the same type or from plates, and\\nthe author had an opportunity to make correc-\\ntions. Scott heeded Lady Abercorn s criticism\\non the speech of Constance, but after much\\nconsideration placed a single dash in the line,\\nas it now stands (page 105, line 522), to express\\nher confusion. A few weeks after, when he\\ncould look back deliberately on the whole\\npoem, he wrote his friend from Edinburgh\\n9 June, 1808 No one is so sensible as I am\\nof what deficiencies occur in my poetry from\\nthe want of judicious criticism and correction,\\nabove all from the extreme hurry in which\\nit has hitherto been composed. The worst is\\nthat I take the pet at the things myself after\\nthey are finished, and I fear I shall never be\\nable to muster up the courage necessary to\\nrevise Marmion as he should be revised. But\\nif I ever write another poem, I am determined\\nto make every single couplet of it as perfect\\nas my uttermost care and attention can possi-\\nbly effect. In order to ensure the accomplish-\\nment of these good resolutions, I will consider\\nthe whole story in humble prose, and endeavor\\nto make it as interesting as I can before I\\nbegin to write it out in verse, and thus I shall\\nhave at least the satisfaction to know where I\\nam going, my narrative having been hitherto\\nmuch upon the plan of blind man s buff. Sec-\\nondly, having made my story, I will write my\\npoem with all deliberation, and when finished\\nlay it aside for a year at least, during which\\nquarantine I would be most happy if it were\\nsuffered to remain in your escritoire or in that\\nof the Marquis, who has the best ear for Eng-\\nlish versification of any person whom, in a\\npretty extensive acquaintance with literary\\ncharacters, I have ever had the fortune to\\nmeet with nor is his taste at all inferior to his\\npower of appreciating the harmony of verse.\\nWhen Marmion was reissued in the collective\\nedition of 1830, it carried the following", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0117.jp2"}, "116": {"fulltext": "86\\nMARMION\\nINTRODUCTION\\nWhat I have to say respecting this poem\\nmay he briefly told. In the Introduction to the\\nLay of the Last Minstrel I have mentioned the\\ncircumstances, so far as my literary life is con-\\ncerned, which induced me to resign the active\\npursuit of an honorable profession for the more\\nprecarious resources of literature. My appoint-\\nment to the Sheriffdom of Selkirk called for\\na change of residence. I left, therefore, the\\npleasant cottage I had upon the side of the Esk,\\nfor the pleasanter banks of the Tweed, in or-\\nder to comply with the law, which requires that\\nthe sheriff shall he resident, at least during a\\ncertain numher of months, within his jurisdic-\\ntion. We found a delightful retirement, by my\\nbecoming the tenant of my intimate friend and.\\ncousin-german, Colonel Russel, in his mansion\\nof Ashestiel, which was unoccupied during his\\nabsence on military service in India. The\\nhouse was adequate to our accommodation and\\nthe exercise of a limited hospitality. The situ-\\nation is uncommonly heautif ul, hy the side of a\\nfine river whose streams are there very favor-\\nahle for angling, surrounded by the remains of\\nnatural woods, and hy hills abounding in game.\\nIn point of society, according to the heartfelt\\nphrase of Scripture, we dwelt amongst our\\nown people and as the distance from the\\nmetropolis was only thirty miles, we were not\\nout of reach of our Edinburgh friends, in which\\ncity we spent the terms of the summer and\\nwinter sessions of the court, that is, five or six\\nmonths in the year.\\nAn important circumstance had, about the\\nsame time, taken place in my life. Hopes had\\nbeen held out to me from an influential quar-\\nter, of a nature to relieve me from the anxiety\\nwhich I must have otherwise felt, as one upon\\nthe precarious tenure of whose own life rested\\nthe principal prospects of his family, and espe-\\ncially as one who had necessarily some depend-\\nence upon the favor of the public, which is\\nproverbially capricious though it is but justice\\nto add that in my own case I have not found\\nit so. Mr. Pitt had expressed a wish to my\\npersonal friend, the Right Honorable William\\nDundas, now Lord Clerk Register of Scotland,\\nthat some fitting opportunity should be taken\\nto be of service to me and as my views and\\nwishes pointed to a future rather than an im-\\nmediate provision, an opportunity of accom-\\nplishing this was soon found. One of the\\nPrincipal Clerks of Session, as they are called\\n(official persons who occupy an important and\\nresponsible situation, and enjoy a considerable\\nincome), who had served upwards of thirty\\nyears, felt himself, from age and the infirmity\\nof deafness with which it was accompanied, de-\\nsirous of retiring from his official situation. As\\nthe law then stood, such official persons were\\nentitled to bargain with their successors, either\\nfor a sum of money, which was usually a con-\\nsiderable one, or for an interest in the emol-\\numents of the office during their life. My\\npredecessor, whose services had been unusu-\\nally meritorious, stipiilated for the emoluments\\nof his office during his life, while I should en-\\njoy the survivorship on the condition that I\\ndischarged the duties of the office in the mean\\ntime. Mr. Pitt, however, having died in the\\ninterval, his administration was dissolved, and\\nwas succeeded by that known by the name of\\nthe Fox and Grenville Ministry. My affair was\\nso far completed that my commission lay in\\nthe office subscribed by his Majesty but, from\\nhurry or mistake, the interest of my predeces-\\nsor was not expressed in it, as had been usual\\nin such cases. Although, therefore, it only\\nrequired payment of the fees, I could not in\\nhonor take out the commission in the present\\nstate, since, in the event of my dying before\\nhim, the gentleman whom I succeeded must\\nhave lost the vested interest which he had stip-\\nulated to retain. I had the honor of an inter-\\nview with Earl Spencer on the subject, and he,\\nin the most handsome manner, gave directions\\nthat the commission should issue as originally\\nintended adding, that the matter having re-\\nceived the royal assent, he regarded only as\\nclaim of justice what he would have willingly\\ndone as an act of favor. I never saw Mr. F02\\non this or on any other occasion, and never\\nmade any application to him, conceiving that\\nin doing so I might have been supposed to ex-\\npress political opinions contrary to those which\\nI had always professed. In his private capa-\\ncity, there is no man to whom I would have been\\nmore proud to owe an obligation, had I been so\\ndistinguished.\\nBy this arrangement I obtained the survi-\\nvorship of an office the emoluments of which\\nwere fully adequate to my wishes and as the\\nlaw respecting the mode of providing for su-\\nperannuated officers was, about five or six years\\nafter, altered from that which admitted the ar-\\nrangement of assistant and successor, my col-\\nleague very handsomely took the opportunity\\nof the alteration to accept of the retiring annu-\\nity provided in such cases, and admitted me to\\nthe full benefit of the office.\\nBut although the certainty of succeeding tc\\na considerable income, at the time I obtainec\\nit, seemed to assure me of a quiet harbor in m3\\nold age, I did not escape my share of inconven-\\nience from the contrary tides and currents\\nwhich we are so often encountered in our jour-", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0118.jp2"}, "117": {"fulltext": "AUTHOR S INTRODUCTION\\n87\\nney through life. Indeed, the publication of\\nmy next poetical attempt was prematurely\\naccelerated, from one of those unpleasant\\naccidents which can neither be foreseen nor\\navoided.\\nI had formed the prudent resolution to en-\\ndeavor to bestow a little more labor than I had\\nyet done on my productions, and to be in no\\nhurry again to announce myself as a candidate\\nfor literary fame. Accordingly, particular pas-\\nsages of a poem which was finally called Mar-\\nmion were labored with a good deal of care by\\none by whom much care was seldom bestowed.\\nWhether the work was worth the labor or not,\\nI am no competent judge but I may be per-\\nmitted to say that the period of its composition\\nwas a very happy one in my life so much so,\\nthat I remember with pleasure, at this moment,\\nsome of the spots in which particular passages\\nwere composed. It is probably owing to this\\nthat the Introductions to the several cantos as-\\nsumed the form of familiar epistles to my inti-\\nmate friends, in which I alluded, perhaps more\\nthan was necessary or graceful, to my domestic\\noccupations and amusements, a loquacity\\nwhich may be excused by those who remember\\nthat I was still young, light-headed, and happy,\\nand that out of the abundance of the heart\\nthe mouth speaketh.\\nThe misfortunes of a near relation and\\nfriend, which happened at this time, led me to\\nalter my prudent determination, which had\\nbeen to use great precaution in sending this\\npoem into the world and made it convenient\\nat least, if not absolutely necessary, to hasten\\nits publication. The publishers of The Lay of\\nthe Last Minstrel, emboldened by the success of\\nthat poem, willingly offered a thousand pounds\\nfor Marmion. The transaction, being no secret,\\nafforded Lord Byron, who was then at general\\nwar with all who blacked paper, an apology\\nfor including me in his satire entitled English\\nBards and Scotch Reviewers. 1 I never could\\nconceive how an arrangement between an au-\\nthor and his publishers, if satisfactory to the\\npersons concerned, could afford matter of cen-\\nsure to any third party. I had taken no un-\\nusual or ungenerous means of enhancing the\\nvalue of my merchandise, I had never hig-\\ngled a moment about the bargain, but accepted\\nat once what I considered the handsome offer\\n1 Lockhart quotes the passage, which is as follows\\nNext view in state, proud prancing on his roan,\\nThe golden-crested haughty Marmion,\\nNow forging scrolls, now foremost in the fight,\\nNot quite a felon, yet but half a knight,\\nThe gibbet or the field prepared to grace\\nA mighty mixture of the great and base.\\nAnd think st thou, Scott by vain conceit perchance,\\nOn public taste to foist thy stale romance,\\nThough Murray with his Miller may combine\\nof my publishers. These gentlemen, at least,\\nwere not of opinion that they had been taken\\nadvantage of in the transaction, which indeed\\nwas one of their own framing on the contrary,\\nthe sale of the poem was so far beyond their\\nexpectation as to induce them to supply the\\nauthor s cellars with what is always an accept-\\nable present to a young Scottish housekeeper,\\nnamely, a hogshead of excellent claret.\\nThe poem was finished in too much haste\\nto allow me an opportunity of softening down,\\nif not removing, some of its most prominent de-\\nfects. The nature of Marmion s guilt, although\\nsimilar instances were found, and might be\\nquoted, as existing in feudal times, was never-\\ntheless not sufficiently peculiar to be indicative\\nof the character of the period, forgery being\\nthe crime of a commercial rather than a proud\\nand warlike age. This gross defect ought to\\nhave been remedied or palliated. Yet I suffered\\nthe tree to lie as it had fallen. I remember my\\nfriend, Dr. Leyden, then in the East, wrote me\\na furious remonstrance on the subject. I have,\\nnevertheless, always been of opinion that cor-\\nrections, however in themselves judicious, have\\na bad effect after publication. An author is\\nnever so decidedly condemned as on his own\\nconfession, and may long find apologists and\\npartisans until he gives up his own cause. I\\nwas not, therefore, inclined to afford matter\\nfor censure out of my own admissions and, by\\ngood fortune, the novelty of the subject and,\\nif I may say so, some force and vivacity of de-\\nscription, were allowed to atone for many im-\\nperfections. Thus the second experiment on\\nthe public patience, generally the most peril-\\nous, for the public are then most apt to judge\\nwith rigor what in the first instance they had\\nreceived perhaps with imprudent generosity,\\nwas in my case decidedly successful. I had the\\ngood fortune to pass this ordeal favorably, and\\nthe return of sales before me makes the copies\\namount to thirty-six thousand printed between\\n1808 and 1825, besides a considerable sale since\\nthat period. I shall here pause upon the sub-\\nject of Marmion, and, in a few prefatory words\\nto The Lady of the Lake, the last poem of mine\\nwhich obtained eminent success, I will continue\\nthe task which I have imposed on myself re-\\nspecting the origin of my productions.\\nAbbotsford, April, 1830.\\nTo yield thy muse just half a crown per line\\nNo when the sons of song descend to trade,\\nTheir bays are sear, their former laurels fade.\\nLet such forego the poet s sacred name,\\nWho rack their brains for lucre, not for fame\\nStill for stern Mammon may they toil in vain\\nAnd sadly gaze on gold they cannot gain\\nSuch be their meed, such still the just reward\\nOf prostituted muse and hireling bard\\nFor this we spurn Apollo s venal son,\\nAnd bid a long Good-night to Marmion.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0119.jp2"}, "118": {"fulltext": "88\\nMARMION\\nMARMION\\nA TALE OF FLODDEN FIELD\\nAlas that Scottish maid should sing\\nThe combat where her lover fell\\nThat Scottish Bard should wake the string,\\nThe triumph of our foes to tell\\nLeyden s Ode on Visiting Flodden\\nRIGHT HONORABLE HENRY, LORD MONTAGUE,\\nc, c, c,\\nTHIS ROMANCE IS INSCRIBED BY\\nTHE AUTHOR.\\nINTRODUCTION TO CANTO\\nFIRST\\nTO WILLIAM STEWART ROSE, ESQ.\\nAshestiel, Ettrick Forest\\nNovember s sky is chill and drear,\\nNovember s leaf is red and sear:\\nLate, gazing down the steepy linn\\nThat hems our little garden in,\\nLow in its dark and narrow glen,\\nYou scarce the rivulet might ken,\\nSo thick the tangled greenwood grew,\\nSo feeble trilled the streamlet through;\\nNow, murmuring hoarse, and frequent\\nseen 9\\nThrough bush and brier, no longer green,\\nAn angry brook, it sweeps the glade,\\nBrawls over rock and wild cascade,\\nAnd, foaming brown with double speed,\\nHurries its waters to the Tweed.\\nNo longer autumn s glowing red\\nUpon our Forest hills is shed;\\nNo more, beneath the evening beam,\\nFair Tweed reflects their purple gleam.\\nAway hath passed the heather-bell\\nThat bloomed so rich on Needpath-fell; 20\\nSallow his brow, and russet bare\\nAre now the sister-heights of Yair.\\nThe sheep, before the pinching heaven,\\nTo sheltered dale and down are driven,\\nWhere yet some faded herbage pines,\\nAnd yet a watery sunbeam shines;\\nIn meek despondency they eye\\nThe withered sward and wintry sky,\\nAnd far beneath their summer hill\\nStray sadly by Glenkinnon s rill. 3o\\nThe shepherd shifts his mantle s fold,\\nAnd wraps him closer from the cold:\\nHis dogs no merry circles wheel,\\nBut shivering follow at his heel;\\nA cowering glance they often cast,\\nAs deeper moans the gathering blast.\\nMy imps, though hardy, bold, and wild,\\nAs best befits the mountain child,\\nFeel the sad influence of the hour,\\nAnd wail the daisy s vanished flower, 40\\nTheir summer gambols tell, and mourn,\\nAnd anxious ask, Will spring return,\\nAnd birds and lambs again be gay,\\nAnd blossoms clothe the hawthorn spray\\nYes, prattlers, yes. The daisy s flower\\nAgain shall paint your summer bower;\\nAgain the hawthorn shall supply\\nThe garlands you delight to tie;\\nThe lambs upon the lea shall bound,\\nThe wild birds carol to the round; 50\\nAnd while you frolic light as they,\\nToo short shall seem the summer day.\\nTo mute and to material things\\nNew life revolving summer brings;", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0120.jp2"}, "119": {"fulltext": "INTRODUCTION TO CANTO FIRST\\nThe genial call dead Nature hears,\\nAnd in her glory reappears.\\nBut oh my country s wintry state\\nWhat second spring shall renovate\\nWhat powerful call shall bid arise\\nThe buried warlike and the wise, 60\\nThe mind that thought for Britain s weal,\\nThe hand that grasped the victor steel\\nThe vernal sun new life bestows\\nEven on the meanest flower that blows;\\nBut vainly, vainly may he shine\\nWhere Glory weeps o er Nelson s shrine,\\nAnd vainly pierce the solemn gloom\\nThat shrouds, O Pitt, thy hallowed tomb\\nDeep graved in every British heart,\\nOh, never let those names depart 70\\nSay to your sons, Lo, here his grave\\nWho victor died on Gadite wave\\nTo him, as to the burning levin,\\nShort, bright, resistless course was given;\\nWhere er his country s foes were found,\\nWas heard the fated thunder s sound,\\nTill burst the bolt on yonder shore,\\nRolled, blazed, destroyed, and was no\\nNor mourn ye less his perished worth\\nWho bade the conqueror go forth, 80\\nAnd launched that thunderbolt of war\\nOn Egypt, Hafnia, Trafalgar;\\nWho, born to guide such high emprise,\\nFor Britain s weal was early wise;\\nAlas to whom the Almighty gave,\\nFor Britain s sins, an early grave!\\nHis worth who, in his mightiest hour,\\nA bauble held the pride of power,\\nSpurned at the sordid lust of pelf,\\nAnd served his Albion for herself; 90\\nWho, when the frantic crowd amain\\nStrained at subjection s bursting rein,\\nO er their wild mood full conquest gained,\\nThe pride, he would not crush, restrained,\\nShowed their fierce zeal a worthier cause,\\nAnd brought the freeman s arm to aid the\\nfreeman s laws.\\nHadst thou but lived, though stripped of\\npower,\\nA watchman on the lonely tower,\\nThy thrilling trump had roused the land,\\nWhen fraud or danger were at hand; 100\\nBy thee, as by the beacon-light,\\nOur pilots had kept course aright;\\nAs some proud column, though alone,\\nThy strength had propped the tottering\\nthrone.\\nNow is the stately column broke,\\nThe beacon-light is quenched in smoke,\\nThe trumpet s silver sound is still,\\nThe warder silent on the hill\\nOh, think, how to his latest day,\\nWhen Death, just hovering, claimed his\\nprey, no\\nWith Palinure s unaltered mood,\\nFirm at his dangerous post he stood,\\nEach call for needful rest repelled,\\nWith dying hand the rudder held,\\nTill, in his fall, with fateful sway,\\nThe steerage of the realm gave way\\nThen, while on Britain s thousand plains\\nOne unpolluted church remains,\\nWhose peaceful bells ne er sent around\\nThe bloody tocsin s maddening sound, 120\\nBut still, upon the hallowed day,\\nConvoke the swains to praise and pray;\\nWhile faith and civil peace are dear,\\nGrace this cold marble with a tear,\\nHe who preserved them, Pitt, lies here.\\nNor yet suppress the generous sigh\\nBecause his rival slumbers nigh,\\nNor be thy requiescat dumb\\nLest it be said o er Fox s tomb;\\nFor talents mourn, untimely lost, 130\\nWhen best employed and wanted most;\\nMourn genius high, and lore profound,\\nAnd wit that loved to play, not wound;\\nAnd all the reasoning powers divine,\\nTo penetrate, resolve, combine;\\nAnd feelings keen, and fancy s glow,\\nThey sleep with him who sleeps below:\\nAnd, if thou mourn st they could not save\\nFrom error him who owns this grave,\\nBe every harsher thought suppressed, 140\\nAnd sacred be the last long rest.\\nHere, where the end of earthly things\\nLays heroes, patriots, bards, and kings;\\nWhere stiff the hand, and still the tongue,\\nOf those who fought, and spoke, and\\nsung;\\nHere, where the fretted aisles prolong\\nThe distant notes of holy song,\\nAs if some angel spoke again,\\nAll peace on earth, good- will to men;\\nIf ever from an English heart, 150\\nOh, here let prejudice depart,\\nAnd, partial feeling cast aside,\\nRecord that Fox a Briton died", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0121.jp2"}, "120": {"fulltext": "9\u00c2\u00b0\\nMARMION\\nWhen Europe crouched to France s yoke,\\nAnd Austria bent, and Prussia broke,\\nAnd the firm Russian s purpose brave\\nWas bartered by a timorous slave,\\nEven then dishonor s peace he spurned,\\nThe sullied olive-branch returned,\\nStood for his country s glory fast, 160\\nAnd nailed her colors to the mast\\nHeaven, to reward his firmness, gave\\nA portion in this honored grave,\\nAnd ne er held marble in its trust\\nOf two such wondrous men the dust.\\nWith more than mortal powers endowed,\\nHow high they soared above the crowd\\nTheirs was no common party race,\\nJostling by dark intrigue for place;\\nLike fabled Gods, their mighty war 170\\nShook realms and nations in its jar;\\nBeneath each banner proud to stand,\\nLooked up the noblest of the land,\\nTill through the British world were known\\nThe names of Pitt and Fox alone.\\nSpells of such force no wizard grave\\nE er framed in dark Thessalian cave,\\nThough his could drain the ocean dry,\\nAnd force the planets from the sky.\\nThese spells are spent, and, spent with\\nthese, 180\\nThe wine of life is on the lees,\\nGenius and taste and talent gone,\\nForever tombed beneath the stone,\\nW T here taming thought to human\\npride\\nThe mighty chiefs sleep side by side.\\nDrop upon Fox s grave the tear,\\nT will trickle to his rival s bier;\\nO er Pitt s the mournful requiem sound,\\nAnd Fox s shall the notes rebound.\\nThe solemn echo seems to cry, 190\\nHere let their discord with them die.\\nSpeak not for those a separate doom\\nWhom Fate made brothers in the tomb;\\nBut search the land, of living men,\\nWhere wilt thou find their like again\\nBest, ardent spirits, till the cries\\nOf dying nature bid you rise\\nNot even your Britain s groans can pierce\\nThe leaden silence of your hearse;\\nThen, oh, how impotent and vain 200\\nThis grateful tributary strain\\nThough not unmarked from northern\\nclime,\\nYe heard the Border Minstrel s rhyme:\\nHis Gothic harp has o er you rung;\\nThe Bard you deigned to praise, your\\ndeathless names has sung.\\nStay yet, illusion, stay a while,\\nMy wildered fancy still beguile\\nFrom this high theme how can I part,\\nEre half unloaded is my heart\\nFor all the tears e er sorrow drew, 210\\nAnd all the raptures fancy knew,\\nAnd all the keener rush of blood\\nThat throbs through bard in bardlike mood,\\nWere here a tribute mean and low,\\nThough all their mingled streams could\\nflow\\nWoe, wonder, and sensation high,\\nIn one spring-tide of ecstacy\\nIt will not be it may not last\\nThe vision of enchantment s past:\\nLike frostwork in the morning ray, 220\\nThe fancy fabric melts away;\\nEach Gothic arch, memorial-stone,\\nAnd long, dim, lofty aisle are gone;\\nAnd, lingering last, deception dear,\\nThe choir s high sounds die on my ear.\\nNow slow return the lonely down,\\nThe silent pastures bleak and brown,\\nThe farm begirt with copse wood wild,\\nThe gambols of each frolic child,\\nMixing their shrill cries with the tone 230\\nOf Tweed s dark waters rushing on.\\nPrompt on unequal tasks to run,\\nThus Nature disciplines her son:\\nMeeter, she says, for me to stray,\\nAnd waste the solitary day\\nIn plucking from yon fen the reed,\\nAnd watch it floating down the Tweed,\\nOr idly list the shrilling lay\\nWith which the milkmaid cheers her\\nway.\\nMarking its cadence rise and fail, 240\\nAs from the field, beneath her pail,\\nShe trips it down the uneven dale\\nMeeter for me, by yonder cairn,\\nThe ancient shepherd s tale to learn,\\nThough oft he stop in rustic fear,\\nLest his old legends tire the ear\\nOf one who, in his simple mind,\\nMay boast of book-learned taste refined.\\nBut thou, my friend, canst fitly tell\\nFor few have read romance so well 250\\nHow still the legendary lay\\nO er poet s bosom holds its sway;", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0122.jp2"}, "121": {"fulltext": "CANTO FIRST: THE CASTLE\\n9i\\nHow on the ancient minstrel strain\\nTime lays his palsied hand in vain;\\nAnd how our hearts at doughty deeds,\\nBy warriors wrought in steely weeds,\\nStill throb for fear and pity s sake;\\nAs when the Champion of the Lake\\nEnters Morgan s fated house,\\nOr in the Chapel Perilous, 260\\nDespising spells and demons force,\\nHolds converse with the unburied corse;\\nOr when, Dame Ganore s grace to move\\nAlas, that lawless was their love\\nHe sought proud Tarquin in his den,\\nAnd freed full sixty knights or when,\\nA sinful man and unconfessed,\\nHe took the Sangreal s holy quest,\\nAnd slumbering saw the vision high\\nHe might not view with waking eye. 270\\nThe mightiest chiefs of British song\\nScorned not such legends to prolong.\\nThey gleam through Spenser s elfin dream,\\nAnd mix in Milton s heavenly theme;\\nAnd Dryden, in immortal strain,\\nHad raised the Table Round again,\\nBut that a ribald king and court\\nBade him toil on, to make them sport;\\nDemanded for their niggard pay,\\nFit for their souls, a looser lay, 280\\nLicentious satire, song, and play;\\nThe world defrauded of the high design,\\nProfaned the God given strength, and\\nmarred the lofty line.\\nWarmed by such names, well may we\\nthen,\\nThough dwindled sons of little men,\\nEssay to break a feeble lance\\nIn the fair fields of old romance;\\nOr seek the moated castle s cell,\\nWhere long through talisman and spell,\\nWhile tyrants ruled and damsels wept, 290\\nThy Genius, Chivalry, hath slept.\\nThere sound the harpings of the North,\\nTill he awake and sally forth,\\nOn venturous quest to prick again,\\nIn all his arms, with all his train,\\nShield, lance, and brand, and plume, and\\nscarf,\\nFay, giant, dragon, squire, and dwarf,\\nAnd wizard with his wand of might,\\nAnd errant maid on palfrey white.\\nAround the Genius weave their spells, 300\\nPure Love, who scarce his passion tells;\\nMystery, half veiled and half revealed j\\nAnd Honor, with his spotless shield;\\nAttention, with fixed eye; and Fear,\\nThat loves the tale she shrinks to hear;\\nAnd gentle Courtesy; and Faith,\\nUnchanged by sufferings, time, or death;\\nAnd Valor, lion-mettled lord,\\nLeaning upon his own good sword.\\nWell has thy fair achievement shown 310\\nA worthy meed may thus be won:\\nYtene s oaks beneath whose shade\\nTheir theme the merry minstrels made,\\nOf Ascapart, and Bevis bold,\\nAnd that Red King, who, while of old\\nThrough Boldrewood the chase he led,\\nBy his loved huntsman s arrow bled\\nYtene s oaks have heard again\\nRenewed such legendary strain;\\nFor thou hast sung, how he of Gaul, 320\\nThat Amadis so famed in hall,\\nFor Oriana, foiled in fight\\nThe Necromancer s felon might;\\nAnd well in modern verse hast wove\\nPartenopex s mystic love:\\nHear, then, attentive to my lay,\\nA knightly tale of Albion s elder day.\\nCANTO FIRST\\nTHE CASTLE\\nDay, set on Norham s castled steep,\\nAnd Tweed s fair river, broad and deep,\\nAnd Cheviot s mountains lone;\\nThe battled towers, the donjon keep,\\nThe loophole grates where captives weep,\\nThe flanking walls that round it sweep,\\nIn yellow lustre shone.\\nThe warriors on the turrets high,\\nMoving athwart the evening sky,\\nSeemed forms of giant height;\\nTheir armor, as it caught the rays,\\nFlashed back again the western blaze,\\nIn lines of dazzling light.\\nSaint George s banner, broad and gay,\\nNow faded, as the fading ray\\nLess bright, and less, was flung;\\nThe evening gale had scarce the power\\nTo wave it on the donjon tower,\\nSo heavily it hung.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0123.jp2"}, "122": {"fulltext": "9 2\\nMARMION\\nThe scouts had parted on their search, 20\\nThe castle gates were barred\\nAbove the gloomy portal arch,\\nTimiug his footsteps to a march,\\nThe warder kept his guard,\\nLow humming, as he paced along,\\nSome ancient Border gathering song.\\nIII\\nA distant trampling sound he hears;\\nHe looks abroad, and soon appears,\\nO er Horncliff-hill, a plump of spears\\nBeneath a pennon gay; 30\\nA horseman, darting from the crowd\\nLike lightning from a summer cloud,\\nSpurs on his mettled courser proud,\\nBefore the dark array.\\nBeneath the sable palisade\\nThat closed the castle barricade,\\nHis bugle-horn he blew;\\nThe warder hasted from the wall,\\nAnd warned the captain in the hall,\\nFor well the blast he knew; 40\\nAnd joyfully that knight did call\\nTo sewer, squire, and seneschal.\\nIV\\nNow broach ye a pipe of Malvoisie,\\nBring pasties of the doe,\\nAnd quickly make the entrance free,\\nAnd bid my heralds ready be,\\nAnd every minstrel sound his glee,\\nAnd all our trumpets blow;\\nAnd, from the platform, spare ye not\\nTo fire a noble salvo-shot; 50\\nLord Marmion waits below\\nThen to the castle s lower ward\\nSped forty yeomen tall,\\nThe iron-studded gates unbarred,\\nRaised the portcullis ponderous guard,\\nThe lofty palisade unsparred,\\nAnd let the drawbridge fall.\\nAlong the bridge Lord Marmion rode,\\nProudly his red-roan charger trode,\\nHis helm hung at the saddle bow; 60\\nWell by his visage you might know\\nHe was a stalworth knight and keen,\\nAnd had in many a battle been;\\nThe scar on his brown cheek revealed\\nA token true of Bosworth field;\\nHis eyebrow dark and eye of fire\\nShowed spirit proud and prompt to ire,\\nYet lines of thought upon his cheek\\nDid deep design and counsel speak.\\nHis forehead, by his casque worn bare, 70\\nHis thick moustache and curly hair,\\nCoal-black, and grizzled here and there,\\nBut more through toil than age,\\nHis square-turned joints and strength of\\nlimb,\\nShowed him no carpet knight so trim,\\nBut in close fight a champion grim,\\nIn camps a leader sage.\\nWell was he armed from head to heel,\\nIn mail and plate of Milan steel;\\nBut his strong helm, of mighty cost, 80\\nWas all with burnished gold embossed.\\nAmid the plumage of the crest\\nA falcon hovered on her nest,\\nWith wings outspread and forward breast;\\nE en such a falcon, on his shield,\\nSoared sable in an azure field:\\nThe golden legend bore aright,\\nWho checks at me, to death is dight.\\nBlue was the charger s broidered rein;\\nBlue ribbons decked his arching mane; 90\\nThe knightly housing s ample fold\\nWas velvet blue and trapped with gold.\\nt;\\nVII\\nBehind him rode two gallant squires,\\nOf noble name and knightly sires:\\nThey burned the gilded spurs to claim,\\nFor well could each a war-horse tame,\\nCould draw the bow, the sword could\\nsway,\\nAnd lightly bear the ring away;\\nNor less with courteous precepts stored,\\nCould dance in hall, and carve at board,\\nAnd frame love-ditties passing rare, 10 1\\nAnd sing them to a lady fair.\\nVIII\\nFour men-at-arms came at their backs,\\nWith halbert, bill, and battle-axe;\\nThey bore Lord Marmion s lance so strong,\\nAnd led his sumpter-mules along,\\nAnd ambling palfrey, when at need\\nHim listed ease his battle-steed.\\nThe last and trustiest of the four\\nOn high his forky pennon bore; no\\nLike swallow s tail in shape and hue.\\nFluttered the streamer glossy blue,\\nWhere, blazoned sable, as before,\\nThe towering falcon seemed to soar.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0124.jp2"}, "123": {"fulltext": "CANTO FIRST: THE CASTLE\\n93\\nLast, twenty yeomen, two and two\\nIn bosen black and jerkins blue,\\nWith falcons broidered on each breast,\\nAttended on their lord s behest.\\nEach, chosen for an archer good,\\nKnew hunting-craft by lake or wood; 120\\nEach one a six-foot bow could bend,\\nAnd far a cloth-yard shaft could send;\\nEach held a boar-spear tough and strong,\\nAnd at their belts their quivers rung.\\nTheir dusty palfreys and array\\nShowed they had marched a weary way.\\nIX\\nT is meet that I should tell you now,\\nHow fairly armed, and ordered how,\\nThe soldiers of the guard,\\nWith musket, pike, and morion, 130\\nTo welcome noble Marmion,\\nStood in the castle-yard;\\nMinstrels and trumpeters were there,\\nThe gunner held his linstock yare,\\nFor welcome-shot prepared\\nEntered the train, and such a clang\\nAs then through all his turrets rang\\nOld Norham never heard.\\nThe guards their morrice-pikes advanced,\\nThe trumpets flourished brave, 140\\nThe cannon from the ramparts glanced,\\nAnd thundering welcome gave.\\nA blithe salute, in martial sort,\\nThe minstrels well might sound,\\nFor, as Lord Marmion crossed the court,\\nHe scattered angels round.\\nWelcome to Norham, Marmion\\nStout heart and open hand\\nWell dost thou brook thy gallant roan,\\nThou flower of English land 150\\nTwo pursuivants, whom tabards deck,\\nWith silver scutcheon round their neck,\\nStood on the steps of stone\\nBy which you reach the donjon gate,\\nAnd there, with herald pomp and state,\\nThey hailed Lord Marmion:\\nThey hailed him Lord of Fontenaye,\\nOf Lutterward, and Scrivelbaye,\\nOf Tarn worth tower and town;\\nAnd he, their courtesy to requite, 160\\nGave them a chain of twelve marks\\nweight,\\nAll as he lighted down.\\nNow, largesse, largesse, Lord Marmion,\\nKnight of the crest of gold\\nA blazoned shield, in battle won,\\nNe er guarded heart so bold.\\nXII\\nThey marshalled him to the castle-hall,\\nWhere the guests stood all aside,\\nAnd loudly flourished the trumpet-call,\\nAnd the heralds loudly cried, i 70\\nRoom, lordlings, room for Lord Marmion,\\nWith the crest and helm of gold\\nFull well we know the trophies won\\nIn the lists at Cottiswold:\\nThere, vainly Ralph de Wilton strove\\nGainst Marmion s force to stand;\\nTo him he lost his lady-love,\\nAnd to the king his land.\\nOurselves beheld the listed field,\\nA sight both sad and fair; ^o\\nWe saw Lord Marmion pierce his shield,\\nAnd saw his saddle bare;\\nWe saw the victor win the crest\\nHe wears with worthy pride,\\nAnd on the gibbet-tree, reversed,\\nHis foeman s scutcheon tied.\\nPlace, nobles, for the Falcon-Knight\\nRoom, room, ye gentles gay,\\nFor him who conquered in the right,\\nMarmion of Fontenaye I9 o\\nXIII\\nThen stepped, to meet that noble lord,\\nSir Hugh the Heron bold.\\nBaron of Twisell and of Ford,\\nAnd Captain of the Hold;\\nHe led Lord Marmion to the deas,\\nRaised o er the pavement high,\\nAnd placed him in the upper place\\nThey feasted full and high:\\nThe whiles a Northern harper rude\\nChanted a rhyme of deadly feud, 200\\nHow the fierce Thir walls, and Ridleys\\nall,\\nStout Willimondswick,\\nAnd Hardriding Dick,\\nAnd Hughie of Hawdon, and Will o the\\nWall,\\nHave set on Sir Albany Featherstonhaugh,\\nAnd taken his life at the Dead-man s-\\nshaw.\\nScantly Lord Marmion s ear could brook\\nThe harper s barbarous lay,\\nYet much he praised the pains he took,\\nAnd well those pains did pay 2 10", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0125.jp2"}, "124": {"fulltext": "94\\nMARMION\\nFor lady s suit and minstrel s strain\\nBy knight should ne er be heard in vain.\\nXIV\\nNow, good Lord Marmion, Heron says,\\nOf your fair courtesy,\\nI pray you bide some little space\\nIn this poor tower with me.\\nHere may you keep your arms from rust,\\nMay breathe your war-horse well;\\nSeldom hath passed a week but joust\\nOr feat of arms befell. 221\\nThe Scots can rein a mettled steed,\\nAnd love to couch a spear;\\nSaint George a stirring life they lead\\nThat have such neighbors near\\nThen stay with us a little space,\\nOur Northern wars to learn;\\nI pray you for your lady s grace\\nP L,\\nord Marmion s brow grew stern.\\nXV\\nThe captain marked his altered look,\\nAnd gave the squire the sign; 230\\nA mighty wassail-bowl he took,\\nAnd crowned it high with wine.\\n1 Now pledge me here, Lord Marmion;\\nBut first I pray thee fair,\\nWhere hast thou left that page of thine\\nThat used to serve thy cup of wine,\\nWhose beauty was so rare\\nWhen last in Baby-towers we met,\\nThe boy I closely eyed,\\nAnd often marked his cheeks were wet 240\\nWith tears he fain would hide.\\nHis was no rugged horse-boy s hand,\\nTo burnish shield or sharpen brand,\\nOr saddle battle-steed,\\nBut meeter seemed for lady fair,\\nTo fan her cheek, or curl her hair,\\nOr through embroidery, rich and rare,\\nThe slender silk to lead;\\nHis skin was fair, his ringlets gold,\\nHis bosom when he sighed, 250\\nThe russet doublet s rugged fold\\nCould scarce repel its pride\\nSay, hast thou given that lovely youth\\nTo serve in lady s bower\\nOr was the gentle page, in sooth,\\nA gentle paramour\\nLord Marmion ill could brook such jest;\\nHe rolled his kindling eye,\\nWith pain his rising wrath suppressed,\\nYet made a calm reply: 260\\nThat boy thou thought so goodly fair,\\nHe might not brook the Northern air.\\nMore of his fate if thou wouldst learn,\\nI left him sick in Lindisfarne.\\nEnough of him. But, Heron, say,\\nWhy does thy lovely lady gay\\nDisdain to grace the hall to-day\\nOr has that dame, so fair and sage,\\nGone on some pious pilgrimage\\nHe spoke in covert scorn, for fame 270\\nWhispered light tales of Heron s dame.\\nXVII\\nUnmarked, at least unrecked, the taunt,\\nCareless the knight replied:\\nNo bird whose feathers gayly flaunt\\nDelights in cage to bide\\nNorham is grim and grated close,\\nHemmed in by battlement and fosse,\\nAnd many a darksome tower,\\nAnd better loves my lady bright\\nTo sit in liberty and light 280\\nIn fair Queen Margaret s bower.\\nWe hold our greyhound in our hand,\\nOur falcon on our glove,\\nBut where shall we find leash or band\\nFor dame that loves to rove\\nLet the wild falcon soar her swing,\\nShe 11 stoop when she has tired her\\nwing.\\nXVIII\\nNay, if with Royal James s bride\\nThe lovely Lady Heron bide,\\nBehold me here a messenger,\\nYour tender greetings prompt to bear;\\nFor, to the Scottish court addressed,\\nI journey at our king s behest,\\nAnd pray you, of your grace, provide\\nFor me and mine a trusty guide.\\nI have not ridden in Scotland since\\nJames backed the cause of that mock\\nprince\\nWarbeck, that Flemish counterfeit,\\nWho on the gibbet paid the cheat.\\nThen did I march with Surrey s power, 300\\nWhat time we razed old Ay ton tower.\\nFor such-like need, my lord, I trow,\\nNorham can find you guides enow;\\nFor here be some have pricked as far\\nOn Scottish ground as to Dunbar,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0126.jp2"}, "125": {"fulltext": "CANTO FIRST: THE CASTLE\\n95\\nHave drunk the monks of Saint Bothan s\\nale,\\nAnd driven the beeves of Lauderdale,\\nHarried the wives of Greenlaw s goods,\\nAnd given them light to set their hoods.\\nNow, in good sooth, Lord Marmion\\ncried, 3 10\\nWere I in warlike wise to ride,\\nA better guard I would not lack\\nThan your stout forayers at my back;\\nBut as in form of peace I go,\\nA friendly messenger, to know,\\nWhy, through all Scotland, near and far,\\nTheir king is mustering troops for war,\\nThe sight of plundering Border spears\\nMight justify suspicious fears,\\nAnd deadly feud or thirst of spoil 320\\nBreak out in some unseemly broil.\\nA herald were my fitting guide;\\nOr friar, sworn in peace to bide;\\nOr pardoner, or travelling priest,\\nOr strolling pilgrim, at the least.\\nXXI\\nThe captain mused a little space,\\nAnd passed his hand across his face.\\nFain would I find the guide you want,\\nBut ill may spare a pursuivant,\\nThe only men that safe can ride 330\\nMine errands on the Scottish side\\nAnd though a bishop built this fort,\\nFew holy brethren here resort;\\nEven our good chaplain, as I ween,\\nSince our last siege we have not seen.\\nThe mass he might not sing or say\\nUpon one stinted meal a day;\\nSo, safe he sat in Durham aisle,\\nAnd prayed for our success the while.\\nOur Norham vicar, woe betide, 340\\nIs all too well in case to ride\\nThe priest of Shoreswood he could rein\\nThe wildest war-horse in your train,\\nBut then no spearman in the hall\\nWill sooner swear, or stab, or brawl.\\nFriar John of Tillmouth were the man;\\nA blithesome brother at the can,\\nA welcome guest in hall and bower,\\nHe knows each castle, town, and tower,\\nIn which the wine and ale is good, 350\\nTwixt Newcastle and Holy-Rood.\\nBut that good man, as ill befalls,\\nHath seldom left our castle walls,\\nSince, on the vigil of Saint Bede,\\nIn evil hour he crossed the Tweed,\\nTo teach Dame Alison her creed.\\nOld Bughtrig found him with his wife,\\nAnd John, an enemy to strife,\\nSans frock and hood, fled for his life.\\nThe jealous churl hath deeply swore 360\\nThat, if again he venture o er,\\nHe shall shrieve penitent no more.\\nLittle he loves such risks, I know,\\nYet in your guard perchance will go.\\nYoung Selby, at the fair hall-board,\\nCarved to his uncle and that lord,\\nAnd reverently took up the word:\\nKind uncle, woe were we each one,\\nIf harm should hap to brother John.\\nHe is a man of mirthful speech, 370\\nCan many a game and gambol teach;\\nFull well at tables can he play,\\nAnd sweep at bowls the stake away.\\nNone can a lustier carol bawl,\\nThe needfullest among us all,\\nWhen time hangs heavy in the hall,\\nAnd snow comes thick at Christmas tide,\\nAnd we can neither hunt nor ride\\nA foray on the Scottish side.\\nThe vowed revenge of Bughtrig rude 380\\nMay end in worse than loss of hood.\\nLet friar John in safety still\\nIn chimney-corner snore his fill,\\nRoast hissing crabs, or flagons swill\\nLast night, to Norham there came one\\nWill better guide Lord Marmion.\\nNephew, quoth Heron, by my fay,\\nWell hast thou spoke say forth thy say.\\nXXIII\\nHere is a holy Palmer come,\\nFrom Salem first, and last from Rome; 390\\nOne that hath kissed the blessed tomb,\\nAnd visited each holy shrine\\nIn Araby and Palestine;\\nOn hills of Armenie hath been,\\nWhere Noah s ark may yet be seen;\\nBy that Red Sea, too, hath he trod,\\nWhich parted at the Prophet s rod;\\nIn Sinai s wilderness he saw\\nThe Mount where Israel heard the law,\\nMid thunder-dint, and flashing levin, 400\\nAnd shadows, mists, and darkness, given.\\nHe shows Saint James s cockle-shell,\\nOf fair Montserrat, too, can tell;", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0127.jp2"}, "126": {"fulltext": "9 6\\nMARMION\\nAnd of that Grot where Olives nod,\\nWhere, darling of each heart and eye,\\nFrom all the youth of Sicily,\\nSaint Rosalie retired to God.\\nXXIV\\nTo stout Saint George of Norwich merry,\\nSaint Thomas, too, of Canterbury,\\nCuthbert of Durham and Saint Bede, 410\\nFor his sins pardon hath he prayed.\\nHe knows the passes of the North,\\nAnd seeks far shrines beyond the Forth;\\nLittle he eats, and long will wake,\\nAnd drinks but of the stream or lake.\\nThis were a guide o er moor and dale;\\nBut when our John hath quaffed his ale,\\nAs little as the wind that blows,\\nAnd warms itself against his nose,\\nKens he, or cares, which way he goes. 420\\nGramercy quoth Lord Marmion,\\nFull loath were I that Friar John,\\nThat venerable man, for me\\nWere placed in fear or jeopardy:\\nIf this same Palmer will me lead\\nFrom hence to Holy-Rood,\\nLike his good saint, I 11 pay his meed,\\nInstead of cockle-shell or bead,\\nWith angels fair and good.\\nI love such holy ramblers; still 430\\nThey know to charm a weary hill\\nWith song, romance, or lay:\\nSome jovial tale, or glee, or jest,\\nSome lying legend, at the least,\\nThey bring to cheer the way.\\nAh noble sir, young Selby said,\\nAnd finger on his lip he laid,\\nThis man knows much, perchance e en\\nmore\\nThan he could learn by holy lore.\\nStill to himself he s muttering, 440\\nAnd shrinks as at some unseen thing.\\nLast night we listened at his cell;\\nStrange sounds we heard, and, sooth to tell,\\nHe murmured on till morn, howe er\\nNo living mortal could be near.\\nSometimes I thought I heard it plain,\\nAs other voices spoke again.\\nI cannot tell I like it not\\nFriar John hath told us it is wrote,\\nNo conscience clear and void of wrong 450\\nCan rest awake and pray so long.\\nHimself still sleeps before his beads\\nHave marked ten aves and two creeds.\\nXXVII\\nLet pass, quoth Marmion by my fay,\\nThis man shall guide me on my way,\\nAlthough the great arch-fiend and he\\nHad sworn themselves of company.\\nSo please you, gentle youth, to call\\nThis Palmer to the castle-hall.\\nThe summoned Palmer came in place 460\\nHis sable cowl o erhung his face;\\nIn his black mantle was he clad,\\nWith Peter s keys, in cloth of red,\\nOn his broad shoulders wrought;\\nThe scallop shell his cap did deck;\\nThe crucifix around his neck\\nWas from Loretto brought;\\nHis sandals were with travel tore,\\nStaff, budget, bottle, scrip, he wore;\\nThe faded palm-branch in his hand 47 o\\nShowed pilgrim from the Holy Land.\\nXXVIII\\nWhenas the Palmer came in hall,\\nNor lord nor knight was there more tall,\\nOr had a statelier step withal,\\nOr looked more high and keen;\\nFor no saluting did he wait,\\nBut strode across the hall of state,\\nAnd fronted Marmion where he sate,\\nAs he his peer had been. 479\\nBut his gaunt frame was worn with toil;\\nHis cheek was sunk, alas the while\\nAnd when he struggled at a smile\\nHis eye looked haggard wild:\\nPoor wretch, the mother that him bare,\\nIf she had been in presence there,\\nIn his wan face and sunburnt hair\\nShe had not known her child.\\nDanger, long travel, want, or woe,\\nSoon change the form that best we know\\nFor deadly fear can time outgo, 490\\nAnd blanch at once the hair;\\nHard toil can roughen form and face,\\nAnd want can quench the eye s bright\\ngrace,\\nNor does old age a wrinkle trace\\nMore deeply than despair.\\nHappy whom none of these befall,\\nBut this poor Palmer knew them all\\nXXIX\\nLord Marmion then his boon did ask;\\nThe Palmer took on him the task,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0128.jp2"}, "127": {"fulltext": "INTRODUCTION TO CANTO SECOND\\n97\\nSo he would march with morning tide, 500\\nTo Scottish court to be his guide.\\nBut I have solemn vows to pay,\\nAnd may not linger by the way,\\nTo fair Saint Andrew s bound,\\nWithin the ocean-cave to pray,\\nWhere good Saint Rule his holy lay,\\nFrom midnight to the dawn of day,\\nSung to the billows sound\\nThence to Saint Fillan s blessed well, 509\\nWhose spring can frenzied dreams dispel,\\nAnd the crazed brain restore.\\nSaint Mary grant that cave or spring\\nCould back to peace my bosom bring,\\nOr bid it throb no more\\nAnd now the midnight draught of sleep,\\nWhere wine and spices richly steep,\\nIn massive bowl of silver deep,\\nThe page presents on knee.\\nLord Marmion drank a fair good rest,\\nThe captain pledged his noble guest, 520\\nThe cup went through among the rest,\\nWho drained it merrily;\\nAlone the Palmer passed it by,\\nThough Selby pressed him courteously.\\nThis was a sign the feast was o er;\\nIt hushed the merry wassail roar,\\nThe minstrels ceased to sound.\\nSoon in the castle nought was heard\\nBut the slow footstep of the guard\\nPacing his sober round. 530\\nXXXI\\nWith early dawn Lord Marmion rose:\\nAnd first the chapel doors unclose;\\nThen, after morning rites were done\\nA hasty mass from Friar John\\nAnd knight and squire had broke their\\nfast\\nOn rich substantial repast,\\nLord Marmion s bugles blew to horse.\\nThen came the stirrup-cup in course:\\nBetween the baron and his host,\\nNo point of courtesy was lost; 540\\nHigh thanks were by Lord Marmion paid,\\nSolemn excuse the captain made,\\nTill, filing from the gate, had passed\\nThat noble train, their lord the last.\\nThen loudly rung the trumpet call;\\nThundered the cannon from the wall,\\nAnd shook the Scottish shore;\\nAround the castle eddied slow\\nVolumes of smoke as white as snow\\nAnd hid its turrets hoar, 550\\nTill they rolled forth upon the air,\\nAnd met the river breezes there,\\nWhich gave again the prospect fair.\\nINTRODUCTION TO CANTO\\nSECOND\\nTO THE REV. JOHN MARRIOTT, A.M.\\nAshestiely Ettrick Forest\\nThe scenes are desert now and bare,\\nWhere flourished once a forest fair,\\nWhen these waste glens with copse were\\nlined,\\nAnd peopled with the hart and hind.\\nYon thorn perchance whose prickly\\nspears\\nHave fenced him for three hundred years,\\nWhile fell around his green compeers\\nYon lonely thorn, would he could tell\\nThe changes of his parent dell,\\nSince he, so gray and stubborn now, 10\\nWaved in each breeze a sapling bough\\nWould he couid tell how deep the shade\\nA thousand mingled branches made;\\nHow broad the shadows of the oak,\\nHow clung the rowan to the rock,\\nAnd through the foliage showed his head,\\nWith narrow leaves and berries red;\\nWhat pines on every mountain sprung,\\nO er every dell what birches hung,\\nIn every breeze what aspens shook, 20\\nWhat alders shaded every brook\\nHere, in my shade, methinks he d say,\\nThe mighty stag at noontide lay;\\nThe wolf I ve seen, a fiercer game,\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nThe neighboring dingle bears his name,\\nWith lurching step around me prowl,\\nAnd stop, against the moon to howl;\\nThe mountain-boar, on battle set,\\nHis tusks upon my stem would whet;\\nWhile doe, and roe, and red-deer good, 30\\nHave bounded by through gay greenwood.\\nThen oft from Newark s riven tower\\nSallied a Scottish monarch s power:\\nA thousand vassals mustered round,\\nWith horse, and hawk, and horn, and\\nhound\\nAnd I might see the youth intent\\nGuard every pass with crossbow bent;\\nAnd through the brake the rangers stalky", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0129.jp2"}, "128": {"fulltext": "98\\nMARMION\\nAnd falconers hold the ready hawk;\\nAnd foresters, in Greenwood trim, 4 o\\nLead in the leash the gazehounds grim,\\nAttentive, as the bratchet s bay\\nFrom the dark covert drove the prey,\\nTo slip them as he broke away.\\nThe startled quarry bounds amain,\\nAs fast the gallant greyhounds strain;\\nWhistles the arrow from the bow,\\nAnswers the harquebuss below;\\nWhile all the rocking hills reply\\nTo hoof-clang, hound, and hunters cry, 50\\nAnd bugles ringing lightsomely.\\nOf such proud huntings many tales\\nYet linger in our lonely dales,\\nUp pathless Ettrick and on Yarrow,\\nWhere erst the outlaw drew his arrow.\\nBut not more blithe that sylvan court,\\nThan we have been at humbler sport;\\nThough small our pomp and mean our\\ngame,\\nOur mirth, dear Marriott, was the same.\\nRemember st thou my greyhounds true\\nO er holt or hill there never flew, 61\\nFrom slip or leash there never sprang,\\nMore fleet of foot or sure of fang.\\nNor dull, between each merry chase,\\nPassed by the intermitted space;\\nFor we had fair resource in store,\\nIn Classic and in Gothic lore:\\nWe marked each memorable scene,\\nAnd held poetic talk between;\\nNor hill, nor brook, we paced along, 70\\nBut had its legend or its song.\\nAll silent now for now are still\\nThy bowers, untenanted Bowhill\\nNo longer from thy mountains dun\\nThe yeoman hears the well-known gun,\\nAnd while his honest heart glows warm\\nAt thought of his paternal farm,\\nRound to his mates a brimmer fills,\\nAnd drinks, The Chieftain of the Hills\\nNo fairy forms, in Yarrow s bowers, 80\\nTrip o er the walks or tend the flowers,\\nFair as the elves whom Janet saw\\nBy moonlight dance on Carterhaugh;\\nNo youthful Baron s left to grace\\nThe Forest-Sheriff s lonely chace,\\nAnd ape, in manly step and tone,\\nThe majesty of Oberon:\\nAnd she is gone whose lovely face\\nIs but her least and lowest grace; 89\\nThough if to Sylphid Queen t were given\\nTo show our earth the charms of heaven,\\nShe could not glide along the air\\nWith form more light or face more fair.\\nNo more the widow s deafened ear\\nGrows quick that lady s step to hear:\\nAt noontide she expects her not,\\nNor busies her to trim the cot;\\nPensive she turns her humming wheel,\\nOr pensive cooks her orphans meal,\\nYet blesses, ere she deals their bread, 100\\nThe gentle hand by which they re fed.\\nFrom Yair which hills so closely bind,\\nScarce can the Tweed his passage find,\\nThough much he fret, and chafe, and toil,\\nTill all his eddying currents boil\\nHer long-descended lord is gone,\\nAnd left us by the stream alone.\\nAnd much I miss those sportive boys,\\nCompanions of my mountain joys,\\nJust at the age twixt boy and youth, no\\nWhen thought is speech, and speech is\\ntruth.\\nClose to my side with what delight\\nThey pressed to hear of Wallace wight,\\nWhen, pointing to his airy mound,\\nI called his ramparts holy ground\\nKindled their brows to hear me speak;\\nAnd I have smiled, to feel my cheek,\\nDespite the difference of our years,\\nReturn again the glow of theirs.\\nAh, happy boys such feelings pure, 120\\nThey will not, cannot long endure\\nCondemned to stem the world s rude tide,\\nYou may not linger by the side;\\nFor Fate shall thrust you from the shore\\nAnd Passion ply the sail and oar.\\nYet cherish the remembrance still\\nOf the lone mountain and the rill\\nFor trust, dear boys, the time will come,\\nWhen fiercer transport shall be dumb,\\nAnd you will think right frequently, 130\\nBut, well I hope, without a sigh,\\nOn the free hours that we have spent\\nTogether on the brown hill s bent.\\nWhen, musing on companions gone,\\nWe doubly feel ourselves alone,\\nSomething, my friend, we yet may gain;\\nThere is a pleasure in this pain:\\nIt soothes the love of lonely rest,\\nDeep in each gentler heart impressed.\\nT is silent amid worldly toils, 140\\nAnd stifled soon by mental broils;\\nBut, in a bosom thus prepared,\\nIts still small voice is often heard,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0130.jp2"}, "129": {"fulltext": "INTRODUCTION TO CANTO SECOND\\n99\\nWhispering a mingled sentiment\\nTwixt resignation and content.\\nOft in my mind such thoughts awake\\nBy lone Saint Mary s silent lake:\\nThou know st it well, nor fen nor sedge\\nPollute the pure lake s crystal edge\\nAbrupt and sheer, the mountains sink 150\\nAt once upon the level brink,\\nAnd just a trace of silver sand\\nMarks where the water meets the land.\\nFar in the mirror, bright and blue,\\nEach hill s huge outline you may view;\\nShaggy with heath, but lonely bare,\\nNor tree, nor bush, nor brake is there,\\nSave where of land yon slender line\\nBears thwart the lake the scattered pine.\\nYet even this nakedness has power, 160\\nAnd aids the feeling of the hour:\\nNor thicket, dell, nor copse you spy,\\nWhere living thing concealed might lie;\\nNor point retiring hides a dell\\nWhere swain or woodman lone might\\ndwell.\\nThere s nothing left to fancy s guess,\\nYou see that all is loneliness:\\nAnd silence aids though the steep hills\\nSend to the lake a thousand rills;\\nIn summer tide so soft they weep, 170\\nThe sound but lulls the ear asleep;\\nYour horse s hoof-tread sounds too rude,\\nSo stilly is the solitude.\\nNought living meets the eye or ear,\\nBut well I ween the dead are near;\\nFor though, in feudal strife, a foe\\nHath laid Our Lady s chapel low,\\nYet still, beneath the hallowed soil,\\nThe peasant rests him from his toil,\\nAnd dying bids his bones be laid 180\\nWhere erst his simple fathers prayed.\\nIf age had tamed the passions strife,\\nAnd fate had cut my ties to life,\\nHere have I thought t were sweet to\\ndwell,\\nAnd rear again the chaplain s cell,\\nLike that same peaceful hermitage,\\nWhere Milton longed to spend his age.\\nT were sweet to mark the setting day\\nOn Bourhope s lonely top decay,\\nAnd, as it faint and feeble died 190\\nOn the broad lake and mountain s side,\\nTo say, Thus pleasures fade away\\nYouth, talents, beauty, thus decay,\\nAnd leave us dark, forlorn, and gray;\\nThen gaze on Dryhope s ruined tower,\\nAnd think on Yarrow s faded Flower;\\nAnd when that mountain-sound I heard,\\nWhich bids us be for storm prepared,\\nThe distant rustling of his wings,\\nAs up his force the Tempest brings, 200\\nT were sweet, ere yet his terrors rave,\\nTo sit upon the Wizard s grave,\\nThat Wizard Priest s whose bones are\\nthrust\\nFrom company of holy dust;\\nOn which no sunbeam ever shines\\nSo superstition s creed divines\\nThence view the lake with sullen roar\\nHeave her broad billows to the shore;\\nAnd mark the wild-swans mount the gale,\\nSpread wide through mist their snowy\\nsail, 210\\nAnd ever stoop again, to lave\\nTheir bosoms on the surging wave;\\nThen, when against the driving hail\\nNo longer might my plaid avail,\\nBack to my lonely home retire,\\nAnd light my lamp and trim my fire\\nThere ponder o er some mystic lay,\\nTill the wild tale had all its sway,\\nAnd, in the bittern s distant shriek,\\nI heard unearthly voices speak, 220\\nAnd thought the Wizard Priest was come\\nTo claim again his ancient home\\nAnd bade my busy fancy range,\\nTo frame him fitting shape and strange,\\nTill from the task my brow I cleared,\\nAnd smiled to think that I had feared.\\nBut chief t were sweet to think such\\nlife\\nThough but escape from fortune s strife\\nSomething most matchless good and wise,\\nA great and grateful sacrifice, 230\\nAnd deem each hour to musing given\\nA step upon the road to heaven.\\nYet him whose heart is ill at ease\\nSuch peaceful solitudes displease;\\nHe loves to drown his bosom s jar\\nAmid the elemental war:\\nAnd my black Palmer s choice had been\\nSome ruder and more savage scene,\\nLike that which frowns round dark Loch-\\nskene.\\nThere eagles scream from isle to shore; 240\\nDown all the rocks the torrents roar;\\nO er the black waves incessant driven,\\nDark mists infect the summer heaven:\\nLofC.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0131.jp2"}, "130": {"fulltext": "IOO\\nMARMION\\nThrough the rude barriers of the lake,\\nAway its hurrying waters break,\\nFaster and whiter dash and curl,\\nTill down yon dark abyss they hurl.\\nRises the fog-smoke white as snow,\\nThunders the viewless stream below,\\nDiving, as if condemned to lave 250\\nSome demon s subterranean cave,\\nWho, prisoned by enchanter s spell,\\nShakes the dark rock with groan and\\nyell.\\nAnd well that Palmer s form and mien\\nHad suited with the stormy scene,\\nJust on the edge, straining his ken\\nTo view the bottom of the den,\\nWhere, deep deep down, and far within,\\nToils with the rocks the roaring linn;\\nThen, issuing forth one foamy wave, 260\\nAnd wheeling round the Giant s Grave,\\nWhite as the snowy charger s tail,\\nDrives down the pass of Moffatdale.\\nMarriott, thy harp, on Isis strung,\\nTo many a Border theme has rung\\nThen list to me, and thou shalt know\\nOf this mysterious Man of Woe.\\nCANTO SECOND\\nTHE CONVENT\\nThe breeze which swept away the smoke\\nRound Norham Castle rolled,\\nWhen all the loud artillery spoke\\nWith lightning-flash and thunder-stroke,\\nAs Marmion left the hold,\\nIt curled not Tweed alone, that breeze,\\nFor, far upon Northumbrian seas,\\nIt freshly blew and strong,\\nWhere, from high Whitby s cloistered pile,\\nBound to Saint Cuthbert s Holy Isle, 10\\nIt bore a bark along.\\nUpon the gale she stooped her side,\\nAnd bounded o er the swelling tide,\\nAs she were dancing home;\\nThe merry seamen laughed to see\\nTheir gallant ship so lustily\\nFurrow the green sea-foam.\\nMuch joyed they in their honored freight;\\nFor on the deck, in chair of state,\\nThe Abbess of Saint Hilda placed, 20\\nWith five fair nuns, the galley graced.\\nT was sweet to see these holy maids,\\nLike birds escaped to greenwood shades\\nTheir first flight from the cage,\\nHow timid, and how curious too,\\nFor all to them was strange and new,\\nAnd all the common sights they view\\nTheir wonderment engage.\\nOne eyed the shrouds and swelling sail,\\nWith many a benedicite;\\nOne at the rippling surge grew pale,\\nAnd would for terror pray,\\nThen shrieked because the sea-dog nigh\\nHis round black head and sparkling eye\\nReared o er the foaming spray;\\nAnd one would still adjust her veil,\\nDisordered by the summer gale,\\nPerchance lest some more worldly eye\\nHer dedicated charms might spy,\\nPerchance because such action graced 4c\\nHer fair-turned arm and slender waist.\\nLight was each simple bosom there,\\nSave two, who ill might pleasure share,\\nThe Abbess and the Novice Clare.\\nThe Abbess was of noble blood,\\nBut early took the veil and hood,\\nEre upon life she cast a look,\\nOr knew the world that she forsook.\\nFair too she was, and kind had been\\nAs she was fair, but ne er had seen\\nFor her a timid lover sigh,\\nNor knew the influence of her eye.\\nLove to her ear was but a name,\\nCombined with vanity and shame;\\nHer hopes, her fears, her joys, were all\\nBounded within the cloister wall;\\nThe deadliest sin her mind could reach\\nWas of monastic rule the breach,\\nAnd her ambition s highest aim\\nTo emulate Saint Hilda s fame.\\nFor this she gave ber ample dower\\nTo raise the convent s eastern tower;\\nFor this, with carving rare and quaint,\\nShe decked the chapel of the saint,\\nAnd gave the relic-shrine of cost,\\nWith ivory and gems embossed.\\nThe poor her convent s bounty blest,\\nThe pilgrim in its halls found rest.\\n30\\n5\u00c2\u00ab\\nIV\\nBlack was her garb, her rigid rule\\nReformed on Benedictine school;\\n70", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0132.jp2"}, "131": {"fulltext": "CANTO SECOND: THE CONVENT\\nIOI\\nHer cheek was pale, her form was spare\\nVigils and penitence austere\\nHad early quenched the light of youth:\\nBut gentle was the dame, in sooth;\\nThough, vain of her religious sway,\\nShe loved to see her maids obey,\\nYet nothing stern was she in cell,\\nAnd the nuns loved their Abbess well.\\nSad was this voyage to the dame;\\nSummoned to Lindisfarne, she came, 80\\nThere, with Saint Cuthbert s Abbot old\\nAnd Tynemouth s Prioress, to hold\\nA chapter of Saint Benedict,\\nFor inquisition stern and strict\\nOn two apostates from the faith,\\nAnd, if need were, to doom to death.\\nNought say I here of Sister Clare,\\nSave this, that she was young and fair;\\nAs yet a novice unprofessed,\\nLovely and gentle, but distressed. 90\\nShe was betrothed to one now dead,\\nOr worse, who had dishonored fled.\\nHer kinsmen bade her give her hand\\nTo one who loved her for her land;\\nHerself, almost heart-broken now,\\nWas bent to take the vestal vow,\\nAnd shroud within Saint Hilda s gloom\\nHer blasted hopes and withered bloom.\\nVI\\nShe sate upon the galley s prow,\\nAnd seemed to mark the waves below; 100\\nNay, seemed, so fixed her look and eye,\\nTo count them as they glided by.\\nShe saw them not t was seeming all\\nFar other scene her thoughts recall,\\nA sun-scorched desert, waste and bare,\\nNor waves nor breezes murmured there;\\nThere saw she where some careless hand\\nO er a dead corpse had heaped the sand,\\nTo hide it till the jackals come\\nTo tear it from the scanty tomb. 1 10\\nSee what a woful look was given,\\nAs she raised up her eyes to heaven\\nLovely, and gentle, and distressed\\nThese charms might tame the fiercest\\nbreast:\\nHarpers have sung and poets told\\nThat he, in fury uncontrolled,\\nThe shaggy monarch of the wood,\\nBefore a virgin, fair and good,\\nHath pacified his savage mood.\\nBut passions in the human frame 120\\nOft put the lion s rage to shame\\nAnd jealousy, by dark intrigue,\\nWith sordid avarice in league,\\nHad practised with their bowl and knife\\nAgainst the mourner s harmless life.\\nThis crime was charged gainst those who\\nlay\\nPrisoned in Cuthbert s islet gray.\\nVIII\\nAnd now the vessel skirts the strand\\nOf mountainous Northumberland;\\nTowns, towers, and halls successive rise, 130\\nAnd catch the nuns delighted eyes.\\nMonk-Wearmouth soon behind them lay,\\nAnd Tynemouth s priory and bay;\\nThey marked amid her trees the hall\\nOf lofty Seaton-Delaval;\\nThey saw the Blythe and Wansbeck floods\\nRush to the sea through sounding woods;\\nThey passed the tower of Widderington,\\nMother of many a valiant son\\nAt Coquet-isle their beads they tell 140\\nTo the good saint who owned the cell;\\nThen did the Alne attention claim,\\nAnd Warkworth, proud of Percy s name;\\nAnd next they crossed themselves to hear\\nThe whitening breakers sound so near,\\nWhere, boiling through the rocks, they roar\\nOn Dunstanborough s caverned shore;\\nThy tower, proud Bamborough, marked\\nthey there,\\nKing Ida s castle, huge and square,\\nFrom its tall rock look grimly down, 150\\nAnd on the swelling ocean frown\\nThen from the coast they bore away,\\nAnd reached the Holy Island s bay.\\nIX\\nThe tide did now its flood-mark gain,\\nAnd girdled in the Saint s domain\\nFor, with the flow and ebb, its style\\nVaries from continent to isle:\\nDry shod, o er sands, twice every day\\nThe pilgrims to the shrine find way;\\nTwice every day the waves efface 160\\nOf staves and sandalled feet the trace.\\nAs to the port the galley flew,\\nHigher and higher rose to view\\nThe castle with its battled walls,\\nThe ancient monastery s halls,\\nA solemn, huge, and dark-red pile,\\nPlaced on the margin of the isle.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0133.jp2"}, "132": {"fulltext": "102\\nMARMION\\nIn Saxon strength that abbey frowned,\\nWith massive arches broad and round,\\nThat rose alternate, row and row, i 7 o\\nOn ponderous columns, short and low,\\nBuilt ere the art was known,\\nBy pointed aisle and shafted stalk\\nThe arcades of an alleyed walk\\nTo emulate in stone.\\nOn the deep walls the heathen Dane\\nHad poured his impious rage in vain;\\nAnd needful was such strength to these,\\nExposed to the tempestuous seas,\\nScourged by the winds eternal sway, 180\\nOpen to rovers fierce as they,\\nWhich could twelve hundred years with-\\nstand\\nWinds, waves, aud northern pirates hand.\\nNot but that portions of the pile,\\nRebuilded in a later style,\\nShowed where the spoiler s hand had been;\\nNot but the wasting sea-breeze keen\\nHad worn the pillar s carving quaint,\\nAnd mouldered in his niche the saint,\\nAnd rounded with consuming power 190\\nThe pointed angles of each tower;\\nYet still entire the abbey stood,\\nLike veteran, worn, but unsubdued.\\nXI\\nSoon as they neared his turrets strong,\\nThe maidens raised Saint Hilda s song,\\nAnd with the sea-wave and the wind\\nTheir voices, sweetly shrill, combined,\\nAnd made harmonious close;\\nThen, answering from the sandy shore,\\nHalf-drowned amid the breakers roar, 200\\nAccording chorus rose:\\nDown to the haven of the Isle\\nThe monks and nuns in order file\\nFrom Cuthbert s cloisters grim;\\nBanner, and cross, and relics there,\\nTo meet Saint Hilda s maids, they bare;\\nAnd, as they caught the sounds on air,\\nThey echoed back the hymn.\\nThe islanders in joyous mood\\nRushed emulously through the flood 210\\nTo hale the bark to land;\\nConspicuous by her veil and hood,\\nSigning the cross, the Abbess stood,\\nAnd blessed them with her hand.\\nSuppose we now the welcome said,\\nSuppose the convent banquet made:\\nan,\\n23\\nAll through the holy dome,\\nThrough cloister, aisle, and gallery,\\nWherever vestal maid might pry,\\nNor risk to meet unhallowed eye,\\nThe stranger sisters roam;\\nTill fell the evening damp with dew,\\nAnd the sharp sea-breeze coldly blew,\\nFor there even summer night is chill.\\nThen, having strayed and gazed their\\nThey closed around the fire;\\nAnd all, in turn, essayed to paint\\nThe rival merits of their saint,\\nA theme that ne er can tire\\nA holy maid, for be it known\\nThat their saint s honor is their own.\\nXIII\\nThen Whitby s nuns exulting told\\nHow to their house three barons bold\\nMust menial service do,\\nWhile horns blow out a note of shame,\\nAnd monks cry, Fie upon your name\\nIn wrath, for loss of sylvan game,\\nSaint Hilda s priest ye slew.\\nThis, on Ascension-day, each year\\nWhile laboring on our harbor-pier,\\nMust Herbert, Bruce, and Percy hear.\\nThey told how in their convent-cell\\nA Saxon princess once did dwell,\\nThe lovely Edelfled;\\nAnd how, of thousand snakes, each one\\nWas changed into a coil of stone\\nWhen holy Hilda prayed\\nThemselves, within their holy bound,\\nTheir stony folds had often found.\\nThey told how sea-fowls pinions fail, 250\\nAs over Whitby s towers they sail,\\nAnd, sinking down, with flutterings faint,\\nThey do their homage to the saint.\\nNor did Saint Cuthbert s daughters fail\\nTo vie with these in holy tale\\nHis body s resting-place, of old,\\nHow oft their patron changed, they told;\\nHow, when the rude Dane burned their pile,\\nThe monks fled forth from Holy Isle; 259\\nO er northern mountain, marsh, and moor,\\nFrom sea to sea, from shore to shore,\\nSeven years Saint Cuthbert s corpse they\\nbore.\\nThey rested them in fair Melrose;\\nBut though, alive, he loved it well,\\nNot there his relics might repose;\\nFor, wondrous tale to tell", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0134.jp2"}, "133": {"fulltext": "CANTO SECOND: THE CONVENT\\n103\\nIn his stone coffin forth he rides,\\nA ponderous bark for river tides,\\nYet light as gossamer it glides\\nDownward to Tilmouth cell. 270\\nNor long was his abiding there,\\nFor southward did the saint repair;\\nChester-le-Street and Ripon saw\\nHis holy corpse ere Wardilaw\\nHailed him with joy and fear;\\nAnd, after many wanderings past,\\nHe chose his lordly seat at last\\nWhere his cathedral, huge and vast,\\nLooks down upon the Wear.\\nThere, deep in Durham s Gothic shade, 280\\nHis relics are in secret laid;\\nBut none may know the place,\\nSave of his holiest servants three,\\nDeep sworn to solemn secrecy,\\nWho share that wondrous grace.\\nxv\\nWho may his miracles declare\\nEven Scotland s dauntless king and heir\\nAlthough with them they led\\nGalwegians, wild as ocean s gale, 289\\nAnd Loden s knights, all sheathed in mail,\\nAnd the bold men of Teviotdale\\nBefore his standard fled.\\nT was he, to vindicate his reign,\\nEdged Alfred s falchion on the Dane,\\nAnd turned the Conqueror back again,\\nWhen, with his Norman bowyer band,\\nHe came to waste Northumberland.\\nXVI\\nBut fain Saint Hilda s nuns would learn\\nIf on a rock, by Lindisfarne,\\nSaint Cuthbert sits, and toils to frame 300\\nThe sea-born beads that bear his name:\\nSuch tales had Whitby s fishers told,\\nAnd said they might his shape behold,\\nAnd hear his anvil sound;\\nA deadened clang, a huge dim form,\\nSeen but, and heard, when gathering storm\\nAnd night were closing round.\\nBut this, as tale of idle fame,\\nThe nuns of Lindisfarne disclaim.\\nWhile round the fire such legends go, 310\\nFar different was the scene of woe\\nWhere, in a secret aisle beneath,\\nCouncil was held of life and death.\\nIt was more dark and lone, that vault,\\nThan the worst dungeon cell;\\nOld Colwulf built it, for his fault\\nIn penitence to dwell,\\nWhen he for cowl and beads laid down\\nThe Saxon battle-axe and crown.\\nThis den, which, chilling every sense 320\\nOf feeling, hearing, sight,\\nWas called the Vault of Penitence,\\nExcluding air and light,\\nWas by the prelate Sexhelm made\\nA place of burial for such dead\\nAs, having died in mortal sin,\\nMight not be laid the church within.\\nT was now a place of punishment;\\nWhence if so loud a shriek were sent\\nAs reached the upper air, 330\\nThe hearers blessed themselves, and said\\nThe spirits of the sinful dead\\nBemoaned their torments there.\\nXVIII\\nBut though, in the monastic pile,\\nDid of this penitential aisle\\nSome vague tradition go,\\nFew only, save the Abbot, knew\\nWhere the place lay, and still more few\\nWere those who had from him the clew\\nTo that dread vault to go. 340\\nVictim and executioner\\nWere blindfold when transported there.\\nIn low dark rounds the arches hung,\\nFrom the rude rock the side- walls sprung;\\nThe gravestones, rudely sculptured o er,\\nHalf sunk in earth, by time half wore,\\nWere all the pavement of the floor;\\nThe mildew-drops fell one by one,\\nWith tinkling plash, upon the stone.\\nA cresset, in an iron chain, 350\\nWhich served to light this drear domain,\\nWith damp and darkness seemed to strive,\\nAs if it scarce might keep alive;\\nAnd yet it dimly served to show\\nThe awful conclave met below.\\nXIX\\nThere, met to doom in secrecy,\\nWere placed the heads of convents three,\\nAll servants of Saint Benedict,\\nThe statutes of whose order strict\\nOn iron table lay; 360\\nIn long black dress, on seats of stone,\\nBehind were these three judges shown\\nBy the pale cresset s ray.\\nThe Abbess of Saint Hilda s there\\nSat for a space with visage bare,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0135.jp2"}, "134": {"fulltext": "104\\nMARMION\\nUntil, to hide her bosom s swell,\\nAnd tear-drops that for pity fell,\\nShe closely drew her veil;\\nYon shrouded figure, as I guess,\\nBy her proud mien and flowing dress, 370\\nIs Tynemouth s haughty Prioress,\\nAnd she with awe looks pale;\\nAnd he, that ancient man, whose sight\\nHas long been quenched by age s night,\\nUpon whose wrinkled brow alone\\nNor ruth nor mercy s trace is shown,\\nWhose look is hard and stern,\\nSaint Cuthbert s Abbot is his style,\\nFor sanctity called through the isle\\nThe Saint of Lindisfarne. 380\\nxx\\nBefore them stood a guilty pair;\\nBut, though an equal fate they share,\\nYet one alone deserves our care.\\nHer sex a page s dress belied;\\nThe cloak and doublet, loosely tied,\\nObscured her charms, but could not hide.\\nHer cap down o er her face she drew;\\nAnd, on her doublet breast,\\nShe tried to hide the badge of blue,\\nLord Marmion s falcou crest. 390\\nBut, at the prioress command,\\nA monk undid the silken band\\nThat tied her tresses fair,\\nAnd raised the bonnet from her head,\\nAnd down her slender form they spread\\nIn ringlets rich and rare.\\nConstance de Beverley they know,\\nSister professed of Fontevraud,\\nWhom the Church numbered with the\\ndead,\\nFor broken vows and convent fled. 400\\nXXI\\nWhen thus her face was given to view,\\nAlthough so pallid was her hue,\\nIt did a ghastly contrast bear\\nTo those bright ringlets glistering fair,\\nHer look composed, and steady eye,\\nBespoke a matchless constancy;\\nAnd there she stood so calm and pale\\nThat, but her breathing did not fail,\\nAnd motion slight of eye and head,\\nAnd of her bosom, warranted 410\\nThat neither sense nor pulse she lacks,\\nYou might have thought a form of wax,\\nWrought to the very life, was there;\\nSo still she was, so pale, so fair.\\nXXII\\nHer comrade was a sordid soul,\\nSuch as does murder for a meed;\\nWho, but of fear, knows no control,\\nBecause his conscience, seared and foul,\\nFeels not the import of his deed;\\nOne whose brute-feeling ne er aspires 420\\nBeyond his own more brute desires.\\nSuch tools the Tempter ever needs\\nTo do the savagest of deeds;\\nFor them no visioned terrors daunt,\\nTheir nights no fancied spectres haunt;\\nOne fear with them, of all most base,\\nThe fear of death, alone finds place.\\nThis wretch was clad in frock and cowl,\\nAnd shamed not loud to moan and howl,\\nHis body on the floor to dash, 43 o\\nAnd crouch, like hound beneath the\\nlash;\\nWhile his mute partner, standing\\nWaited her doom without a tear.\\nXXIII\\nYet well the luckless wretch might shriek,\\nWell might her paleness terror speak\\nFor there were seen in that dark wall\\nTwo niches, narrow, deep, and tall;\\nWho enters at such grisly door\\nShall ne er, I ween, find exit more.\\nIn each a slender meal was laid, 440\\nOf roots, of water, and of bread;\\nBy each, in Benedictine dress,\\nTwo haggard monks stood motionless,\\nWho, holding high a blazing torch,\\nShowed the grim entrance of the porch;\\nReflecting back the smoky beam,\\nThe dark-red walls and arches gleam.\\nHewn stones and cement were displayed,\\nAnd building tools in order laid.\\nXXIV\\nThese executioners were chose 450\\nAs men who were with mankind foes,\\nAnd, with despite and envy fired,\\nInto the cloister had retired,\\nOr who, in desperate doubt of grace,\\nStrove by deep penance to efface\\nOf some foul crime the stain;\\nFor, as the vassals of her will,\\nSuch men the Church selected still\\nAs either joyed in doing ill,\\nOr thought more grace to gain 460\\nIf in her cause they wrestled down\\nFeelings their nature strove to own.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0136.jp2"}, "135": {"fulltext": "CANTO SECOND: THE CONVENT\\n5\\nBy strange device were they brought\\nthere,\\nThey knew not how, and knew not where.\\nxxv\\nAnd now that blind old abbot rose,\\nTo speak the Chapter s doom\\nOn those the wall was to enclose\\nAlive within the tomb,\\nBut stopped because that wof ul maid,\\nGathering her powers, to speak essayed; 470\\nTwice she essayed, and twice in vain,\\nHer accents might no utterance gain;\\nNought but imperfect murmurs slip\\nFrom her convulsed and quivering lip:\\nTwixt each attempt all was so still,\\nYou seemed to hear a distant rill\\nTwas ocean s swells and falls;\\nFor though this vault of sin and fear\\nWas to the sounding surge so near, 479\\nA tempest there you scarce could hear,\\nSo massive were the walls.\\nAt length, an effort sent apart\\nThe blood that curdled to her heart,\\nAnd light came to her eye,\\nAnd color dawned upon her cheek,\\nA hectic and a fluttered streak,\\nLike that left on the Cheviot peak\\nBy Autumn s stormy sky;\\nAnd when her silence broke at length,\\nStill as she spoke she gathered strength,\\nAnd armed herself to bear. 491\\nIt was a fearful sight to see\\nSuch high resolve and constancy\\nIn form so soft and fair.\\nXXVII\\nI speak not to implore your grace,\\nWell know I for one minute s space\\nSuccessless might I sue:\\nNor do I speak your prayers to gain;\\nFor if a death of lingering pain\\nTo cleanse my sins be penance vain, 500\\nVain are your masses too.\\nI listened to a traitor s tale,\\nI left the convent and the veil;\\nFor three long years I bowed my pride,\\nA horse-boy in his train to ride\\nAnd well my folly s meed he gave,\\nWho forfeited, to be his slave,\\nAll here, and all beyond the grave.\\nHe saw young Clara s face more fair,\\nHe knew her of broad lands the heir, 510\\nForgot his vows, his faith forswore,\\nAnd Constance was beloved no more.\\nT is an old tale, and often told;\\nBut did my fate and wish agree,\\nNe er had been read, in story old,\\nOf maiden true betrayed for gold,\\nThat loved, or was avenged, like me\\nXXVIII\\nThe king approved his favorite s aim;\\nIn vain a rival barred his claim,\\nWhose fate with Clare s was plight, 520\\nFor he attaints that rival s fame\\nWith treason s charge and on they came\\nIn mortal lists to fight.\\nTheir oaths are said,\\nTheir prayers are prayed,\\nTheir lances in the rest are laid,\\nThey meet in mortal shock;\\nAnd hark the throng, with thundering\\ncry,\\nShout Marmion, Marmion to the sky,\\nDe Wilton to the block 530\\nSay, ye who preach Heaven shall decide\\nWhen in the lists two champions ride,\\nSay, was Heaven s justice here\\nWhen, loyal in his love and faith,\\nWilton found overthrow or death\\nBeneath a traitor s spear\\nHow false the charge, how true he fell,\\nThis guilty packet best can tell.\\nThen drew a packet from her breast,\\nPaused, gathered voice, and spoke the\\nrest. 540\\nXXIX\\nStill was false Marmion s bridal stayed;\\nTo Whitby s convent fled the maid,\\nThe hated match to shun.\\nHo! shifts she thus? King Henry\\ncried,\\nSir Marmion, she shall be thy bride,\\nIf she were sworn a nun.\\nOne way remained the king s command\\nSent Marmion to the Scottish land;\\nI lingered here, and rescue planned\\nFor Clara and for me: 550\\nThis caitiff monk for gold did swear\\nHe would to Whitby s shrine repair,\\nAnd by his drugs my rival fair\\nA saint in heaven should be\\nBut ill the dastard kept his oath,\\nWhose cowardice hath undone us both.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0137.jp2"}, "136": {"fulltext": "io6\\nMARMION\\nXXX\\nAnd now niy tongue the secret tells,\\nNot that remorse my bosom swells,\\nBut to assure my soul that none\\nShall ever wed with Marmion. 560\\nHad fortune my last hope betrayed,\\nThis packet, to the king conveyed,\\nHad given him to the headsman s stroke,\\nAlthough my heart that instant broke.\\nNow, men of death, work forth your will,\\nFor I can suffer, and be still;\\nAnd come he slow, or come he fast,\\nIt is but Death who comes at last.\\nXXXI\\nYet dread me from my living tomb,\\nYe vassal slaves of bloody Rome 570\\nIf Marmion s late remorse should wake,\\nFull soon such vengeance will he take\\nThat you shall wish the fiery Dane\\nHad rather been your guest again.\\nBehind, a darker hour ascends\\nThe altars quake, the crosier bends,\\nThe ire of a despotic king\\nRides forth upon destruction s wing;\\nThen shall these vaults, so strong and\\ndeep,\\nBurst open to the sea- winds sweep; 580\\nSome traveller then shall find my bones\\nWhitening amid disjointed stones,\\nAnd, ignorant of priests cruelty,\\nMarvel such relics here should be.\\nXXXII\\nFixed was her look and stern her air:\\nBack from her shoulders streamed her\\nhair;\\nThe locks that wont her brow to shade\\nStared up erectly from her head;\\nHer figure seemed to rise more high;\\nHer voice despair s wild energy 590\\nHad given a tone of prophecy.\\nAppalled the astonished conclave sate;\\nWith stupid eyes, the men of fate\\nGazed on the light inspired form,\\nAnd listened for the avengiug storm\\nThe judges felt the victim s dread;\\nNo hand was moved, no word was said,\\nTill thus the abbot s doom was given,\\nRaising his sightless balls to heaven:\\nSister, let thy sorrows cease; 600\\nSinful brother, part in peace\\nFrom that dire dungeon, place of doom,\\nOf execution too, and tomb,\\nPaced forth the judges three;\\nSorrow it were and shame to tell\\nThe butcher-work that there befell,\\nWhen they had glided from the cell\\nOf sin and misery.\\nXXXIII\\nAn hundred winding steps convey\\nThat conclave to the upper day; 610\\nBut ere they breathed the fresher air\\nThey heard the shriekings of despair,\\nAnd many a stifled groan.\\nWith speed their upward way they take,\\nSuch speed as age and fear can make,\\nAnd crossed themselves for terror s sake,\\nAs hurrying, tottering on,\\nEven in the vesper s heavenly tone\\nThey seemed to hear a dying groan,\\nAnd bade the passing knell to toll 620\\nFor welfare of a parting soul.\\nSlow O er the midnight wave it swung,\\nNorthumbrian rocks in answer rung;\\nTo Wark worth cell the echoes rolled,\\nHis beads the wakeful hermit told;\\nThe Bamborough peasant raised his head,\\nBut slept ere half a prayer he said;\\nSo far was heard the mighty knell,\\nThe stag sprung up on Cheviot Fell,\\nSpread his broad nostril to the wind, 630\\nListed before, aside, behind,\\nThen couched him down beside the hind,\\nAnd quaked among the mountain fern,\\nTo hear that sound so dull and stern.\\nINTRODUCTION TO CANTO\\nTHIRD\\nTO WILLIAM ERSKINE, ESQ.\\nAshestiel, Ettrick Forest\\nLike April morning clouds, that pass\\nWith varying shadow o er the grass,\\nAnd imitate on field and furrow\\nLife s checkered scene of joy and sorrow;\\nLike streamlet of the mountain north,\\nNow in a torrent racing forth,\\nNow winding slow its silver train,\\nAnd almost slumbering on the plain;\\nLike breezes of the autumn day,\\nWhose voice inconstant dies away,\\nAnd ever swells again as fast\\nWhen the ear deems its murmur past;\\nThus various, my romantic theme\\nFlits, winds, or sinks, a morning dream.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0138.jp2"}, "137": {"fulltext": "INTRODUCTION TO CANTO THIRD\\n107\\nYet pleased, our eye pursues the trace\\nOf Light and Shade s inconstant race\\nPleased, views the rivulet afar,\\nWeaving its maze irregular;\\nAnd pleased, we listen as the breeze\\nHeaves its wild sigh through Autumn\\ntrees: 20\\nThen, wild as cloud, or stream, or gale,\\nFlow on, flow unconfined, my tale\\nNeed I to thee, dear Erskine, tell\\nI love the license all too well,\\nIn sounds now lowly, and now strong,\\nTo raise the desultory song\\nOft, when mid such capricious chime\\nSome transient fit of loftier rhyme\\nTo thy kind judgment seemed excuse\\nFor many an error of the muse, 30\\nOft hast thou said, If, still misspent,\\nThine hours to poetry are lent,\\nGo, and to tame thy wandering course,\\nQuaff from the fountain at the source;\\nApproach those masters o er whose tomb\\nImmortal laurels ever bloom:\\nInstructive of the feebler bard,\\nStill from the grave their voice is heard;\\nFrom them, and from the paths they\\nshowed,\\nChoose honored guide and practised\\nroad; 40\\nNor ramble on through brake and maze,\\nWith harpers rude of barbarous days.\\nOr deem st thou not our later time\\nYields topic meet for classic rhyme\\nHast thou no elegiac verse\\nFor Brunswick s venerable hearse\\nWhat not a line, a tear, a sigh,\\nWhen valor bleeds for liberty\\nOh, hero of that glorious time,\\nWhen, with unrivalled light sublime, 50\\nThough martial Austria, and though all\\nThe might of Russia, and the Gaul,\\nThough banded Europe stood her foes\\nThe star of Brandenburg arose\\nThou couldst not live to see her beam\\nForever quenched in Jena s stream.\\nLamented chief it was not given\\nTo thee to change the doom of Heaven,\\nAnd crush that dragon in its birth,\\nPredestined scourge of guilty earth. 60\\nLamented chief not thine the power\\nTo save in that presumptuous hour\\nWhen Prussia hurried to the field,\\nAnd snatched the spear, but left the shield\\nValor and skill t was thine to try,\\nAnd, tried in vain, t was thine to die.\\nIll had it seemed thy silver hair\\nThe last, the bitterest pang to share,\\nFor princedoms reft, and scutcheons riven,\\nAnd birthrights to usurpers given; 70\\nThy land s, thy children s wrongs to feel,\\nAnd witness woes thou couldst not heal\\nOn thee relenting Heaven bestows\\nFor honored life an honored close\\nAnd when revolves, in time s sure change,\\nThe hour of Germany s revenge,\\nWhen, breathing fury for her sake,\\nSome new Arminius shall awake,\\nHer champion, ere he strike, shall come\\nTo whet his sword on Brunswick s tomb.\\n1 Or of the Red-Cross hero teach, 81\\nDauntless in dungeon as on breach.\\nAlike to him the sea, the shore,\\nThe brand, the bridle, or the oar:\\nAlike to him the war that calls\\nIts votaries to the shattered walls\\nWhich the grim Turk, besmeared with\\nblood,\\nAgainst the Invincible made good;\\nOr that whose thundering voice could wake\\nThe silence of the polar lake, 90\\nWhen stubborn Russ and mettled Swede\\nOn the warped wave their death-game\\nplayed;\\nOr that where Vengeance and Affright\\nHowled round the father of the fight,\\nWho snatched on Alexandria s sand\\nThe conqueror s wreath with dying hand.\\nOr if to touch such chord be thine,\\nRestore the ancient tragic line,\\nAnd emulate the notes that rung\\nFrom the wild harp which silent hung 100\\nBy silver Avon s holy shore\\nTill twice an hundred years rolled o er;\\nWhen she, the bold Enchantress, came,\\nWith fearless hand and heart on flame,\\nFrom the pale willow snatched the treasure,\\nAnd swept it with a kindred measure,\\nTill Avon s swans, while rung the grove\\nWith Montfort s hate and Basil s love,\\nAwakening at the inspired strain,\\nDeemed their own Shakespeare lived\\nagain. no\\nThy friendship thus thy judgment\\nwronging\\nWith praises not to me belonging,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0139.jp2"}, "138": {"fulltext": "\u00e2\u0096\u00a0io8\\nMARMION\\nIn task more meet for mightiest powers\\nWouldst thou engage my thriftless hours.\\nBut say, my Erskine, hast thou weighed\\nThat secret power by all obeyed,\\nWhich warps not less the passive mind,\\nIts source concealed or undefined;\\nWhether an impulse, that has birth\\nSoon as the infant wakes on earth, 120\\nOne with our feelings and our powers,\\nAnd rather part of us than ours\\nOr whether fitlier termed the sway\\nOf habit, formed in early day\\nHowe er derived, its force confessed\\nRules with despotic sway the breast,\\nAnd drags us on by viewless chain,\\nWhile taste and reason plead in vain.\\nLook east, and ask the Belgian why,\\nBeneath Batavia s sultry sky, 130\\nHe seeks not eager to inhale\\nThe freshness of the mountain gale,\\nContent to rear his whitened wall\\nBeside the dank and dull canal\\nHe 11 say, from youth he loved to see\\nThe white sail gliding by the tree.\\nOr see yon weather-beaten hind,\\nWhose sluggish herds before him wind,\\nWhose tattered plaid and rugged cheek\\nHis northern clime and kindred speak; 140\\nThrough England s laughing meads he\\ngoes,\\nAnd England s wealth around him flows;\\nAsk if it would content him well,\\nAt ease in those gay plains to dwell,\\nWhere hedge rows spread a verdant\\nscreen,\\nAnd spires and forests intervene,\\nAnd the neat cottage peeps between\\nNo not for these will he exchange\\nHis dark Lochaber s boundless range,\\nNot for fair Devon s meads forsake 150\\nBen Nevis gray and Garry s lake.\\nThus while I ape the measure wild\\nOf tales that charmed me yet a child,\\nRude though they be, still with the chime\\nReturn the thoughts of early time;\\nAnd feelings, roused in life s first day,\\nGlow in the line and prompt the lay.\\nThen rise those crags, that mountain tower,\\nWhich charmed my fancy s wakening hour.\\nThough no broad river swept along, 160\\nTo claim, perchance, heroic song,\\nThough sighed no groves in summer gale,\\nTo prompt of love a softer tale,\\nThough scarce a puny streamlet s speed\\nClaimed homage from a shepherd s reed,\\nYet was poetic impulse given\\nBy the green hill and clear blue heaven.\\nIt was a barren scene and wild,\\nWhere naked cliffs were rudely piled,\\nBut ever and anon between 170\\nLay velvet tufts of loveliest green;\\nAnd well the lonely infant knew\\nRecesses where the wall-flower grew,\\nAnd honeysuckle loved to crawl\\nUp the low crag and ruined wall.\\nI deemed such nooks the sweetest shade\\nThe sun in all its round surveyed;\\nAnd still I thought that shattered tower\\nThe mightiest work of human power,\\nAnd marvelled as the aged hind 180\\nWith some strange tale bewitched my\\nmind\\nOf forayers, who with headlong force\\nDown from that strength had spurred their\\nhorse,\\nTheir southern rapine to renew\\nFar in the distant Cheviots blue,\\nAnd, home returning, filled the hall\\nWith revel, wassail-rout, and brawl.\\nMe thought that still with trump and clang\\nThe gateway s broken arches rang;\\nMethought grim features, seamed with\\nscars, 190\\nGlared through the window s rusty bars,\\nAnd ever, by the winter hearth,\\nOld tales I heard of woe or mirth,\\nOf lovers sleights, of ladies charms,\\nOf witches spells, of warriors arms;\\nOf patriot battles, won of old\\nBy Wallace wight and Bruce the bold;\\nOf later fields of feud and fight,\\nWhen, pouring from their Highland\\nheight,\\nThe Scottish clans in headlong sway 200\\nHad swept the scarlet ranks away.\\nWhile stretched at length upon the floor,\\nAgain I fought each combat o er,\\nPebbles and shells, in order laid,\\nThe mimic ranks of war displayed;\\nAnd onward still the Scottish Lion bore,\\nAnd still the scattered Southron fled be-\\nfore.\\nStill, with vain fondness, could I trace\\nAnew each kind familiar face\\nThat brightened at our evening fire 210\\nFrom the thatched mansion s gray-haired\\nsire,\\nWise without learning, plain and good,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0140.jp2"}, "139": {"fulltext": "CANTO THIRD: THE HOSTEL, OR INN\\n09\\nAnd sprung of Scotland s gentler blood\\nWhose eye in age, quick, clear, and keen,\\nShowed what in youth its glance had been;\\nWhose doom discording neighbors sought,\\nContent with equity unbought;\\nTo him the venerable priest,\\nOur frequent and familiar guest, 219\\nWhose life and manners well could paint\\nAlike the student and the saint,\\nAlas whose speech too oft I broke\\nWith gambol rude and timeless joke:\\nFor I was wayward, bold, and wild,\\nA self-willed imp, a grandame s child,\\nBut half a plague, and half a jest,\\nWas still endured, beloved, caressed.\\nFrom me, thus nurtured, dost thou ask\\nThe classic poet s well-conned task\\nNay, Erskine, nay on the wild hill 230\\nLet the wild heath-bell flourish still;\\nCherish the tulip, prune the vine,\\nBut freely let the woodbine twine,\\nAnd leave untrimmed the eglantine:\\nNay, my friend, nay since oft thy praise\\nHath given fresh vigor to my lays,\\nSince oft thy judgment could refine\\nMy flattened thought or cumbrous line,\\nStill kind, as is thy wont, attend,\\nAnd in the minstrel spare the friend. 240\\nThough wild as cloud, as stream, as gale,\\nFlow forth, flow unrestrained, my tale\\nCANTO THIRD\\nTHE HOSTEL, OR INN\\nThe livelong day Lord Marmion rode;\\nThe mountain path the Palmer showed\\nBy glen and streamlet winded still,\\nWhere stunted birches hid the rill.\\nThey might not choose the lowland road,\\nFor the Merse forayers were abroad,\\nWho, fired with hate and thirst of prey,\\nHad scarcely failed to bar their way;\\nOft on the trampling band from crown\\nOf some tall cliff the deer looked down; 10\\nOn wing of jet from his repose\\nIn the deep heath the blackcock rose;\\nSprung from the gorse the timid roe,\\nNor waited for the bending bow;\\nAnd when the stony path began\\nBy which the naked peak they wan,\\nUp flew the snowy ptarmigan.\\nThe noon had long been passed before\\nThey gained the height of Lammermoor;\\nThence winding down the northern way, 20\\nBefore them at the close of day\\nOld Gifford s towers and hamlet lay.\\nNo summons calls them to the tower,\\nTo spend the hospitable hour.\\nTo Scotland s camp the lord was gone;\\nHis cautious dame, in bower alone,\\nDreaded her castle to unclose,\\nSo late, to unknown friends or foes.\\nOn through the hamlet as they paced,\\nBefore a porch whose front was graced,\\nWith bush and flagon trimly placed, 3 1\\nLord Marmion drew his rein:\\nThe village inn seemed large, though\\nrude;\\nIts cheerful fire and hearty food\\nMight well relieve his train.\\nDown from their seats the horsemen sprung,\\nWith jingling spurs the court-yard rung;\\nThey bind their horses to the stall,\\nFor forage, food, and firing call,\\nAnd various clamor fills the hall: 40\\nWeighing the labor with the cost,\\nToils everywhere the bustling host.\\nhi\\nSoon, by the chimney s merry blaze,\\nThrough the rude hostel might you gaze,\\nMight see where in dark nook aloof\\nThe rafters of the sooty roof\\nBore wealth of winter cheer;\\nOf sea-fowl dried, and solands store,\\nAnd gammons of the tusky boar,\\nAnd savory haunch of deer. 50\\nThe chimney arch projected wide;\\nAbove, around it, and beside,\\nWere tools for housewives hand;\\nNor wanted, in that martial day,\\nThe implements of Scottish fray,\\nThe buckler, lance, and brand.\\nBeneath its shade, the place of state,\\nOn oaken settle Marmion sate,\\nAnd viewed around the blazing hearth\\nHis followers mix in noisy mirth; 60\\nWhom with brown ale, in jolly tide,\\nFrom ancient vessels ranged aside\\nFull actively their host supplied.\\nIV\\nTheirs was the glee of martial breast,\\nAnd laughter theirs at little jest;", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0141.jp2"}, "140": {"fulltext": "no\\nMARMION\\nAnd oft Lord Marmion deigned to aid,\\nAnd mingle in the inirth they made;\\nFor though, with men of high degree,\\nThe proudest of the proud was he,\\nYet, trained in camps, he knew the art 70\\nTo win the soldier s hardy heart.\\nThey love a captain to obey,\\nBoisterous as March, yet fresh as May;\\nWith open hand and brow as free,\\nLover of wine and minstrelsy;\\nEver the first to scale a tower,\\nAs venturous in a lady s bower:\\nSuch buxom chief shall lead his host\\nFrom India s fires to Zembla s frost.\\nResting upon his pilgrim staff, 80\\nRight opposite the Palmer stood,\\nHis thin dark visage seen but half,\\nHalf hidden by his hood.\\nStill fixed on Marmion was his look,\\nWhich he, who ill such gaze could brook,\\nStrove by a frown to quell;\\nBut not for that, though more than once\\nFull met their stern encountering glance,\\nThe Palmer s visage fell.\\nVI\\nBy fits less frequent from the crowd 90\\nWas heard the burst of laughter loud;\\nFor still, as squire and archer stared\\nOn that dark face and matted beard,\\nTheir glee and game declined.\\nAll gazed at length in silence drear,\\nUnbroke save when in comrade s ear\\nSome yeoman, wondering in his fear,\\nThus whispered forth his mind:\\nSaint Mary saw st thou e er such eight\\nHow pale his cheek, his eye how bright, 100\\nWhene er the firebrand s fickle light\\nGlances beneath his cowl\\nFull on our lord he sets his eye;\\nFor his best palfrey would not I\\nEndure that sullen scowl.\\nVII\\nBut Marmion, as to chase the awe\\nWhich thus had quelled their hearts who\\nsaw\\nThe ever-varying firelight show\\nThat figure stem and face of woe,\\nNow called upon a squire: no\\nFitz-Eustace, know st thou not some lay,\\nTo speed the lingering night away\\nWe slumber by the fire.\\nSo please you, thus the youth rejoined,\\nOur choicest minstrel s left behind.\\nIll may we hope to please your ear,\\nAccustomed Constant s strains to hear.\\nThe harp full deftly can he strike,\\nAnd wake the lover s lute alike;\\nTo dear Saint Valentine no thrush 1\\nSings livelier from a springtide bush,\\nNo nightingale her lovelorn tune\\nMore sweetly warbles to the moon.\\nWoe to the cause, whate er it be,\\nDetains from us his melody,\\nLavished on rocks and billows stern,\\nOr duller monks of Lindisfarne.\\nNow must I venture as I may,\\nTo sing his favorite roundelay.\\nA mellow voice Fitz-Eustace had, 130\\nThe air he chose was wild and sad;\\nSuch have I heard in Scottish land\\nRise from the busy harvest band,\\nWhen falls before the mountaineer\\nOn Lowland plains the ripened ear.\\nNow oh 5 shrill voice the notes prolong,\\nNow a wild chorus swells the song:\\nOft have I listened and stood still\\nAs it came softened up the hill,\\nAnd deemed it the lament of men 140\\nWho languished for their native glen,\\nAnd thought how sad would be such sound\\nOn Susquehanna s swampy ground,\\nKentucky s wood-encumbered brake,\\nOr wild Ontario s boundless lake,\\nWhere heart-sick exiles in the strain\\nRecalled fair Scotland s hills again\\nx\\nSONG\\nWhere shall the lover rest,\\nWhom the fates sever\\nFrom his true maiden s breast, 150\\nParted forever\\nWhere, through groves deep and high,\\nSounds the far billow,\\nWhere early violets die,\\nUnder the willow.\\nCHORUS\\nEleu loro, etc. Soft shall be his pillow.\\nThere, through the summer day,\\nCool streams are laving;", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0142.jp2"}, "141": {"fulltext": "CANTO THIRD: THE HOSTEL, OR INN\\nin\\nThere, while the tempests sway,\\nScarce are boughs waving;\\nThere thy rest shalt thou take,\\nParted forever,\\nNever again to wake,\\nNever, O never\\n160\\nEleu loro, etc.\\nCHORUS\\nNever, O never\\nXI\\nWhere shall the traitor rest,\\nHe the deceiver,\\nWho could win maiden s breast,\\nRuin and leave her\\nIn the lost battle, 170\\nBorne down by the flying,\\nWhere mingles war s rattle\\nWith groans of the dying.\\nCHORUS\\nEleu loro, etc. There shall he be lying.\\nHer wing shall the eagle flap\\nO er the false-hearted;\\nHis warm blood the wolf shall lap,\\nEre life be parted.\\nShame and dishonor sit\\nBy his grave ever; 180\\nBlessing shall hallow it,\\nNever, O never\\nEleu loro, etc.\\nCHORUS\\nNever, O never\\n190\\nIt ceased, the melancholy sound,\\nAnd silence sunk on all around.\\nThe air was sad; but sadder still\\nIt fell on Marmion s ear,\\nAnd plained as if disgrace and ill,\\nAnd shameful death, were near.\\nHe drew his mantle past his face,\\nBetween it and the band,\\nAnd rested with his head a space\\nReclining on his hand.\\nHis thoughts I scan not; but I ween\\nThat, could their import have been seen,\\nThe meanest groom in all the hall,\\nThat e er tied courser to a stall,\\nWould scarce have wished to be their prey,\\nFor Lutterward and Fontenaye.\\nXIII\\nHigh minds, of native pride and force, 200\\nMost deeply feel thy pangs, Remorse\\nFear for their scourge mean villains have.\\nThou art the torturer of the brave\\nYet fatal strength they boast to steel\\nTheir minds to bear the wounds they feel,\\nEven while they writhe beneath the smart\\nOf civil conflict in the heart.\\nFor soon Lord Marmion raised his head,\\nAnd smiling to Fitz-Eustace said:\\nIs it not strange that, as ye sung, 210\\nSeemed in mine ear a death-peal rung,\\nSuch as in nunneries they toll\\nFor some departing sister s soul\\nSay, what may this portend\\nThen first the Palmer silence broke,\\nThe livelong day he had not spoke,\\nThe death of a dear friend.\\nXIV\\nMarmion, whose steady heart and eye\\nNe er changed in worst extremity, 219\\nMarmion, whose soul could scantly brook\\nEven from his king a haughty look,\\nWhose accent of command controlled\\nIn camps the boldest of the bold\\nThought, look, and utterance failed him\\nnow,\\nFallen was his glance and flushed his brow:\\nFor either in the tone,\\nOr something in the Palmer s look,\\nSo full upon his conscience strook\\nThat answer he found none.\\nThus oft it haps that when within 230\\nThey shrink at sense of secret sin,\\nA feather daunts the brave;\\nA fool s wild speech confounds the wise,\\nAnd proudest princes vail their eyes\\nBefore their meanest slave.\\nWell might he falter By his aid\\nWas Constance Beverley betrayed.\\nNot that he augured of the doom\\nWhich on the living closed the tomb:\\nBut, tired to hear the desperate maid 240\\nThreaten by turns, beseech, upbraid,\\nAnd wroth because in wild despair\\nShe practised on the life of Clare,\\nIts fugitive the Church he gave,\\nThough not a victim, but a slave,\\nAnd deemed restraint in convent strange\\nWould hide her wrongs and her revenge.\\nHimself, proud Henry s favorite peer,\\nHeld Romish thunders idle fear;\\nSecure his pardon he might hold 250\\nFor some slight mulct of penance-gold.\\nThus judging, he gave secret way", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0143.jp2"}, "142": {"fulltext": "112\\nMARMION\\nWhen the stern priests surprised their prey.\\nHis train but deemed the favorite page\\nWas left behind to spare his age;\\nOr other if they deemed, none dared\\nTo mutter what he thought and heard:\\nWoe to the vassal who durst pry\\nInto Lord Marmion s privacy\\nHis conscience slept he deemed her well,\\nAnd safe secured in distant cell; 261\\nBut, wakened by her favorite lay,\\nAnd that strange Palmer s boding say\\nThat fell so ominous and drear\\nFull on the object of his fear,\\nTo aid remorse s venom ed throes,\\nDark tales of convent-vengeance rose\\nAnd Constance, late betrayed and scorned,\\nAll lovely on his soul returned;\\nLovely as when at treacherous call 270\\nShe left her convent s peaceful wall,\\nCrimsoned with shame, with terror mute,\\nDreading alike escape, pursuit,\\nTill love, victorious o er alarms,\\nHid fears and blushes in his arms.\\nAlas he thought, how changed that\\nmien\\nHow changed these timid looks have been,\\nSince years of guilt and of disguise\\nHave steeled her brow and armed her eyes\\nNo more of virgin terror speaks 280\\nThe blood that mantles in her cheeks;\\nFierce and unfeminine are there,\\nFrenzy for joy, for grief despair;\\nAnd I the cause for whom were given\\nHer peace on earth, her hopes in heaven\\nWould, thought he, as the picture grows,\\nI on its stalk had left the rose\\nOh, why should man s success remove\\nThe very charms that wake his love\\nHer convent s peaceful solitude 290\\nIs now a prison harsh and rude;\\nAnd, pent within the narrow cell,\\nHow will her spirit chafe and swell\\nHow brook the stern monastic laws\\nThe penance how and I the cause\\nVigil and scourge perchance even worse\\nAnd twice he rose to cry, To horse\\nAnd twice his sovereign s mandate came,\\nLike damp upon a kindling flame 299\\nAnd twice he thought, Gave I not charge\\nShe should be safe, though not at large\\nThey durst not, for their island, shred\\nOne golden ringlet from her head.\\nXVIII\\nWhile thus in Marmion s bosom strove\\nRepentance and reviving love,\\nLike whirlwinds whose contending sway\\nI ve seen Loch Vennachar obey,\\nTheir host the Palmer s speech had heard,\\nAnd talkative took up the word\\nAy, reverend pilgrim, you who stray 310\\nFrom Scotland s simple land away,\\nTo visit realms afar,\\nFull often learn the art to know\\nOf future weal or future woe,\\nBy word, or sign, or star;\\nYet might a knight his fortune hear,\\nIf, knight-like, he despises fear,\\nNot far from hence if fathers old\\nAright our hamlet legend told.\\nThese broken words the menials move, 320\\nFor marvels still the vulgar love,\\nAnd, Marmion giving license cold,\\nHis tale the host thus gladly told\\nXIX\\nTHE HOST S TALE\\nA clerk could tell what years have flown\\nSince Alexander filled our throne,\\nThird monarch of that warlike name,\\nAnd eke the time when here he came\\nTo seek Sir Hugo, then our lord:\\nA braver never drew a sword;\\nA wiser never, at the hour 330\\nOf midnight, spoke the word of power;\\nThe same whom ancient records call\\nThe founder of the Goblin-Hall.\\nI would, Sir Knight, your longer stay\\nGave you that cavern to survey.\\nOf lofty roof and ample size,\\nBeneath the castle deep it lies:\\nTo hew the living rock profound,\\nThe floor to pave, the arch to round,\\nThere never toiled a mortal arm, 340\\nIt all was wrought by word and charm;\\nAnd I have heard my grandsire say\\nThat the wild clamor and affray\\nOf those dread artisans of hell,\\nWho labored under Hugo s spell,\\nSounded as loud as ocean s war\\nAmong the caverns of Dunbar.\\nxx\\nThe king Lord Gilford s castle sought,\\nDeep laboring with uncertain thought.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0144.jp2"}, "143": {"fulltext": "CANTO THIRD: THE HOSTEL, OR INN\\n3\\nEven then he mustered all his host, 350\\nTo meet upon the western coast;\\nFor Norse and Danish galleys plied\\nTheir oars within the Firth of Clyde.\\nThere floated Haco s banner trim\\nAbove Norweyan warriors grim,\\nSavage of heart and large of limb,\\nThreatening both continent and isle,\\nBute, Arran, Cunninghame, and Kyle.\\nLord Gilford, deep beneath the ground,\\nHeard Alexander s bugle sound, 360\\nAnd tarried not his garb to change,\\nBut, in his wizard habit strange,\\nCame forth, a quaint and fearful sight:\\nHis mantle lined with fox-skins white;\\nHis high and wrinkled forehead bore\\nA pointed cap, such as of yore\\nClerks say that Pharaoh s Magi wore;\\nHis shoes were marked with cross and spell,\\nUpon his breast a pentacle\\nHis zone of virgin parchment thin, 370\\nOr, as some tell, of dead man s skin,\\nBore many a planetary sign,\\nCombust, and retrograde, and trine\\nAnd in his hand he held prepared\\nA naked sword without a guard.\\nXXI\\nDire dealings with the fiendish race\\nHad marked strange lines upon his face;\\nVigil and fast had worn him grim,\\nHis eyesight dazzled seemed and dim,\\nAs one unused to upper day; 380\\nEven his own menials with dismay\\nBeheld, Sir Knight, the grisly sire\\nIn this unwonted wild attire;\\nUnwonted, for traditions run\\nHe seldom thus beheld the sun.\\n1 1 know, he said, his voice was hoarse,\\nAnd broken seemed its hollow force,\\n1 1 know the cause, although untold,\\nWhy the king seeks his vassal s hold\\nVainly from me my liege would know 390\\nHis kingdom s future weal or woe\\nBut yet, if strong his arm and heart,\\nHis courage may do more than art.\\nI Of middle air the demons proud,\\nWho ride upon the racking cloud,\\nCan read in fixed or wandering star\\nThe issue of events afar,\\nBut still their sullen aid withhold,\\nSave when by mightier force controlled.\\nSuch late I summoned to my hall;\\nAnd though so potent was the call\\nThat scarce the deepest nook of hell\\nI deemed a refuge from the spell,\\nYet, obstinate in silence still,\\nThe haughty demon mocks my skill.\\nBut thou, who little know st thy might\\nAs born upon that blessed night\\nWhen yawning graves and dying groan\\nProclaimed hell s empire overthrown,\\nWith untaught valor shalt compel 410\\nResponse denied to magic spell.\\nGramercy, quoth our monarch free,\\nPlace him but front to front with me,\\nAnd, by this good and honored brand,\\nThe gift of Coeur-de-Lion s hand,\\nSoothly I swear that, tide what tide,\\nThe demon shall a buffet bide.\\nHis bearing bold the wizard viewed,\\nAnd thus, well pleased, his speech renewed:\\nThere spoke the blood of Malcolm\\nmark: 420\\nForth pacing hence at midnight dark,\\nThe rampart seek whose circling crown\\nCrests the ascent of yonder down:\\nA southern entrance shalt thou find;\\nThere halt, and there thy bugle wind,\\nAnd trust thine elfin foe to see\\nIn guise of thy worst enemy.\\nCouch then thy lance and spur thy steed\\nUpon him and Saint George to speed\\nIf he go down, thou soon shalt know 430\\nWhate er these airy sprites can show;\\nIf thy heart fail thee in the strife,\\nI am no warrant for thy life.\\nXXIII\\nSoon as the midnight bell did ring,\\nAlone and armed, forth rode the king\\nTo that old camp s deserted round.\\nSir Knight, you well might mark the mound\\nLeft hand the town, the Pictish race\\nThe trench, long since, in blood did trace;\\nThe moor around is brown and bare, 440\\nThe space within is green and fair.\\nThe spot our village children know,\\nFor there the earliest wild-flowers grow;\\nBut woe betide the wandering wight\\nThat treads its circle in the night\\nThe breadth across, a bowshot clear,\\nGives ample space for full career;\\nOpposed to the four points of heaven,\\nBy four deep gaps are entrance given.\\nThe southernmost our monarch passed, 450\\nHalted, and blew a gallant blast;\\nAnd on the north, within the ring,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0145.jp2"}, "144": {"fulltext": "ii4\\nMARMION\\nAppeared the form of England s king,\\nWho then, a thousand leagues afar,\\nIn Palestine waged holy war:\\nYet arms like England s did he wield;\\nAlike the leopards in the shield,\\nAlike his Syrian courser s frame,\\nThe rider s length of limb the same.\\nLong afterwards did Scotland know 460\\nFell Edward was her deadliest foe.\\nXXIV\\nThe vision made our monarch start,\\nBut soon he manned his noble heart,\\nAnd in the first career they ran,\\nThe Elfin Knight fell, horse and man;\\nYet did a splinter of his lance\\nThrough Alexander s visor glance,\\nAnd razed the skin a puny wound.\\nThe king, light leaping to the ground,\\nWith naked blade his phantom foe 470\\nCompelled the future war to show.\\nOf Largs he saw the glorious plain,\\nWhere still gigantic bones remain,\\nMemorial of the Danish war;\\nHimself he saw, amid the field,\\nOn high his brandished war-axe wield\\nAnd strike proud Haco from his car,\\nWhile all around the shadowy kings\\nDenmark s grim ravens cowered their\\nwings.\\nT is said that in that awful night 480\\nRemoter visions met his sight,\\nForeshowing future conquest far,\\nWhen our sons sons wage Northern war;\\nA royal city, tower and spire,\\nReddened the midnight sky with fire,\\nAnd shouting crews her navy bore\\nTriumphant to the victor shore.\\nSuch signs may learned clerks explain,\\nThey pass the wit of simple swain.\\nXXV\\n4 The joyful king turned home again, 490\\nHeaded his host, and quelled the Dane;\\nBut yearly, when returned the night\\nOf his strange combat with the sprite,\\nHis wound must bleed and smart;\\nLord Gifford then would gibing say,\\nBold as ye were, my liege, ye pay\\nThe penance of your start.\\nLong since, beneath Dunfermline s nave,\\nKing Alexander fills his grave,\\nOur Lady give him rest 500\\nYet still the knightly spear and shield\\nThe Elfin Warrior doth wield\\nUpon the brown hill s breast,\\nAnd many a knight hath proved his chance\\nIn the charmed ring to break a lance,\\nBut ail have foully sped;\\nSave two, as legends tell, and they\\nWere Wallace wight and Gilbert Hay.\\nGentles, my tale is said. 509\\nXXVI\\nThe quaighs were deep, the liquor strong,\\nAnd on the tale the yeoman-throng\\nHad made a comment sage and long,\\nBut Marmion gave a sign:\\nAnd with their lord the squires retire,\\nThe rest around the hostel fire\\nTheir drowsy limbs recline;\\nFor pillow, underneath each head\\nThe quiver and the targe were laid.\\nDeep slumbering on the hostel floor,\\nOppressed with toil and ale, they snore; 520\\nThe dying flame, in fitful change,\\nThrew on the group its shadows strange.\\nApart, and nestling in the hay\\nOf a waste loft, Fitz-Eustace lay;\\nScarce by the pale moonlight were seen\\nThe foldings of his mantle green:\\nLightly he dreamt, as youth will dream,\\nOf sport by thicket, or by stream,\\nOf hawk or hound, or ring or glove,\\nOr, lighter yet, of lady s love. 53a\\nA cautious tread his slumber broke,\\nAnd, close beside him when he woke,\\nIn moonbeam half, and half in gloom,\\nStood a tall form with nodding plume;\\nBut, ere his dagger Eustace drew,\\nHis master Marniion s voice he knew:\\nFitz-Eustace rise, I cannot rest;\\nYon churl s wild legend haunts my breast,\\nAnd graver thoughts have chafed my mood;\\nThe air must cool my feverish blood, 540\\nAnd fain would I ride forth to see\\nThe scene of elfin chivalry.\\nArise, and saddle me my steed;\\nAnd, gentle Eustace, take good heed\\nThou dost not rouse these drowsy slaves;\\nI would not that the prating knaves\\nHad cause for saying, o er their ale,\\nThat I could credit such a tale.\\nThen softly down the steps they slid,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0146.jp2"}, "145": {"fulltext": "INTRODUCTION TO CANTO FOURTH\\nii5\\nEustace the stable door undid, 550\\nAnd, darkling, Marmion s steed arrayed,\\nWhile, whispering, thus the baron said:\\nXXIX\\n5 Didst never, good my youth, hear tell\\nThat on the hour when I was born\\nSaint George, who graced my sire s cha-\\npelle,\\nDown from his steed of marble fell,\\nA weary wight forlorn\\nThe flattering chaplains all agree\\nThe champion left his steed to me.\\nI would, the omen s truth to show, 560\\nThat I could meet this elfin foe\\nBlithe would I battle for the right\\nTo ask one question at the sprite.\\nVain thought for elves, if elves there\\nbe,\\nAn empty race, by fount or sea\\nTo dashing waters dance and sing,\\nOr round the green oak wheel their ring.\\nThus speaking, he his steed bestrode,\\nAnd from the hostel slowly rode.\\nFitz-Eustace followed him abroad, 570\\nAnd marked him pace the village road,\\nAnd listened to his horse s tramp,\\nTill, by the lessening sound,\\nHe judged that of the Pictish camp\\nLord Marmion sought the round.\\nWonder it seemed, in the squire s eyes,\\nThat one, so wary held and wise,\\nOf whom t was said, he scarce received\\nFor gospel what the Church believed,\\nShould, stirred by idle tale, 580\\nRide forth in silence of the night,\\nAs hoping half to meet a sprite,\\nArrayed in plate and mail.\\nFor little did Fitz-Eustace know\\nThat passions in contending flow\\nUnfix the strongest mind;\\nWearied from doubt to doubt to flee,\\nWe welcome fond credulity,\\nGuide confident, though blind.\\nXXXI\\nLittle for this Fitz-Eustace cared,\\nBut patient waited till he heard\\nAt distance, pricked to utmost speed,\\nThe foot-tramp of a flying steed\\nCome townward rushing on;\\nFirst, dead, as if on turf it trode,\\nThen, clattering on the village road,\\n59\u00c2\u00b0\\nIn other pace than forth he yode,\\nReturned Lord Marmion.\\nDown hastily he sprung from selle,\\nAnd in his haste wellnigh he fell; 600\\nTo the squire s hand the rein he threw,\\nAnd spoke no word as he withdrew:\\nBut yet the moonlight did betray\\nThe falcon-crest was soiled with clay;\\nAnd plainly might Fitz-Eustace see,\\nBy stains upon the charger s knee\\nAnd his left side, that on the moor\\nHe had not kept his footing sure.\\nLong musing on these wondrous signs,\\nAt length to rest the squire reclines, 610\\nBroken and short; for still between\\nWould dreams of terror intervene:\\nEustace did ne er so blithely mark\\nThe first notes of the morning lark.\\nINTRODUCTION TO CANTO\\nFOURTH\\nTO JAMES SKENE, ESQ.\\nAshestiel, Ettrick Forest\\nAn ancient Minstrel sagely said,\\nWhere is the life which late we led\\nThat motley clown in Arden wood,\\nWhom humorous Jaques with envy viewed,\\nNot even that clown could amplify\\nOn this trite text so long as I.\\nEleven years we now may tell\\nSince we have known each other well,\\nSince, riding side by side, our hand\\nFirst drew the voluntary brand; 10\\nAnd sure, through many a varied scene,\\nUnkindness never came between.\\nAway these winged years have flown,\\nTo join the mass of ages gone;\\nAnd though deep marked, like all below,\\nWith checkered shades of joy and woe,\\nThough thou o er realms and seas hast\\nranged,\\nMarked cities lost and empires changed,.\\nWhile here at home my narrower ken\\nSomewhat of manners saw and men; 20\\nThough varying wishes, hopes, and fears\\nFevered the progress of these years,\\nYet now, days, weeks, and months but\\nseem\\nThe recollection of a dream,\\nSo still we glide down to the sea\\nOf fathomless eternity.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0147.jp2"}, "146": {"fulltext": "n6\\nMARMION\\nEven now it scarcely seems a day\\nSince first I tuned this idle lay;\\nA task so often thrown aside,\\nWhen leisure graver cares denied, 30\\nThat now November s dreary gale,\\nWhose voice inspired my opening tale,\\nThat same November gale once more\\nWhirls the dry leaves on Yarrow shore.\\nTheir vexed boughs streaming to the sky,\\nOnce more our naked birches sigh,\\nAnd Blackhouse heights and Ettrick Pen\\nHave donned their wintry shrouds again,\\nAnd mountain dark and flooded mead\\nBid us forsake the banks of Tweed. 40\\nEarlier than wont along the sky,\\nMixed with the rack, the snow mists fly;\\nThe shepherd who, in summer sun,\\nHad something of our envy won,\\nAs thou with pencil, I with pen,\\nThe features traced of hill and glen,\\nHe who, outstretched the livelong day,\\nAt ease among the heath-flowers lay,\\nViewed the light clouds with vacant look,\\nOr slumbered o er his tattered book, 50\\nOr idly busied him to guide\\nHis angle o er the lessened tide,\\nAt midnight now the snowy plain\\nFinds sterner labor for the swain.\\nWhen red hath set the beamless sun\\nThrough heavy vapors dank and dun,\\nWhen the tired ploughman, dry and warm,\\nHears, half asleep, the rising storm\\nHurling the hail and sleeted rain\\nAgainst the casement s tinkling pane 60\\nThe sounds that drive wild deer and fox\\nTo shelter in the brake and rocks\\nAre warnings which the shepherd ask\\nTo dismal and to dangerous task.\\nOft he looks forth, and hopes, in vain,\\nThe blast may sink in mellowing rain;\\nTill, dark above and white below,\\nDecided drives the flaky snow,\\nAnd forth the hardy swain must go.\\nLong, with dejected look and whine, 70\\nTo leave the hearth his dogs repine;\\nWhistling and cheering them to aid,\\nAround his back he wreathes the plaid:\\nHis flock he gathers and he guides\\nTo open downs and mountain-sides,\\nWhere fiercest though the tempest blow,\\nLeast deeply lies the drift below.\\nThe blast that whistles o er the fells\\nStiffens his locks to icicles;\\nOft he looks back while, streaming far, 80\\nHis cottage window seems a star,\\nLoses its feeble gleam, and then\\nTurns patient to the blast again,\\nAnd, facing to the tempest s sweep,\\nDrives through the gloom his lagging\\nsheep.\\nIf fails his heart, if his limbs fail,\\nBenumbing death is in the gale;\\nHis paths, his landmarks, all unknown,\\nClose to the hut, no more his own,\\nClose to the aid he sought in vain, 90\\nThe morn may find the stiffened swain:\\nThe widow sees, at dawning pale,\\nHis orphans raise their feeble wail;\\nAnd, close beside him in the snow,\\nPoor Yarrow, partner of their woe,\\nCouches upon his master s breast,\\nAnd licks his cheek to break his rest.\\nWho envies now the shepherd s lot,\\nHis healthy fare, his rural cot,\\nHis summer couch by greenwood tree, 100\\nHis rustic kirn s loud revelry,\\nHis native hill-notes tuned on high\\nTo Marion of the blithesome eye,\\nHis crook, his scrip, his oaten reed,\\nAnd all Arcadia s golden creed\\nChanges not so with us, my Skene,\\nOf human life the varying scene\\nOur youthful summer oft we see\\nDance by on wings of game and glee,\\nWhile the dark storm reserves its rage no\\nAgainst the winter of our age;\\nAs he, the ancient chief of Troy,\\nHis manhood spent in peace and joy,\\nBut Grecian fires and loud alarms\\nCalled ancient Priam forth to arms.\\nThen happy those, since each must drain\\nHis share of pleasure, share of pain,\\nThen happy those, beloved of Heaven,\\nTo whom the mingled cup is given;\\nWhose lenient sorrows find relief; 120\\nWhose joys are chastened by their grief.\\nAnd such a lot, my Skene, was thine,\\nWhen thou of late wert doomed to twine\\nJust when thy bridal hour was by\\nThe cypress with the myrtle tie.\\nJust on thy bride her sire had smiled,\\nAnd blessed the union of his child,\\nWhen love must change its joyous cheer,\\nAnd wipe affection s filial tear.\\nNor did the actions next his end 130\\nSpeak more the father than the friend:\\nScarce had lamented Forbes paid", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0148.jp2"}, "147": {"fulltext": "CANTO FOURTH: THE CAMP\\n117\\nThe tribute to his minstrel s shade,\\nThe tale of friendship scarce was told,\\nEre the narrator s heart was cold\\nFar may we search before we find\\nA heart so manly and so kind\\nBut not around his honored urn\\nShall friends alone and kindred mourn\\nThe thousand eyes his care had dried 140\\nPour at his name a bitter tide,\\nAnd frequent falls the grateful dew\\nFor benefits the world ne er knew.\\nIf mortal charity dare claim\\nThe Almighty s attributed name,\\nInscribe above his mouldering clay,\\nThe widow s shield, the orphan s stay.\\nNor, though it wake thy sorrow, deem\\nMy verse intrudes on this sad theme,\\nFor sacred was the pen that wrote, 150\\nThy father s friend forget thou not;\\nAnd grateful title may I plead,\\nFor many a kindly word and deed,\\nTo bring my tribute to his grave\\nT is little but t is all I have.\\nTo thee, perchance, this rambling strain\\nRecalls our summer walks again;\\nWhen, doing nought, and, to speak true,\\nNot anxious to find aught to do,\\nThe wild unbounded hills we ranged, 160\\nWhile oft our talk its topic changed,\\nAnd, desultory as our way,\\nRanged unconfined from grave to gay.\\nEven when it flagged, as oft will chance,\\nNo effort made to break its trance,\\nWe could right pleasantly pursue\\nOur sports in social silence too;\\nThou gravely laboring to portray\\nThe blighted oak s fantastic spray,\\nI spelling o er with much delight 170\\nThe legend of that antique knight,\\nTirante by name, ycleped the White.\\nAt either s feet a trusty squire,\\nPandour and Camp, with eyes of fire,\\nJealous each other s motions viewed,\\nAnd scarce suppressed their ancient feud.\\nThe laverock whistled from the cloud;\\nThe stream was lively, but not loud;\\nFrom the white thorn the May-flower shed\\nIts dewy fragrance round our head: 180\\nNot Ariel lived more merrily\\nUnder the blossomed bough than we.\\nAnd blithesome nights, too, have been\\nours,\\nWhen Winter stript the Summer s bowers.\\nCareless we heard, what now I hear,\\nThe wild blast sighing deep and drear,\\nWhen fires were bright and lamps beamed\\nAnd ladies tuned the lovely lay,\\nAnd he was held a laggard soul\\nWho shunned to quaff the sparkling\\nbowl. 190\\nThen he whose absence we deplore,\\nWho breathes the gales of Devon s shore,\\nThe longer missed, bewailed the more,\\nAnd thou, and I, and dear-loved Rae,\\nAnd one whose name I may not say,\\nFor not mimosa s tender tree\\nShrinks sooner from the touch than he,\\nIn merry chorus well combined,\\nWith laughter drowned the whistling wind.\\nMirth was within, and Care without 200\\nMight gnaw her nails to hear our shout.\\nNot but amid the buxom scene\\nSome grave discourse might intervene\\nOf the good horse that bore him best,\\nHis shoulder, hoof, and arching crest;\\nFor, like mad Tom s, our chiefest care\\nWas horse to ride and weapon wear.\\nSuch nights we ve had and, though the\\ngame\\nOf manhood be more sober tame,\\nAnd though the field-day or the drill 210\\nSeem less important now, yet still\\nSuch may we hope to share again.\\nThe sprightly thought inspires my strain\\nAnd mark how, like a horseman true,\\nLord Marmion s march I thus renew.\\nCANTO FOURTH\\nTHE CAMP\\nEustace, I said, did blithely mark\\nThe first notes of the merry lark.\\nThe lark sang shrill, the cock he crew,\\nAnd loudly Marmion s bugles blew,\\nAnd with their light and lively call\\nBrought groom and yeoman to the stall.\\nWhistling they came and free of heart,\\nBut soon their mood was changed;\\nComplaint was heard on every part\\nOf something disarranged. 10\\nSome clamored loud for armor lost;\\nSome brawled and wrangled with the host;\\nBy Becket s bones, cried one, I fear\\nThat some false Scot has stolen my spear", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0149.jp2"}, "148": {"fulltext": "u8\\nMARMION\\nYoung Blount, Lord Marnaion s second\\nsquire,\\nFound his steed wet with sweat and mire,\\nAlthough the rated horseboy sware\\nLast night he dressed him sleek and fair.\\nWhile chafed the impatient squire like\\nthunder,\\nOld Hubert shouts in fear and wonder, 20\\n1 Help, gentle Blount help, comrades all\\nBe vis lies dying in his stall;\\nTo Marmion who the plight dare tell\\nOf the good steed he loves so well\\nGaping for fear and ruth, they saw\\nThe charger panting on his straw;\\nTill one, who would seem wisest, cried,\\nWhat else but evil could betide,\\nWith that cursed Palmer for our guide\\nBetter we had through mire and bush 30\\nBeen lantern-led by Friar Rush.\\nFitz-Eustace, who the cause but guessed,\\nNor wholly understood,\\nHis comrades clamorous plaints sup-\\npressed;\\nHe knew Lord Marmion s mood.\\nHim, ere he issued forth, he sought,\\nAnd found deep plunged in gloomy thought,\\nAnd did his tale display\\nSimply, as if he knew of nought\\nTo cause such disarray. 40\\nLord Marmion gave attention cold,\\nNor marvelled at the wonders told,\\nPassed them as accidents of course,\\nAnd bade his clarions sound to horse.\\nin\\nYoung Henry Blount, meanwhile, the cost\\nHad reckoned with their Scottish host;\\nAnd, as the charge he cast and paid,\\n111 thoi: deserv st thy hire, he said;\\nDost see, thou knave, my horse s plight\\nFairies have ridden him all the night, 50\\nAnd left him in a foam\\nI trust that soon a conjuring band,\\nWith English cross and blazing brand,\\nShall drive the devils from this land\\nTo their infernal home;\\nFor in this haunted den, I trow,\\nAll night they trampled to and fro.\\nThe laughing host looked on the hire:\\nGramercy, gentle southern squire,\\nAnd if thou com st among the rest, 60\\nWith Scottish broadsword to be blest,\\nSharp be the brand, and sure the blow,\\nAnd short the pang to undergo.\\nHere stayed their talk, for Marmion\\nGave now the signal to set on.\\nThe Palmer showing forth the way,\\nThey journeyed all the morning-day.\\nIV\\nThe greensward way was smooth and good,\\nThrough Humbie s and through Saltoun s\\nwood;\\nA forest glade, which, varying still, 70\\nHere gave a view of dale and hill,\\nThere narrower closed till overhead\\nA vaulted screen the branches made.\\nA pleasant path, Fitz-Eustace said;\\nSuch as where errant-knights might see\\nAdventures of high chivalry,\\nMight meet some damsel flying fast,\\nWith hair unbound and looks aghast;\\nAnd smooth and level course were here,\\nIn her defence to break a spear. 80\\nHere, too, are twilight nooks and dells;\\nAnd oft in such, the story tells,\\nThe damsel kind, from danger freed,\\nDid grateful pay her champion s meed.\\nHe spoke to cheer Lord Marmion s mind,\\nPerchance to show his lore designed;\\nFor Eustace much had pored\\nUpon a huge romantic tome,\\nIn the hall-window of his home,\\nImprinted at the antique dome 90\\nOf Caxton or de Worde.\\nTherefore he spoke, but spoke in vain,\\nFor Marmion answered nought again.\\nNow sudden, distant trumpets shrill,\\nIn notes prolonged by wood and hill,\\nWere heard to echo far\\nEach ready archer grasped his bow,\\nBut by the flourish soon they know\\nThey breathed no point of war.\\nYet cautious, as in foeman s land, 100\\nLord Marmion s order speeds the band\\nSome opener ground to gain;\\nAnd scarce a furlong had they rode,\\nWhen thinner trees receding showed\\nA little woodland plain.\\nJust in that advantageous glade\\nThe halting troop a line had made,\\nAs forth from the opposing shade\\nIssued a gallant train. icg\\nFirst came the trumpets, at whose clang\\nSo late the forest echoes rang;\\nOn prancing steeds they forward pressed,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0150.jp2"}, "149": {"fulltext": "CANTO FOURTH: THE CAMP\\n119\\nWith scarlet mantle, azure vest;\\nEach at his trump a banner wore,\\nWhich Scotland s royal scutcheon bore:\\nHeralds and pursuivants, by name\\nBute, Islay, Marchmount, Rothsay, came,\\nIn painted tabards, proudly showing\\nGules, argent, or, and azure glowing,\\nAttendant on a king-at-arms, 120\\nWhose hand the armorial truncheon held\\nThat feudal strife had often quelled\\nWhen wildest its alarms.\\nVII\\nHe was a man of middle age,\\nIn aspect manly, grave, and sage,\\nAs on king s errand come;\\nBut in the glances of his eye\\nA penetrating, keen, and sly\\nExpression found its home;\\nThe flash of that satiric rage 130\\nWhich, bursting on the early stage,\\nBranded the vices of the age,\\nAnd broke the keys of Rome.\\nOn milk-white palfrey forth he paced;\\nHis cap of maintenance was graced\\nWith the proud heron-plume.\\nFrom his steed s shoulder, loin, and breast,\\nSilk housings swept the ground,\\nWith Scotland s arms, device, and crest,\\nEmbroidered round and round. 140\\nThe double tressure might you see,\\nFirst by Achaius borne,\\nThe thistle and the fleur-de-lis,\\nAnd gallant unicorn.\\nSo bright the king s armorial coat\\nThat scarce the dazzled eye could note,\\nIn living colors blazoned brave,\\nThe Lion, which his title gave;\\nA train, which well beseemed his state,\\nBut all unarmed, around him wait. 150\\nStill is thy name in high account,\\nAnd still thy verse has charms,\\nSir David Lindesay of the Mount,\\nLord Lion King-at-arms\\nVIII\\nDown from his horse did Marmion spring\\nSoon as he saw the Lion-King;\\nFor well the stately baron knew\\nTo him such courtesy was due\\nWhom royal James himself had crowned,\\nAnd on his temples placed the round 160\\nOf Scotland s ancient diadem,\\nAnd wet his brow with hallowed wine,\\nAnd on his finger given to shine\\nThe emblematic gem.\\nTheir mutual greetings duly made,\\nThe Lion thus his message said\\nThough Scotland s King hath deeply-\\nswore\\nNe er to knit faith with Henry more,\\nAnd strictly hath forbid resort\\nFrom England to his royal court, 170\\nYet, for he knows Lord Marmion s name\\nAnd honors much his warlike fame,\\nMy liege hath deemed it shame and lack\\nOf courtesy to turn him back\\nAnd by his order I, your guide,\\nMust lodging fit and fair provide\\nTill finds King James meet time to see\\nThe flower of English chivalry.\\nIX\\nThough inly chafed at this delay,\\nLord Marmion bears it as he may. 180\\nThe Palmer, his mysterious guide,\\nBeholding thus his place supplied,\\nSought to take leave in vain;\\nStrict was the Lion-King s command\\nThat none who rode in Marmion s band\\nShould sever from the train.\\nEngland has here enow of spies\\nIn Lady Heron s witching eyes\\nTo Marchmount thus apart he said,\\nBut fair pretext to Marmion made. 190\\nThe right-hand path they now decline,\\nAnd trace against the stream the Tyne.\\nAt length up that wild dale they wind,\\nWhere Crichtoun Castle crowns the bank:\\nFor there the Lion s care assigned\\nA lodging meet for Marmion s rank.\\nThat castle rises on the steep\\nOf the green vale of Tyne;\\nAnd far beneath, where slow they creep\\nFrom pool to eddy, dark and deep, 20c\\nWhere alders moist and willows weep,\\nYou hear her streams repine.\\nThe towers in different ages rose,\\nTheir various architecture shows\\nThe builders various hands;\\nA mighty mass, that could oppose,\\nWhen deadliest hatred fired its foes,\\nThe vengeful Douglas bands.\\nXI\\nCrichtoun though now thy miry court\\nBut pens the lazy steer and sheep, 21c\\nThy turrets rude and tottered keep", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0151.jp2"}, "150": {"fulltext": "120\\nMARMION\\nHave been the minstrel s loved resort.\\nOft have I traced, within thy fort,\\nOf mouldering shields the mystic sense,\\nScutcheons of honor or pretence,\\nQuartered in old armorial sort,\\nRemains of rude magnificence.\\nNor wholly yet hath time defaced\\nThy lordly gallery fair,\\nNor yet the stony cord unbraced 220\\nWhose twisted knots, with roses laced,\\nAdorn thy ruined stair.\\nStill rises unimpaired below\\nThe court-yard s graceful portico;\\nAbove its cornice, row and row\\nOf fair-hewn facets richly show\\nTheir pointed diamond form,\\nThough there but houseless cattle go,\\nTo shield them from the storm.\\nAnd, shuddering, still may we explore, 230\\nWhere oft whilom were captives pent,\\nThe darkness of thy Massy More,\\nOr, from thy grass-grown battlement,\\nMay trace in undulating line\\nThe sluggish mazes of the Tyne.\\nAnother aspect Crichtoun showed\\nAs through its portal Marmion rode;\\nBut yet t was melancholy state\\nReceived him at the outer gate,\\nFor none were in the castle then 240\\nBut women, boys, or aged men.\\nWith eyes scarce dried, the sorrowing\\ndame\\nTo welcome noble Marmion came;\\nHer son, a stripling twelve years old,\\nProffered the baron s rein to hold:\\nFor each man that could draw a sword\\nHad marched that morning with their\\nlord,\\nEarl Adam Hepburn, he who died\\nOn Flodden by his sovereign s side.\\nLong may his lady look in vain 250\\nShe ne er shall see his gallant train\\nCome sweeping back through Crichtoun-\\nDean.\\nT was a brave race before the name\\nOf hated Bothwell stained their fame.\\nXIII\\nAnd here two days did Marmion rest,\\nWith every right that honor claims,\\nAttended as the king s own guest;\\nSuch the command of Royal James,\\nWho marshalled then his land s array,\\nUpon the Borough-moor that lay. 260\\nPerchance he would not foeman s eye\\nUpon his gathering host should pry,\\nTill full prepared was every band\\nTo march against the English land.\\nHere while they dwelt, did Lindesay s wit\\nOft cheer the baron s moodier fit;\\nAnd, in his turn, he knew to prize\\nLord Marmion s powerful mind and\\nwise,\\nTrained in the lore of Rome and Greece,\\nAnd policies of war and peace. 270\\nXIV\\nIt chanced, as fell the second night,\\nThat on the battlements they walked,\\nAnd by the slowly fading light\\nOf varying topics talked\\nAnd, unaware, the herald-bard\\nSaid Marmion might his toil have spared\\nIn travelling so far,\\nFor that a messenger from heaven\\nIn vain to James had counsel given\\nAgainst the English war; 280\\nAnd, closer questioned, thus he told\\nA tale which chronicles of old\\nIn Scottish story have enrolled:\\nxv\\nSLR DAVID LINDESAY S TALE\\nOf all the palaces so fair,\\nBuilt for the royal dwelling\\nIn Scotland, far beyond compare\\nLinlithgow is excelling;\\nAnd in its park, in jovial June,\\nHow sweet the merry linnet s tune,\\nHow blithe the blackbird s lay\\n290\\nThe wild buck bells from ferny brake,\\nThe coot dives merry on the lake,\\nThe saddest heart might pleasure take\\nTo see all nature gay.\\nBut June is to our sovereign dear\\nThe heaviest month in all the year;\\nToo well his cause of grief you know,\\nJune saw his father s overthrow.\\nWoe to the traitors who could bring\\nThe princely boy against his king 30c\\nStill in his conscience burns the sting.\\nIn offices as strict as Lent\\nKing James s June is ever spent.\\nWhen last this ruthful month was come,\\nAnd in Linlithgow s holy dome\\nThe king, as wont, was praying;", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0152.jp2"}, "151": {"fulltext": "CANTO FOURTH: THE CAMP\\n121\\nWhile for his royal father s soul\\nThe chanters sung, the bells did toll,\\nThe bishop mass was saying\\nTor now the year brought round again 310\\nThe day the luckless king was slain\\nIn Catherine s aisle the monarch knelt,\\nWith sackcloth shirt and iron belt,\\nAnd eyes with sorrow streaming;\\nAround him in their stalls of state\\nThe Thistle s Knight-Companions sate,\\nTheir banners o er them beaming.\\nI too was there, and, sooth to tell,\\nBedeafened with the jangling knell, 319\\nWas watching where the sunbeams fell,\\nThrough the stained casement gleam-\\ning;\\nBut while I marked what next befell\\nIt seemed as I were dreaming.\\nStepped from the crowd a ghostly wight,\\nIn azure gown, with cincture white;\\nHis forehead bald, his head was bare,\\nDown hung at length his yellow hair.\\nNow, mock me not when, good my lord,\\nI pledge to you my knightly word\\nThat when I saw his placid grace, 330\\nHis simple majesty of face,\\nHis solemn bearing, and his pace\\nSo stately gliding on,\\nSeemed to me ne er did limner paint\\nSo just an image of the saint\\nWho propped the Virgin in her faint,\\nThe loved Apostle John\\nHe stepped before the monarch s chair,\\nAnd stood with rustic plainness there,\\nAnd little reverence made; 340\\nNor head, nor body, bowed, nor bent,\\nBut on the desk his arm he leant,\\nAnd words like these hie said,\\nIn a low voice, but never tone\\nSo thrilled through vein, and nerve, and\\nbone:\\nMy mother sent me from afar,\\nSir King, to warn thee not to war,\\nWoe waits on thine array\\nIf war thou wilt, of woman fair,\\nHer witching wiles and wanton snare, 350\\nJames Stuart, doubly warned, beware:\\nGod keep thee as He may\\nThe wondering monarch seemed to seek\\nFor answer, and found none;\\nAnd when he raised his head to speak,\\nThe monitor was gone.\\nThe marshal and myself had cast\\nTo stop him as he outward passed;\\nBut, lighter than the whirlwind s blast,\\nHe vanished from our eyes, 3 6o\\nLike sunbeam on the billow cast,\\nThat glances but, and dies.\\nXVIII\\nWhile Lindesay told his marvel strange\\nThe twilight was so pale,\\nHe marked not Marmion s color change\\nWhile listening to the tale;\\nBut, after a suspended pause,\\nThe baron spoke: Of Nature s laws\\nSo strong I held the force,\\nThat never superhuman cause 370\\nCould e er control their course,\\nAnd, three days since, had judged your aim\\nWas but to make your guest your game;\\nBut I have seen, since past the Tweed,\\nWhat much has changed my sceptic creed,\\nAnd made me credit aught. He stayed,\\nAnd seemed to wish his words unsaid,\\nBut, by that strong emotion pressed\\nWhich prompts us to unload our breast\\nEven when discovery s pain, 380\\nTo Lindesay did at length unfold\\nThe tale his village host had told,\\nAt Gifford, to his train.\\nNought of the Palmer says he there,\\nAnd nought of Constance or of Clare;\\nThe thoughts which broke his sleep he seems\\nTo mention but as feverish dreams.\\nXIX\\n1 In vain, said he, to rest I spread\\nMy burning limbs, and couched my head;\\nFantastic thoughts returned, 390\\nAnd, by their wild dominion led,\\nMy heart within me burned.\\nSo sore was the delirious goad,\\nI took my steed and forth I rode,\\nAnd, as the moon shone bright and cold,\\nSoon reached the camp upon the wold.\\nThe southern entrance I passed through,\\nAnd halted, and my bugle blew.\\nMethought an answer met my ear,\\nYet was the blast so low and drear, 400\\nSo hollow, and so faintly blown,\\nIt might be echo of my own.\\nXX\\nThus judging, for a little space\\nI listened ere I left the place,\\nBut scarce could trust my eyes,\\nNor yet can think they serve me true,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0153.jp2"}, "152": {"fulltext": "122\\nMARMION\\nWhen sudden in the ring I view,\\nIn form distinct of shape and hue,\\nA mounted champion rise.\\nI ve fought, Lord-Lion, many a day, 410\\nIn single tight and mixed affray,\\nAnd ever, I myself may say,\\nHave borne me as a knight;\\nBut -when this unexpected foe\\nSeemed starting from the gulf below,\\nI care not though the truth I show,\\nI trembled with affright;\\nAnd as I placed in rest my spear,\\nMy hand so shook for very fear,\\nI scarce could couch it right. 420\\nWhy need my tongue the issue tell\\nWe ran our course, my charger fell\\nWhat could he gainst the shock of hell\\nI rolled upon the plain.\\nHigh o er my head with threatening hand\\nThe spectre shook his naked brand,\\nYet did the worst remain:\\nMy dazzled eyes I upward cast,\\nNot opening hell itself could blast\\nTheir sight like what I saw 430\\nFull on his face the moonbeam strook\\nA face could never be mistook\\nI knew the stem vindictive look,\\nAnd held my breath for awe.\\nI saw the face of one who, fled\\nTo foreign climes, has long been dead,\\nI well believe the last;\\nFor ne er from visor raised did stare\\nA human warrior with a glare\\nSo grimly and so ghast. 440\\nThrice o er my head he shook the blade;\\nBut when to good Saint George I\\nprayed,\\nThe first time e er I asked his aid,\\nHe plunged it in the sheath,\\nAnd, on his courser mounting light,\\nHe seemed to vanish from my sight:\\nThe moonbeam drooped, and deepest night\\nSunk down upon the heath.\\nT were long to tell what cause I have\\nTo know his face that met me there, 450\\nCalled by his hatred from the grave\\nTo cumber upper air;\\nDead or alive, good cause had he\\nTo be my mortal enemy.\\nXXII\\nMarvelled Sir David of the Mount;\\nThen, learned in story, gan recount\\nSuch chance had happed of old,\\nWhen once, near Norham, there did fight\\nA spectre fell of fiendish might,\\nIn likeness of a Scottish knight, 460\\nWith Brian Bulmer bold,\\nAnd trained him nigh to disallow\\nThe aid of his baptismal vow.\\nAnd such a phantom, too, t is said,\\nWith Highland broadsword, targe, and\\nplaid,\\nAnd fingers red with gore,\\nIs seen in Rothiemurcus glade,\\nOr where the sable pine-trees shade\\nDark Tomantoul, and Auchnaslaid,\\nDromouchty, or Glenmore. 470\\nAnd yet, whate er such legends say\\nOf warlike demon, ghost, or fay,\\nOn mountain, moor, or plain,\\nSpotless in faith, in bosom bold,\\nTrue son of chivalry should hold\\nThese midnight terrors vain;\\nFor seldom have such spirits power\\nTo harm, save in the evil hour\\nWhen guilt we meditate within\\nOr harbor unrepented sin. 480\\nLord Marmion turned him half aside,\\nAnd twice to clear his voice he tried,\\nThen pressed Sir David s hand,\\nBut nought, at length, in answer said;\\nAnd here their further converse stayed,\\nEach ordering that his band\\nShould bowne them with the rising day,\\nTo Scotland s camp to take their way,\\nSuch was the king s command.\\nXXIII\\nEarly they took Dun-Edin s road, 490\\nAnd I could trace each step they trode;\\nHill, brook, nor dell, nor rock, nor stone,\\nLies on the path to me unknown.\\nMuch might it boast of storied lore;\\nBut, passing such digression o er,\\nSuffice it that their route was laid\\nAcross the furzy hills of Braid.\\nThey passed the glen and scanty rill,\\nAnd climbed the opposing bank, until\\nThey gained the top of Blackford Hill. 500\\nXXIV\\nBlackford on whose uncultured breast,\\nAmong the broom and thorn and whin,\\nA truant-boy, I sought the nest,\\nOr listed, as I lay at rest,\\nWhile rose on breezes thin\\nThe murmur of the citv crowd,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0154.jp2"}, "153": {"fulltext": "CANTO FOURTH: THE CAMP\\n123\\nAnd, from his steeple jangling loud,\\nSaint Giles s mingling din.\\nNow, from the summit to the plain,\\nWaves all the hill with yellow grain; 5\\nAnd o er the landscape as I look,\\nNought do I see unchanged remain,\\nSave the rude cliffs and chiming brook.\\nTo me they make a heavy moan\\nOf early friendships past and gone.\\nBut different far the change has been,\\nSince Marmion from the crown\\nOf Blackford saw that martial scene\\nUpon the bent so brown:\\nThousand pavilions, white as snow, 520\\nSpread all the Borough-moor below,\\nUpland, and dale, and down.\\nA thousand did I say I ween,\\nThousands on thousands there were seen,\\nThat checkered all the heath between\\nThe streamlet and the town,\\nIn crossing ranks extending far,\\nForming a camp irregular\\nOft giving way where still there stood\\nSome relics of the old oak wood, 530\\nThat darkly huge did intervene\\nAnd tamed the glaring white with green\\nIn these extended lines there lay\\nA martial kingdom s vast array.\\nFor from Hebudes, dark with rain,\\nTo eastern Lodon s fertile plain,\\nAnd from the southern Redswire edge\\nTo furthest Rosse s rocky ledge,\\nFrom west to east, from south to north,\\nScotland sent all her warriors forth. 540\\nMarmion might hear the mingled hum\\nOf myriads up the mountain come,\\nThe horses tramp and tinkling clank,\\nWhere chiefs reviewed their vassal rank,\\nAnd charger s shrilling neigh,\\nAnd see the shifting lines advance,\\nWhile frequent flashed from shield and\\nlance\\nThe sun s reflected ray.\\nXXVII\\nThin curling in the morning air,\\nThe wreaths of failing smoke declare 550\\nTo embers now the brands decayed,\\nWhere the night-watch their fires had\\nmade.\\nThey saw, slow rolling on the plain,\\nFull many a baggage-eart and wain,\\nAnd dire artillery s clumsy car,\\nBy sluggish oxen tugged to war;\\nAnd there were Borthwick s Sisters Seven,\\nAnd culverins which France had given.\\nIll-omened gift the guns remain\\nThe conqueror s spoil on Flodden plain. 560\\nXXVIII\\nNor marked they less where in the air\\nA thousand streamers flaunted fair;\\nVarious in shape, device, and hue,\\nGreen, sanguine, purple, red, and blue,\\nBroad, narrow, swallow-tailed, and square,\\nScroll, pennon, pencil, bandrol, there\\nO er the pavilions flew.\\nHighest and midmost, was descried\\nThe royal banner floating wide\\nThe staff, a pine-tree, strong and\\nstraight, 570\\nPitched deeply in a massive stone,\\nWhich still in memory is shown,\\nYet bent beneath the standard s weight,\\nWhene er the western wind unrolled\\nWith toil the huge and cumbrous\\nfold,\\nAnd gave to view the dazzling field,\\nWhere in proud Scotland s royal shield\\nThe ruddy lion ramped in gold.\\nXXIX\\nLord Marmion viewed the landscape\\nbright,\\nHe viewed it with a chief s delight, 580\\nUntil within him burned his heart,\\nAnd lightning from his eye did part,\\nAs on the battle-day;\\nSuch glance did falcon never dart\\nWhen stooping on his prey.\\nOh well, Lord-Lion, hast thou said,\\nThy king from warfare to dissuade\\nWere but a vain essay;\\nFor, by Saint George, were that host mine,\\nNot power infernal nor divine 590\\nShould once to peace my soul incline,\\nTill I had dimmed their armor s shine\\nIn glorious battle-fray\\nAnswered the bard, of milder mood:\\nFair is the sight, and yet t were good\\nThat kings would think withal,\\nWhen peace and wealth their land has\\nblessed,\\nT is better to sit still at rest\\nThan rise, perchance to fall.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0155.jp2"}, "154": {"fulltext": "124\\nMARMION\\nXXX\\nStill on the spot Lord Marmion stayed, 600\\nFor fairer scene he ne er surveyed.\\nWhen sated with the martial show\\nThat peopled all the plain below,\\nThe wandering eye could o er it go,\\nAnd mark the distant city glow\\nWith gloomy splendor red;\\nFor on the smoke-wreaths, huge and slow,\\nThat round her sable turrets flow,\\nThe morning beams were shed,\\nAnd tinged them with a lustre proud, 610\\nLike that which streaks a thunder-cloud.\\nSuch dusky grandeur clothed the height\\nWhere the huge castle holds its state,\\nAnd all the steep slope down,\\nWhose ridgy back heaves to the sky,\\nPiled deep and massy, close and high,\\nMine own romantic town\\nBut northward far, with purer blaze,\\nOn Ochil mountains fell the rays,\\nAnd as each heathy top they kissed, 620\\nIt gleamed a purple amethyst.\\nYonder the shores of Fife you saw,\\nHere Preston-Bay and Berwick-Law;\\nAnd, broad between them rolled,\\nThe gallant Firth the eye might note,\\nWhose islands on its bosom float,\\nLike emeralds chased in gold.\\nFitz-Eustace s heart felt closely pent;\\nAs if to give his rapture vent,\\nThe spur he to his charger lent, 630\\nAnd raised his bridle hand,\\nAnd making demi-volt in air,\\nCried, Where s the coward that would\\nnot dare\\nTo fight for such a land\\nThe Lindesay smiled his joy to see,\\nNor Marmion s frown repressed his glee.\\nXXXI\\nThus while they looked, a flourish proud,\\nWhere mingled trump, and clarion loud,\\nAnd fife, and kettle-drum,\\nAnd sackbut deep, and psaltery, 640\\nAnd war-pipe with discordant cry,\\nAnd cymbal clattering to the sky,\\nMaking wild music bold and high,\\nDid up the mountain come;\\nThe whilst the bells with distant chime\\nMerrily tolled the hour of prime,\\nAnd thus the Lindesay spoke:\\n4 Thus clamor still the war-notes when\\nThe king to mass his way has ta en,\\nOr to Saint Catherine s of Sienne, 650\\nOr Chapel of Saint Rocque.\\nTo you they speak of martial fame,\\nBut me remind of peaceful game,\\nWhen blither was their cheer,\\nThrilling in Falkland-woods the air,\\nIn signal none his steed should spare,\\nBut strive which foremost might repair\\nTo the downfall of the deer.\\nNor less, he said, when looking forth\\nI view yon Empress of the North 660\\nSit on her hilly throne,\\nHer palace s imperial bowers,\\nHer castle, proof to hostile powers,\\nHer stately halls and holy towers\\nNor less, he said, 1 moan\\nTo think what woe mischance may bring,\\nAnd how these merry bells may ring\\nThe death-dirge of our gallant king,\\nOr with their larum call\\nThe burghers forth to watch and ward, 6 7\\nGainst Southern sack and fires to guard\\nDun-Edin s leaguered wall.\\nBut not for my presaging thought,\\nDream conquest sure or cheaply bought\\nLord Marmion, I say nay:\\nGod is the guider of the field,\\nHe breaks the champion s spear and shield\\nBut thou thyself shalt say,\\nWhen joins yon host in deadly stowre, 679\\nThat England s dames must weep in bower,\\nHer monks the death-mass sing;\\nFor never saw st thou such a power\\nLed on by such a king.\\nAnd now, down winding to the plain,\\nThe barriers of the camp they gain,\\nAnd there they made a stay.\\nThere stays the Minstrel, till he fling\\nHis hand o er every Border string,\\nAnd fit his harp the pomp to sing\\nOf Scotland s ancient court and king, 690\\nIn the succeeding lay.\\nINTRODUCTION TO CANTO\\nFIFTH\\nTO GEORGE ELLIS, ESQ.\\nEdinburgh\\nWhen dark December glooms the day,\\nAnd takes our autumn joys away;\\nWhen short and scant the sunbeam throws\\nUpon the weary waste of snows", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0156.jp2"}, "155": {"fulltext": "INTRODUCTION TO CANTO FIFTH\\n125\\nA cold and profitless regard,\\nLike patroii on a needy bard\\nWhen sylvan occupation s done,\\nAnd o er the chimney rests the gun,\\nAnd hang in idle trophy near,\\nThe game-pouch, fishing-rod, and spear; 10\\nWhen wiry terrier, rough and grim,\\nAnd greyhound, with his length of limb,\\nAnd pointer, now employed no more,\\nCumber our parlor s narrow floor;\\nWhen in his stall the impatient steed\\nIs long condemned to rest and feed;\\nWhen from our snow- encircled home\\nScarce cares the hardiest step to roam,\\nSince path is none, save that to bring\\nThe needful water from the spring; 20\\nWhen wrinkled news-page, thrice conned\\no er,\\nBeguiles the dreary hour no more,\\nAnd darkling politician, crossed,\\nInveighs against the lingering post,\\nAnd answering housewife sore complains\\nOf carriers snow-impeded wains;\\nWhen such the country-cheer, I come\\nWell pleased to seek our city home;\\nFor converse and for books to change\\nThe forest s melancholy range, 30\\nAnd welcome with renewed delight\\nThe busy day and social night.\\nNot here need my desponding rhyme\\nLament the ravages of time,\\nAs erst by Newark s riven towers,\\nAnd Ettrick stripped of forest bowers.\\nTrue, Caledonia s Queen is changed\\nSince on her dusky summit ranged,\\nWithin its steepy limits pent\\nBy bulwark, line, and battlement, 40\\nAnd flanking towers, and laky flood,\\nGuarded and garrisoned she stood,\\nDenying entrance or resort\\nSave at each tall embattled port,\\nAbove whose arch, suspended, hung\\nPortcullis spiked with iron prong.\\nThat long is gone, but not so long\\nSince, early closed and opening late,\\nJealous revolved the studded gate,\\nWhose task, from eve to morning tide, 50\\nA wicket churlishly supplied.\\nStern then and steel-girt was thy brow,\\nDun-Edin Oh, how altered now,\\nWhen safe amid thy mountain court\\nThou sitt st, like empress at her sport,\\nAnd liberal, unconfined, and free,\\nFlinging thy white arms to the sea,\\nFor thy dark cloud, with umbered lower,\\nThat hung o er cliff and lake and tower,\\nThou gleam st against the western ray 60\\nTen thousand lines of brighter day\\nNot she, the championess of old,\\nIn Spenser s magic tale enrolled,\\nShe for the charmed spear renowned,\\nWhich forced each knight to kiss the\\nground,\\nNot she more changed, when, placed at\\nrest,\\nWhat time she was Malbecco s guest,\\nShe gave to flow her maiden vest;\\nWhen, from the corselet s grasp relieved,\\nFree to the sight her bosom heaved 70.\\nSweet was her blue eye s modest smile,\\nErst hidden by the aventayle,\\nAnd down her shoulders graceful rolled\\nHer locks profuse of paly gold.\\nThey who whilom in midnight fight\\nHad marvelled at her matchless might,\\nNo less her maiden charms approved,\\nBut looking liked, and liking loved.\\nThe sight could jealous pangs beguile,\\nAnd charm Malbecco s cares awhile; 80-\\nAnd he, the wandering Squire of Dames,\\nForgot his Columbella s claims,\\nAnd passion, erst unknown, could gain\\nThe breast of blunt Sir Satyrane;\\nNor durst light Paridell advance,\\nBold as he was, a looser glance.\\nShe charmed, at once, and tamed the heart,\\nIncomparable Britomart\\nSo thou, fair City disarrayed\\nOf battled wall and rampart s aid, go\\nAs stately seem st, but lovelier far\\nThan in that panoply of war.\\nNor deem that from thy fenceless throne\\nStrength and security are flown;\\nStill as of yore, Queen of the North\\nStill canst thou send thy children forth.\\nNe er readier at alarm-bell s call\\nThy burghers rose to man thy wall\\nThan now, in danger, shall be thine,\\nThy dauntless voluntary line; 100\\nFor fosse and turret proud to stand,\\nTheir breasts the bulwarks of the land.\\nThy thousands, trained to martial toil,\\nFull red would stain their native soil,\\nEre from thy mural crown there fell\\nThe slightest knosp or pinnacle.\\nAnd if it come, as come it may,\\nDun-Edin that eventful day,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0157.jp2"}, "156": {"fulltext": "26\\nMARMION\\nRenowned for hospitable deed, 109\\nThat virtue much with Heaven may plead,\\nIn patriarchal times whose care\\nDescending angels deigned to share\\nThat claim may wrestle blessings down\\nOn those who fight for the Good Town,\\nDestined in every age to be\\nRefuge of injured royalty;\\nSince first, when conquering York arose,\\nTo Henry meek she gave repose,\\nTill late, with wonder, grief, and awe,\\nGreat Bourbon s relics sad she saw. 120\\nTruce to these thoughts for, as they\\nrise,\\nHow gladly I avert mine eyes,\\nBodings, or true or false, to change\\nFor Fiction s fair romantic range,\\nOr for tradition s dubious light,\\nThat hovers twixt the day and night:\\nDazzling alternately and dim,\\nHer wavering lamp I d rather trim,\\nKnights, squires, and lovely dames to see,\\nCreation of my fantasy, 130\\nThan gaze abroad on reeky fen,\\nAnd make of mists invading men.\\nWho loves not more the night of June\\nThan dull December s gloomy noon\\nThe moonlight than the fog of frost\\nAnd can we say which cheats the most\\nBut who shall teach my harp to gain\\nA sound of the romantic strain\\nWhose Anglo-Norman tones whilere\\nCould win the royal Henry s ear, 140\\nFamed Beauclerk called, for that he loved\\nThe minstrel and his lay approved\\nWho shall these lingering notes redeem,\\nDecaying on Oblivion s stream;\\nSuch notes as from the Breton tongue\\nMarie translated, Blondel sung\\nOh born Time s ravage to repair,\\nAnd make the dying Muse thy care\\nWho, when his scythe her hoary foe\\nWas poising for the final blow, 150\\nThe weapon from his hand could ring,\\nAnd break his glass and shear his wing,\\nAnd bid, reviving in his strain,\\nThe gentle poet live again;\\nThou, who canst give to lightest lay\\nAn unpedantic moral gay,\\nNor less the dullest theme bid flit\\nOn wings of unexpected wit;\\nIn letters as in life approved,\\nExample honored and beloved, 160\\nDear Ellis to the bard impart\\nA lesson of thy magic art,\\nTo win at once the head and heart,\\nAt once to charm, instruct, and mend,\\nMy guide, my pattern, and my friend\\nSuch minstrel lesson to bestow\\nBe long thy pleasing task, but, oh\\nNo more by thy example teach\\nWhat few can practise, all can preach,\\nWith even patience to endure 170\\nLingering disease and painful cure,\\nAnd boast affliction s pangs subdued\\nBy mild and manly fortitude.\\nEnough, the lesson has been given:\\nForbid the repetition, Heaven\\nCome listen, then for thou hast known\\nAnd loved the Minstrel s varying tone,\\nWho, like his Border sires of old,\\nWaked a wild measure rude and bold,\\nTill Windsor s oaks and Ascot plain 180\\nWith wonder heard the Northern strain.\\nCome listen bold in thy applause,\\nThe bard shall scorn pedantic laws;\\nAnd, as the ancient art could stain\\nAchievements on the storied pane,\\nIrregularly traced and planned,\\nBut yet so glowing and so grand,\\nSo shall he strive, in changeful hue,\\nField, feast, and combat to renew,\\nAnd loves, and arms, and harpers glee, 190\\nAnd all the pomp of chivalry.\\nCANTO FIFTH\\nTHE COURT\\nThe train has left the hills of Braid;\\nThe barrier guard have open made\\nSo Lindesay bade the palisade\\nThat closed the tented ground;\\nTheir men the warders backward drew,\\nAnd carried pikes as they rode through\\nInto its ample bound.\\nFast ran the Scottish warriors there,\\nUpon the Southern band to stare,\\nAnd envy with their wonder rose, ic\\nTo see such well-appointed foes\\nSuch length of shafts, such mighty bows,\\nSo huge that many simply thought\\nBut for a vaunt such weapons wrought,\\nAnd little deemed their force to feel", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0158.jp2"}, "157": {"fulltext": "CANTO FIFTH: THE COURT\\n127\\nThrough links of mail and plates of steel\\nWhen, rattling upon Flodden vale,\\nThe cloth-yard arrows flew like hail.\\nNor less did Marmion s skilful view\\nGlance every line and squadron through, 20\\nAnd much he marvelled one small land\\nCould marshal forth such various band;\\nFor men-at-arms were here,\\nHeavily sheathed in mail and plate,\\nLike iron towers for strength and weight,\\nOn Flemish steeds of bone and height,\\nWith battle-axe and spear.\\nYoung knights and squires, a lighter\\ntrain,\\nPractised their chargers on the plain,\\nBy aid of leg, of hand, and rein, 30\\nEach warlike feat to show,\\nTo pass, to wheel, the croupe to gain,\\nAnd high curvet, that not in vain\\nThe sword-sway might descend amain\\nOn foeman s casque below.\\nHe saw the hardy burghers there\\nMarch armed on foot with faces bare,\\nFor visor they wore none,\\nNor waving plume, nor crest of knight;\\nBut burnished were their corselets bright, 40\\nTheir brigantines and gorgets light\\nLike very silver shone.\\nLong pikes they had for standing fight,\\nTwo-handed swords they wore,\\nAnd many wielded mace of weight,\\nAnd bucklers bright they bore.\\nill\\nOn foot the yeoman too, but dressed\\nIn his steel-jack, a swarthy vest,\\nWith iron quilted well;\\nEach at his back a slender store 50\\nHis forty days provision bore,\\nAs feudal statutes tell.\\nHis arms were halbert, axe, or spear,\\nA crossbow there, a hagbut here,\\nA dagger-knife, and brand.\\nSober he seemed and sad of cheer,\\nAs loath to leave his cottage dear\\nAnd march to foreign strand,\\nOr musing who would guide his steer\\nTo till the fallow land. 60\\nYet deem not in his thoughtful eye\\nDid aught of dastard terror lie\\nMore dreadful far his ire\\nThan theirs who, scorning danger s name,\\nIn eager mood to battle came,\\nTheir valor like light straw on flame,\\nA fierce but fading fire.\\nIV\\nNot so the Borderer: bred to war,\\nHe knew the battle s din afar,\\nAnd joyed to hear it swell. 70\\nHis peaceful day was slothful ease;\\nNor harp nor pipe his ear could please\\nLike the loud slogan yell.\\nOn active steed, with lance and blade,\\nThe light-armed pricker plied his trade,\\nLet nobles fight for fame\\nLet vassals follow where they lead,\\nBurghers, to guard their townships, bleed,\\nBut war s the Borderers game.\\nTheir gain, their glory, their delight, 80\\nTo sleep the day, maraud the night,\\nO er mountain, moss, and moor;\\nJoyful to fight they took their way,\\nScarce caring who might win the day,\\nTheir booty was secure.\\nThese, as Lord Marmion s train passed by,\\nLooked on at first with careless eye,\\nNor marvelled aught, well taught to know\\nThe form and force of English bow.\\nBut when they saw the lord arrayed 90\\nIn splendid arms and rich brocade,\\nEach Borderer to his kinsman said,\\nHist, Ringan seest thou there\\nCanst guess which road they 11 homeward\\nride?\\nOh could we but on Border side,\\nBy Eusedale glen, or Liddell s tide,\\nBeset a prize so fair\\nThat fangless Lion, too, their guide,\\nMight chance to lose his glistering hide;\\nBrown Maudlin of that doublet pied 100\\nCould make a kirtle rare.\\nNext, Marmion marked the Celtic race,\\nOf different language, form, and face,\\nA various race of man;\\nJust then the chiefs their tribes arrayed,\\nAnd wild and garish semblance made\\nThe checkered trews and belted plaid,\\nAnd varying notes the war-pipes brayed\\nTo every varying clan.\\nWild through their red or sable hair nc\\nLooked out their eyes with savage stare\\nOn Marmion as he passed;\\nTheir legs above the knee were bare;\\nTheir frame was sinewy, short, and spare,\\nAnd hardened to the blast;", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0159.jp2"}, "158": {"fulltext": "128\\nMARMION\\nOf taller race, the chiefs they own\\nWere by the eagle s plumage known.\\nThe hunted red-deer s undressed hide\\nTheir hairy buskins well supplied;\\nThe graceful bonnet decked their head; 120\\nBack from their shoulders hung the plaid;\\nA broadsword of unwieldy length,\\nA dagger proved for edge and strength,\\nA studded targe they wore,\\nAnd quivers, bows, and shafts, but, oh\\nShort was the shaft and weak the bow\\nTo that which England bore.\\nThe Isles-men carried at their backs\\nThe ancient Danish battle-axe.\\nThey raised a wild and wondering cry, 130\\nAs with his guide rode Marmion by.\\nLoud were their clamoring tongues, as\\nwhen\\nThe clanging sea-fowl leave the fen,\\nAnd, with their cries discordant mixed,\\nGrumbled and yelled the pipes betwixt.\\nThus through the Scottish camp they\\npassed,\\nAnd reached the city gate at last,\\nWhere all around, a wakeful guard,\\nArmed burghers kept their watch and\\nward.\\nWell had they cause of jealous fear, 140\\nWhen lay encamped in field so near\\nThe Borderer and. the Mountaineer.\\nAs through the bustling streets they go,\\nAll was alive with martial show;\\nAt every turn with dinning clang\\nThe armorer s anvil clashed and rang,\\nOr toiled the swarthy smith to wheel\\nThe bar that arms the charger s heel,\\nOr axe or falchion to the side\\nOf jarring grindstone was applied. 150\\nPage, groom, and squire, with hurrying\\npace,\\nThrough street and lane and market-place,\\nBore lance or casque or sword;\\nWhile burghers, with important face,\\nDescribed each new-come lord,\\nDiscussed his lineage, told his name,\\nHis following, and his warlike fame.\\nThe Lion led to lodging meet,\\nWhich high o erlooked the crowded street;\\nThere must the baron rest 160\\nTill past the hour of vesper tide,\\nAnd then to Holy-Rood must ride,\\nSuch was the king s behest.\\nMeanwhile the Lion s care assigns\\nA banquet rich and costly wines\\nTo Marmion and his train\\nAnd when the appointed hour succeeds,\\nThe baron dons his peaceful weeds,\\nAnd following Lindesay as he leads,\\nThe palace halls they gain.\\nr 7 o\\nVII\\nOld Holy-Rood rung merrily\\nThat night with wassail, mirth, and glee:\\nKing James within her princely bower\\nFeasted the chiefs of Scotland s power,\\nSummoned to spend the parting hour;\\nFor he had charged that his array\\nShould southward march by break of\\nday.\\nWell loved that splendid monarch aye\\nThe banquet and the song,\\nBy day the tourney, and by night 180\\nThe merry dance, traced fast and light,\\nThe maskers quaint, the pageant bright,\\nThe revel loud and long.\\nThis feast outshone his banquets past;\\nIt was his blithest and his last.\\nThe dazzling lamps from gallery gay\\nCast on the court a dancing ray;\\nHere to the harp did minstrels sing,\\nThere ladies touched a softer string;\\nWith long-eared cap and motley vest, 190\\nThe licensed fool retailed his jest;\\nHis magic tricks the juggler plied;\\nAt dice and draughts the gallants vied;\\nWhile some, in close recess apart,\\nCourted the ladies of their heart,\\nNor courted them in vain;\\nFor often in the parting hour\\nVictorious Love asserts his power\\nO er coldness and disdain;\\nAnd flinty is her heart can view 200\\nTo battle march a lover true\\nCan hear, perchance, his last adieu,\\nNor own her share of pain.\\nVIII\\nThrough this mixed crowd of glee and\\ngame\\nThe king to greet Lord Marmion came,\\nWhile, reverent, all made room.\\nAn easy task it was, I trow,\\nKing James s manly form to know,\\nAlthough, his courtesy to show,\\nHe doffed to Marmion bending low zto\\nHis broidered cap and plume.\\nFor royal were his garb and mien:\\nI", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0160.jp2"}, "159": {"fulltext": "CANTO FIFTH: THE COURT\\n129\\nHis cloak of crimson velvet piled,\\nTrimmed with the fur of marten wild,\\nlis vest of changeful satin sheen,\\nThe dazzled eye beguiled;\\n[is gorgeous collar hung adown,\\nbrought with the badge of Scotland s\\ncrown,\\nhe thistle brave of old renown;\\n[is trusty blade, Toledo right, 220\\n\u00e2\u0080\u00a2escended from a baldric bright;\\nfhite were his buskins, on the heel\\nis spurs inlaid of gold and steel;\\nis bonnet, all of crimson fair,\\nfas buttoned with a ruby rare:\\nnd Marmion deemed he ne er had seen\\nprince of such a noble mien.\\nIX\\nhe monarch s form was middle size,\\nor feat of strength or exercise\\nShaped in proportion fair; 230\\nid hazel was his eagle eye,\\nid auburn of the darkest dye\\nHis short curled beard and hair.\\nsjht was his footstep in the dance,\\nAnd firm his stirrup in the lists;\\nid, oil he had that merry glance\\nThat seldom lady s heart resists.\\nI ghtly from fair to fair he flew,\\nA id loved to plead, lament, and sue,\\nI it lightly won and short-lived pain, 240\\nr monarchs seldom sigh in vain.\\nsaid he joyed in banquet bower;\\nRiit, mid his mirth, t was often strange\\nw suddenly his cheer would change,\\nlis look o ercast and lower,\\n|n a sudden turn he felt\\ne pressure of his iron belt,\\nI .at bound his breast in penance pain,\\nmemory of his father slain,\\ni en so t was strange how evermore, 250\\nS on as the passing pang was o er,\\nF rward he rushed with double glee\\n,0 the stream of revelry.\\nus dim-seen object of affright\\nirtles the courser in his flight,\\nI id half he halts, half springs aside,\\n13 t feels the quickening spur applied,\\nA id, straining on the tightened rein,\\nours doubly swift o er hill and plain.\\nirtiers say, 260\\nheld sway;\\n\u00e2\u0080\u00a2ame,\\nTo be a hostage for her lord,\\nWho Cessford s gallant heart had gored,\\nAnd with the king to make accord\\nHad sent his lovely dame.\\nNor to that lady free alone\\nDid the gay king allegiance own;\\nFor the fair Queen of France\\nSent him a turquoise ring and glove, 270\\nAnd charged him, as her knight and love,\\nFor her to break a lance,\\nAnd strike three strokes with Scottish\\nbrand,\\nAnd march three miles on Southron land\\nAnd bid the banners of his band\\nIn English breezes dance.\\nAnd thus for France s queen he drest\\nHis manly limbs in mailed vest,\\nAnd thus admitted English fair\\nHis inmost councils still to share, 280\\nAnd thus for both he madly planned\\nThe ruin of himself and land\\nAnd yet, the sooth to tell,\\nNor England s fair nor France s queen\\nWere worth one pearl-drop, bright and\\nsheen,\\nFrom Margaret s eyes that fell,\\nHis own Queen Margaret, who in Lith-\\ngow s bower\\nAll lonely sat and wept the weary hour.\\nXI\\nThe queen sits lone in Lithgow pile,\\nAnd weeps the weary day 290\\nThe war against her native soil,\\nHer monarch s risk in battle broil,\\nAnd in gay Holy-Rood the while\\nDame Heron rises with a smile\\nUpon the harp to play.\\nFair was her rounded arm, as o er\\nThe strings her fingers flew;\\nAnd as she touched and tuned them all,\\nEver her bosom s rise and fall\\nWas plainer given to view; 300\\nFor, all for heat, was laid aside\\nHer wimple, and her hood untied.\\nAnd first she pitched her voice to sing,\\nThen glanced her dark eye on the king,\\nAnd then around the silent ring,\\nAnd laughed, and blushed, and oft did say\\nHer pretty oath, by yea and nay,\\nShe could not, would not, durst not play\\nAt length, upon the harp, with glee,\\nMingled with arch simplicity, 31a\\nA soft yet lively air she rung,\\nWhile thus the wily lady sung:", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0161.jp2"}, "160": {"fulltext": "130\\nMARMION\\nXII\\nLOCHINVAR\\nLADY HERON S SONG\\nOh young Lochinvar is come out of the\\nwest,\\nThrough all the wide Border his steed was\\nthe best;\\nAnd save his good broadsword he weapons\\nhad none,\\nHe rode all unarmed and he rode all\\nalone.\\nSo faithful in love and so dauntless in\\nwar,\\nThere never was knight like the young\\nLochinvar.\\nHe stayed not for brake and he stopped\\nnot for stone,\\nHe swam the Eske river where ford there\\nwas none; 320\\nBut ere he alighted at Netherby gate\\nThe bride had consented, the gallant came\\nlate:\\nFor a laggard in love and a dastard in\\nwar\\nWas to wed the fair Ellen of brave Loch-\\ninvar.\\nSo boldly he entered the Netherby Hall,\\nAmong bridesmen, and kinsmen, and bro-\\nthers, and all:\\nThen spoke the bride s father, his hand on\\nhis sword,\\nFor the poor craven bridegroom said never\\na word,\\nOh come ye in peace here, or come ye\\nin war,\\nOr to dance at our bridal, young Lord\\nLochinvar 330\\nI long wooed your daughter, my suit you\\ndenied;\\nLove swells like the Sol way, but ebbs like\\nits tide\\nAnd now am I come, with this lost love of\\nmine,\\nTo lead but one measure, drink one cup of\\nwine.\\nThere are maidens in Scotland more lovely\\nby far,\\nThat would gladly be bride to the young\\nLochinvar.\\nThe bride kissed the goblet; the knight\\ntook it up,\\nHe quaffed off the wine, and he threw\\ndown the cup.\\nShe looked down to blush, and she looked\\nup to sigh,\\nWith a smile on her lips and a tear in her\\neye. 34 o\\nHe took her soft hand ere her mother could\\nbar,\\nNow tread we a measure said young\\nLochinvar.\\nSo stately his form, and so lovely her\\nface,\\nThat never a hall such a galliard did\\ngrace\\nWhile her mother did fret, and her father\\ndid fume,\\nAnd the bridegroom stood dangling his\\nbonnet and plume;\\nAnd the bride-maidens whispered, T were\\nbetter by far\\nTo have matched our fair cousin with\\nyoung Lochinvar.\\nOne touch to her hand and one word in\\nher ear,\\nWhen they reached the hall-door, and the\\ncharger stood near; 350\\nSo light to the croupe the fair lady he\\nswung,\\nSo light to the saddle before her he\\nsprung\\nShe is won we are gone, over bank,\\nbush, and scaur;\\nThey 11 have fleet steeds that follow, quoth\\nyoung Lochinvar.\\nThere was mounting mong Graemes of the\\nNetherby clan;\\nForsters, Fen wicks, and Musgraves, they\\nrode and they ran:\\nThere was racing and chasing on Cannobie\\nLee,\\nBut the lost bride of Netherby ne er did\\nthey see.\\nSo daring in love and so dauntless in war,\\nHave ye e er heard of gallant like young\\nLochinvar 360\\nXIII\\nThe monarch o er the siren hung,\\nAnd beat the measure as she sung;\\nAnd, pressing closer and more near,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0162.jp2"}, "161": {"fulltext": "CANTO FIFTH: THE COURT\\n131\\nHe whispered praises in her ear.\\nIn loud applause the courtiers vied,\\nAnd ladies winked and spoke aside.\\nThe witching dame to Marmion threw\\nA glance, where seemed to reign\\nThe pride that claims applauses due,\\nAnd of her royal conquest too 370\\nA real or feigned disdain:\\nFamiliar was the look, and told\\nMarmion and she were friends of old.\\nThe king observed their meeting eyes\\nWith something like displeased surprise;\\nFor monarchs ill can rivals brook,\\nEven in a word, or smile, or look.\\nStraight took he forth the parchment\\nbroad\\nWhich Marmion s high commission\\nshowed:\\nI Our Borders sacked by many a raid, 380\\nOur peaceful liege-men robbed, he said,\\nOn day of truce our warden slain,\\nStout Barton killed, his vessels ta en\\nUnworthy were we here to reign,\\nShould these for vengeance cry in vain;\\nOur full defiance, hate, and scorn,\\nOur herald has to Henry borne.\\nXIV\\nHe paused, and led where Douglas stood\\nAnd with stern eye the pageant viewed;\\nI mean that Douglas, sixth of yore, 390\\nWho coronet of Angus bore,\\nAnd, when his blood and heart were high,\\nDid the third James in camp defy,\\nAnd all his minions led to die\\nOn Lauder s dreary flat.\\nPrinces and favorites long grew tame,\\nAnd trembled at the homely name\\nOf Archibald Bell-the-Cat;\\nThe same who left the dusky vale\\nOf Hermitage in Liddisdale, 400\\nIts dungeons and its towers,\\nWhere Bothwell s turrets brave the air,\\nAnd Bothwell bank is blooming fair,\\nTo fix his princely bowers.\\n1 Though now in age he had laid down\\nHis armor for the peaceful gown,\\nAnd for a staff his brand,\\nYet often would flash forth the fire\\nThat could in youth a monarch s ire\\nAnd minion s pride withstand; 410\\nAnd even that day at council board,\\nUnapt to soothe his sovereign s mood,\\nAgainst the war had Angus stood,\\nAnd chafed his roval lord.\\nXV\\nHis giant-form, like ruined tower,\\nThough fallen its muscles brawny vaunt,\\nHuge boned, and tall, and grim, and\\ngaunt,\\nSeemed o er the gaudy scene to lower;\\nHis locks and beard in silver grew,\\nHis eyebrows kept their sable hue. 420\\nNear Douglas when the monarch stood,\\nHis bitter speech he thus pursued\\nLord Marmion, since these letters say\\nThat in the North you needs must stay\\nWhile slightest hopes of peace remain,\\nUncourteous speech it were and stern\\nTo say Return to Lindisfarne,\\nUntil my herald come again.\\nThen rest you in Tantallon hold;\\nYour host shall be the Douglas bold, 430\\nA chief unlike his sires of old.\\nHe wears their motto on his blade,\\nTheir blazon o er his towers displayed,\\nYet loves his sovereign to oppose\\nMore than to face his country s foes.\\nAnd, I bethink me, by Saint Stephen,\\nBut e en this morn to me was given\\nA prize, the first fruits of the war,\\nTa en by a galley from Dunbar,\\nA bevy of the maids of heaven. 44 o\\nUnder your guard these holy maids\\nShall safe return to cloister shades,\\nAnd, while they at Tantallon stay,\\nRequiem for Cochran s soul may say.\\nAnd with the slaughtered favorite s name\\nAcross the monarch s brow there came\\nA cloud of ire, remorse, and shame.\\nIn answer nought could Angus speak,\\nHis proud heart swelled well-nigh to break;\\nHe turned aside, and down his cheek 450\\nA burning tear there stole.\\nHis hand the monarch sudden took,\\nThat sight his kind heart could not brook:\\nNow, by the Bruce s soul,\\nAngus, my hasty speech forgive\\nFor sure as doth his spirit live,\\nAs he said of the Douglas old,\\nI well may say of you,\\nThat never king did subject hold,\\nIn speech more free, in war more bold, 460\\nMore tender and more true;\\nForgive me, Douglas, once again.\\nAnd, while the king his hand did strain,\\nThe old man s tears fell down like rain.\\nTo seize the moment Marmion tried,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0163.jp2"}, "162": {"fulltext": "I 3 2\\nMARMION\\nAnd whispered to the king aside:\\nOh let such tears unwonted plead\\nFor respite short from dubious deed\\nA child will weep a bramble s smart,\\nA maid to see her sparrow part,\\nA stripling for a woman s heart;\\nBut woe awaits a country when\\nShe sees the tears of bearded men.\\nThen, oh what omen, dark and high,\\nWhen Douglas wets his manly eye\\nDispleased was James that stranger viewed\\nAnd tampered with his chauging mood.\\nLaugh those that can, weep those that\\nmay,\\nThus did the fiery monarch say,\\nSouthward I march by break of day; 480\\nAnd if within Tantallon strong\\nThe good Lord Marmion tarries long,\\nPerchance our meeting next may fall\\nAt Tamworth in his castle-hall.\\nThe haughty Marmion felt the taunt,\\nAnd answered grave the royal vaunt:\\nMuch honored were my humble home,\\nIf in its halls King James should come;\\nBut Nottingham has archers good,\\nAnd Yorkshire men are stern of mood, 490\\nNorthumbrian prickers wild and rude.\\nOn Derby Hills the paths are steep,\\nIn Ouse and Tyne the fords are deep;\\nAnd many a banner will be torn,\\nAnd many a knight to earth be borne,\\nAnd many a sheaf of arrows spent,\\nEre Scotland s king shall cross the Trent:\\nYet pause, brave prince, while yet you\\nmay\\nThe monarch lightly turned away,\\nAnd to his nobles loud did call, 500\\nLords, to the dance, a hall a hall\\nHimself his cloak and sword flung by,\\nAnd led Dame Heron gallantly;\\nAnd minstrels, at the royal order,\\nRung out Blue Bonnets o er the Border.\\nLeave we these revels now to tell\\nWhat to Saint Hilda s maids befell,\\nWhose galley, as they sailed again\\nTo Whitby, by a Scot was ta en.\\nNow at Dun-Edin did they bide 510\\nTill James should of their fate decide,\\nAnd soon by his command\\nWere gently summoned to prepare\\nTo journey under Marmion s care,\\nAs escort honored, safe, and fair,\\nAgain to English land.\\nThe abbess told her chaplet o er,\\nNor knew which Saint she should implore;\\nFor, when she thought of Constance, sore\\nShe feared Lord Marmion s mood. 520\\nAnd judge what Clara must have felt\\nThe sword that hung in Marmion s belt\\nHad drunk De Wilton s blood.\\nUnwittingly King James had given,\\nAs guard to Whitby s shades,\\nThe man most dreaded under heaven\\nBy these defenceless maids;\\nYet what petition could avail,\\nOr who would listen to the tale\\nOf woman, prisoner, and nun, 530\\nMid bustle of a war begun\\nThey deemed it hopeless to avoid\\nThe convoy of their dangerous guide.\\nTheir lodging, so the king assigned,\\nTo Marmion s, as their guardian, joined;\\nAnd thus it fell that, passing nigh,\\nThe Palmer caught the abbess eye,\\nWho warned him by a scroll\\nShe had a secret to reveal\\nThat much concerned the Church s weal\\nAnd health of sinner s soul; 54 i\\nAnd, with deep charge of secrecy,\\nShe named a place to meet\\nWithin an open balcony,\\nThat hung from dizzy pitch and high\\nAbove the stately street,\\nTo which, as common to each home,\\nAt night they might in secret come.\\nxx\\nAt night in secret there they came,\\nThe Palmer and the holy dame. 550\\nThe moon among the clouds rode high,\\nAnd all the city hum was by.\\nUpon the street, where late before\\nDid din of war and warriors roar,\\nYou might have heard a pebble fall,\\nA beetle hum, a cricket sing,\\nAn owlet flap his boding wing\\nOn Giles s steeple tall.\\nThe antique buildings, climbing high,\\nWhose Gothic frontlets sought the sky, 560\\nWere here wrapt deep in shade;\\nThere on their brows the moonbeam broke,\\nThrough the faint wreaths of silvery\\nsmoke,\\nAnd on the casements played.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0164.jp2"}, "163": {"fulltext": "CANTO FIFTH: THE COURT\\n*33\\nAnd other light was none to see,\\nSave torches gliding far,\\nBefore some chieftain of degree\\nWho left the royal revelry\\nTo bowne him for the war.\\nA solemn scene the abbess chose, 570\\nA solemn hour, her secret to disclose.\\nXXI\\n1 O holy Palmer she began,\\nf For sure he must be sainted man,\\nWhose blessed feet have trod the ground\\nWhere the Redeemer s tomb is found,\\nFor his dear Church s sake, my tale\\nAttend, nor deem of light avail,\\nThough I must speak of worldly love,\\nHow vain to those who wed above\\nDe Wilton and Lord Marmion wooed 580\\nClara de Clare, of Gloster s blood;\\nIdle it were of Whitby s dame\\nTo say of that same blood I came;\\nAnd once, when jealous rage was high,\\nLord Marmion said despiteously,\\nWilton was traitor in his heart,\\nAnd had made league with Martin Swart\\nWhen he came here on Simnel s part.\\nAnd only cowardice did restrain\\nHis rebel aid on Stokefield s plain, 590\\nAnd down he threw his glove. The thing\\nWas tried, as wont, before the king;\\nWhere frankly did De Wilton own\\nThat Swart in Guelders he had known,\\nAnd that between them then there went\\nSome scroll of courteous compliment.\\nFor this he to his castle sent;\\nBut when his messenger returned,\\nJudge how De Wilton s fury burned\\nFor in his packet there were laid 600\\nLetters that claimed disloyal aid\\nAnd proved King Henry s cause betrayed.\\nHis fame, thus blighted, in the field\\nHe strove to clear by spear and shield\\nTo clear his fame in vain he strove,\\nFor wondrous are His ways above\\nPerchance some form was unobserved,\\nPerchance in prayer or faith he swerved,\\nElse how could guiltless champion quail,\\nOr how the blessed ordeal fail 610\\nHis squire, who now De Wilton saw\\nAs recreant doomed to suffer law,\\nRepentant, owned in vain\\nThat while he had the scrolls in care\\nA stranger maiden, passing fair,\\nHad drenched him with a beverage rare;\\nHis words no faith could gain.\\nWith Clare alone he credence won,\\nWho, rather than wed Marmion,\\nDid to Saint Hilda s shrine repair, 620\\nTo give our house her livings fair\\nAnd die a vestal votaress there.\\nThe impulse from the earth was given,\\nBut bent her to the paths of heaven.\\nA purer heart, a lovelier maid,\\nNe er sheltered her in Whitby s shade,\\nNo, not since Saxon Edelfled;\\nOnly one trace of earthly stain,\\nThat for her lover s loss\\nShe cherishes a sorrow vain, 630\\nAnd murmurs at the cross.\\nAnd then her heritage it goes\\nAlong the banks of Tame;\\nDeep fields of grain the reaper mows,\\nIn meadows rich the heifer lows,\\nThe falconer and huntsman knows\\nIts woodlands for the game.\\nShame were it to Saint Hilda dear.\\nAnd I, her humble votaress here,\\nShould do a deadly sin, 640\\nHer temple spoiled before mine eyes,\\nIf this false Marmion such a prize\\nBy my consent should win;\\nYet hath our boisterous monarch sworn\\nThat Clare shall from our house be torn,\\nAnd grievous cause have I to fear\\nSuch mandate doth Lord Marmion bear.\\nXXIII\\nNow, prisoner, helpless, and betrayed\\nTo evil power, I claim thine aid,\\nBy every step that thou hast trod 650\\nTo holy shrine and grotto dim,\\nBy every martyr s tortured limb,\\nBy angel, saint, and seraphim,\\nAnd by the Church of God\\nFor mark: when Wilton was betrayed,\\nAnd with his squire forged letters laid,\\nShe was, alas that sinful maid\\nBy whom the deed was done,\\nOh shame and horror to be said\\nShe was a perjured nun 660\\nNo clerk in all the land like her\\nTraced quaint and varying character.\\nPerchance you may a marvel deem,\\nThat Marmion s paramour\\nFor such vile thing she was should\\nscheme\\nHer lover s nuptial hour;\\nBut o er him thus she hoped to gain,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0165.jp2"}, "164": {"fulltext": "134\\nMARMION\\nAs privy to his honor s stain,\\nIllimitable power.\\nFor this she secretly retained 670\\nEach proof that might the plot reveal,\\nInstructions with his hand and seal;\\nAnd thus Saint Hilda deigned,\\nThrough sinners perfidy impure,\\nHer house s glory to secure\\nAnd Clare s immortal weal.\\nXXIV\\nT were long and needless here to tell\\nHow to my hand these papers fell;\\nWith me they must not stay.\\nSaint Hilda keep her abbess true 680\\nWho knows what outrage he might do\\nWhile journeying by the way\\nblessed Saint, if e er again\\n1 venturous leave thy calm domain,\\nTo travel or by land or main,\\nDeep penance may I pay\\nNow, saintly Palmer, mark my prayer:\\nI give this packet to thy care,\\nFor thee to stop they will not dare;\\nAnd oh with cautious speed 690\\nTo Wolsey s hand the papers bring,\\nThat he may show them to the king:\\nAnd for thy well-earned meed,\\nThou holy man, at Whitby s shrine\\nA weekly mass shall still be thine\\nWhile priests can sing and read.\\nWhat ail st thou Speak For as he\\ntook\\nThe charge a strong emotion shook\\nHis frame, and ere reply\\nThey heard a faint yet shrilly tone, 700\\nLike distant clarion feebly blown,\\nThat on the breeze did die;\\nAnd loud the abbess shrieked in fear,\\nSaint Withold, save us What is here\\nLook at yon City Cross\\nSee on its battled tower appear\\nPhantoms, that scutcheons seem to rear\\nAnd blazoned banners toss\\nXXV\\nDun-Edin s Cross, a pillared stone,\\nRose on a turret octagon 710\\nBut now is razed that monument,\\nWhence royal edict rang,\\nAnd voice of Scotland s law was sent\\nIn glorious trumpet-clang.\\nOh be his tomb as lead to lead\\nUpon its dull destroyer s head\\nA minstrel s malison is said.\\nThen on its battlements they saw\\nA vision, passing Nature s law,\\nStrange, wild, and dimly seen; 720\\nFigures that seemed to rise and die,\\nGibber and sign, advance and fly,\\nWhile nought confirmed could ear or eye\\nDiscern of sound or mien.\\nYet darkly did it seem as there\\nHeralds and pursuivants prepare,\\nWith trumpet sound and blazon fair,\\nA summons to proclaim;\\nBut indistinct the pageant proud,\\nAs fancy forms of midnight cloud 730\\nWhen flings the moon upon her shroud\\nA wavering tinge of flame;\\nIt flits, expands, and shifts, till loud,\\nFrom midmost of the spectre crowd,\\nThis awful summons came\\nXXVI\\nPrince, prelate, potentate, and peer,\\nWhose names I now shall call,\\nScottish or foreigner, give ear\\nSubjects of him who sent me here,\\nAt his tribunal to appear 74 o\\nI summon one and all:\\nI cite you by each deadly sin\\nThat e er hath soiled your hearts within;\\nI cite you by each brutal lust\\nThat e er defiled your earthly dust,\\nBy wrath, by pride, by fear,\\nBy each o ermastering passion s tone,\\nBy the dark grave and dying groan\\nWhen forty days are passed and gone,\\nI cite you, at your monarch s throne 750\\nTo answer and appear.\\nThen thundered forth a roll of names\\nThe first was thine, unhappy James\\nThen all thy nobles came;\\nCrawford, Glencairn, Montrose, Argyle,\\nRoss, Both well, Forbes, Lennox, Lyle,\\nWhy should I tell their separate style\\nEach chief of birth and fame,\\nOf Lowland, Highland, Border, Isle,\\nForedoomed to Flodden s carnage pile, 760\\nWas cited there by name;\\nAnd Marmion, Lord of Fontenaye,\\nOf Lutterward, and Scrivelbaye;\\nDe Wilton, erst of Aberley,\\nThe self-same thundering voice did say.\\nBut then another spoke:\\nThy fatal summons I deny\\nAnd thine infernal lord defy,\\nAppealing me to Him on high\\nWho burst the sinner s yoke. 770", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0166.jp2"}, "165": {"fulltext": "CANTO FIFTH: THE COURT\\n*35\\nAt that dread accent, with a scream,\\nParted the pageant like a dream,\\nThe summoner was gone.\\nProne on her face the abbess fell,\\nAnd fast, and fast, her beads did tell;\\nHer nuns came, startled by the yell,\\nAnd found her there alone.\\nShe marked not, at the scene aghast,\\nWhat time or how the Palmer passed.\\nXXVII\\nShift we the scene. The camp doth\\nmove 780\\nDun-Edin s streets are empty now,\\nSave when, for weal of those they love,\\nTo pray the prayer and vow the vow,\\nThe tottering child, the anxious fair,\\nThe gray-haired sire, with pious care,\\nTo chapels and to shrines repair.\\nWhere is the Palmer now and where\\nThe abbess, Marmion, and Clare\\nBold Douglas to Tantallon fair\\nThey journey in thy charge: 790\\nLord Marmion rode on his right hand,\\nThe Palmer still was with the band;\\nAngus, like Lindesay, did command\\nThat none should roam at large.\\nBut in that Palmer s altered mien\\nA wondrous change might now be seen;\\nFreely he spoke of war,\\nOf marvels wrought by single hand\\nWhen lifted for a native land,\\nAnd still looked high, as if he planned 800\\nSome desperate deed afar.\\nHis courser would he feed and stroke,\\nAnd, tucking up his sable frock,\\nWould first his mettle bold provoke,\\nThen soothe or quell his pride.\\nOld Hubert said that never one\\nHe saw, except Lord Marmion,\\nA steed so fairly ride.\\nXXVIII\\nSome half-hour s march behind there came,\\nBy Eustace governed fair, 810\\nA troop escorting Hilda s dame,\\nWith all her nuns and Clare.\\nNo audience had Lord Marmion sought;\\nEver he feared to aggravate\\nClara de Clare s suspicious hate;\\nAnd safer t was, he thought,\\nTo wait till, from the nuns removed,\\nThe influence of kinsmen loved,\\nAnd suit by Henry s self approved,\\nHer slow consent had wrought. 820\\nHis was no flickering flame, that dies\\nUnless when fanned by looks and sighs\\nAnd lighted oft at lady s eyes;\\nHe longed to stretch his wide command\\nO er luckless Clara s ample land:\\nBesides, when Wilton with him vied,\\nAlthough the pang of humbled pride\\nThe place of jealousy supplied,\\nYet conquest, by that meanness won\\nHe almost loathed to think upon, 830\\nLed him, at times, to hate the cause\\nWhich made him burst through honor s\\nlaws.\\nIf e er he loved, t was her alone\\nWho died within that vault of stone.\\nXXIX\\nAnd now, when close at hand they saw\\nNorth Berwick s town and lofty Law,\\nFitz-Eustace bade them pause awhile\\nBefore a venerable pile\\nWhose turrets viewed afar\\nThe lofty Bass, the Lambie Isle, 840\\nThe ocean s peace or war.\\nAt tolling of a bell, forth came\\nThe convent s venerable dame,\\nAnd prayed Saint Hilda s abbess rest\\nWith her, a loved and honored guest,\\nTill Douglas should a bark prepare\\nTo waft her back to Whitby fair.\\nGlad was the abbess, you may guess,\\nAnd thanked the Scottish prioress;\\nAnd tedious were to tell, I ween, 850\\nThe courteous speech that passed be-\\ntween.\\nO erjoyed the nuns their palfreys leave;\\nBut when fair Clara did intend,\\nLike them, from horseback to descend,\\nFitz-Eustace said: I grieve,\\nFair lady, grieve e en from my heart,\\nSuch gentle company to part;\\nThink not discourtesy,\\nBut lords commands must be obeyed,\\nAnd Marmion and the Douglas said 860\\nThat you must wend with me.\\nLord Marmion hath a letter broad,\\nWhich to the Scottish earl he showed,\\nCommanding that beneath his care\\nWithout delay you shall repair\\nTo your good kinsman, Lord Fitz-Clare.\\nXXX\\nThe startled abbess loud exclaimed;\\nBut she at whom the blow was aimed\\nGrew pale as death and cold as lead,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0167.jp2"}, "166": {"fulltext": "136\\nMARMION\\nShe deemed she heard her death -doom\\nread. 870\\nCheer thee, my child the abbess said,\\nThey dare not tear thee from my hand,\\nTo ride alone with armed band.\\nNay, holy mother, nay,\\nFitz-Eustace said, the lovely Clare\\nWill be in Lady Angus care,\\nIn Scotland while we stay;\\nAnd when we move an easy ride\\nAVill bring us to the English side,\\nFemale attendance to provide 880\\nBefitting Gloster s heir;\\nNor thinks nor dreams my noble lord,\\nBy slightest look, or act, or word,\\nTo harass Lady Clare.\\nHer faithful guardian he will be,\\nNor sue for slightest courtesy\\nThat e en to stranger falls,\\nTill he shall place her safe and free\\nWithin her kinsman s halls. 889\\nHe spoke, and blushed with earnest grace\\nHis faith was painted on his face,\\nAnd Clare s worst fear relieved.\\nThe Lady Abbess loud exclaimed\\nOn Henry, and the Douglas blamed,\\nEntreated, threatened, grieved,\\nTo martyr, saint, and prophet prayed\\nAgainst Lord Marmion inveighed,\\nAnd called the prioress to aid,\\nTo curse with candle, bell, and book.\\nHer head the grave Cistertian shook: 900\\nThe Douglas and the king, she said,\\nIn their commands will be obeyed;\\nGrieve not, nor dream that harm can\\nfall\\nThe maiden in Tantallon Hall.\\nXXXI\\nThe abbess, seeing strife was vain,\\nAssumed her wonted state again,\\nFor much of state she had,\\nComposed her veil, and raised her head,\\nAnd Bid, in solemn voice she said,\\nThy master, bold and bad, gj\\nThe records of his house turn o er,\\nAnd, when he shall there written see\\nThat one of his own ancestry\\nDrove the monks forth of Coventry,\\nBid him his fate explore\\nPrancing in pride of earthly trust,\\nHis charger hurled him to the dust,\\nAnd, by a base plebeian thrust,\\nHe died his band before.\\nGod judge twixt Marmion and me: 920\\nHe is a chief of high degree,\\nAnd I a poor recluse,\\nYet oft in holy writ we see\\nEven such weak minister as me\\nMay the oppressor bruise;\\nFor thus, inspired, did Judith slay\\nThe mighty in his sin,\\nAnd Jael thus, and Deborah\\nHere hasty Blount broke in: 929\\nFitz-Eustace, we must march our band;\\nSaint Anton fire thee wilt thou stand\\nAll day, with bonnet in thy hand,\\nTo hear the lady preach\\nBy this good light if thus we stay,\\nLord Marmion for our fond delay\\nWill sharper sermon teach.\\nCome, don thy cap and mount thy horse;\\nThe dame must patience take perforce.\\nXXXII\\nSubmit we then to force, said Clare,\\nBut let this barbarous lord despair 940\\nHis purposed aim to win;\\nLet him take, living, land, and life,\\nBut to be Marmion s wedded wife\\nIn me were deadly sin:\\nAnd if it be the king s decree\\nThat I must find no sanctuary\\nIn that inviolable dome\\nWhere even a homicide might come\\nAnd safely rest his head,\\nThough at its open portals stood, 950\\nThirsting to pour forth blood for blood,\\nThe kinsmen of the dead,\\nYet one asylum is my own\\nAgainst the dreaded hour,\\nA low, a silent, and a lone,\\nWhere kings have little power.\\nOne victim is before me there.\\nMother, your blessing, and in prayer\\nRemember your unhappy Clare\\nLoud weeps the abbess, and bestows 960\\nKind blessings many a one;\\nWeeping and wailing loud arose,\\nBound patient Clare, the clamorous woes\\nOf every simple nun.\\nHis eyes the gentle Eustace dried,\\nAnd scarce rude Blount the sight could\\nbide.\\nThen took the squire her rein,\\nAnd gently led away her steed,\\nAnd by each courteous word and deed\\nTo cheer her strove in vain. 070", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0168.jp2"}, "167": {"fulltext": "INTRODUCTION TO CANTO SIXTH\\n137\\nXXXIII\\nBut scant three miles the band had rode,\\nWhen o er a height they passed,\\nAnd, sudden, close before them showed\\nHis towers Tantallon vast,\\nBroad, massive, high, and stretching far,\\nAnd held impregnable in war.\\nOn a projecting rock they rose,\\nAnd round three sides the ocean flows.\\nThe fourth did battled walls enclose\\nAnd double mound and fosse. 980\\n|By narrow drawbridge, outworks strong,\\nThrough studded gates, an entrance long,\\nTo the main court they cross.\\nIt was a wide and stately square;\\nAround were lodgings fit and fair,\\nAnd towers of various form,\\nWhich on the court projected far\\nAnd broke its lines quadrangular.\\nHere was square keep, there turret high,\\nOr pinnacle that sought the sky, 990\\nWhence oft the warder could descry\\nThe gathering ocean-storm.\\nXXXIV\\nHere did they rest. The princely care\\nOf Douglas why should I declare,\\nOr say they met reception fair\\nOr why the tidings say,\\nWhich varying to Tantallon came,\\nBy hurrying posts or fleeter fame,\\nWith every varying day\\nAnd, first, they heard King James had\\nwon 1000\\nEtall, and Wark, and Ford; and then,\\nThat Norham Castle strong was ta en.\\nAt that sore marvelled Marmion,\\nAnd Douglas hoped his monarch s hand\\nWould soon subdue Northumberland;\\nBut whispered news there came,\\nThat while his host inactive lay,\\nAnd melted by degrees away,\\nKing James was dallying off the day\\nWith Heron s wily dame. 1010\\nSuch acts to chronicles I yield;\\nGo seek them there and see:\\nMine is a tale of Flodden Field,\\nAnd not a history.\\nAt length they heard the Scottish host\\n1 On that high ridge had made their post\\nWhich frowns o er Miilfield Plain;\\nAnd that brave Surrey many a band\\nHad gathered in the Southern land,\\nAnd marched into Northumberland, 1020\\nAnd camp at Wooler ta en.\\nMarmion, like charger in the stall,\\nThat hears, without, the trumpet-call,\\nBegan to chafe and swear:\\n1 A sorry thing to hide my head\\nIn castle, like a fearful maid,\\nWhen such a field is near.\\nNeeds must I see this battle-day;\\nDeath to my fame if such a fray\\nWere fought, and Marmion away\\nThe Douglas, too, I wot not why,\\nHath bated of his courtesy;\\nNo longer in his halls I 11 stay:\\nThen bade his band they should array\\nFor march against the dawning day.\\nINTRODUCTION TO CANTO\\nSIXTH\\nTO RICHARD HEBER, ESQ.\\nMertoun House, Christmas\\nHeap on more wood the wind is chill;\\nBut let it whistle as it will,\\nWe 11 keep our Christmas merry still.\\nEach age has deemed the new-born year\\nThe fittest time for festal cheer:\\nEven, heathen yet, the savage Dane\\nAt Iol more deep the mead did drain,\\nHigh on the beach his galleys drew,\\nAnd feasted all his pirate crew;\\nThen in his low and pine-built hall, 10\\nWhere shields and axes decked the wall,\\nThey gorged upon the half-dressed steer,\\nCaroused in seas of sable beer,\\nWhile round in brutal jest were thrown\\nThe half-gnawed rib and marrowbone,\\nOr listened all in grim delight\\nWhile scalds yelled out the joys of fight.\\nThen forth in frenzy would they hie,\\nWhile wildly loose their red locks fly,\\nAnd dancing round the blazing pile, 20\\nThey make such barbarous mirth the\\nwhile\\nAs best might to the mind recall\\nThe boisterous joys of Odin s hall.\\nAnd well our Christian sires of old\\nLoved when the year its course had rolled,\\nAnd brought blithe Christmas back again\\nWith all his hospitable train.\\nDomestic and religious rite\\nGave honor to the holy night;\\nOn Christmas eve the bells were rung, 30\\nOn Christmas eve the mass was sung:", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0169.jp2"}, "168": {"fulltext": "138\\nMARMION\\nThat only night in all the year\\nSaw the stoled priest the chalice rear.\\nThe damsel donned her kirtle sheen;\\nThe hall was dressed with holly green;\\nForth to the wood did nierrymen go,\\nTo gather in the mistletoe.\\nThen opened wide the baron s hall\\nTo vassal, tenant, serf, and all;\\nPower laid his rod of rule aside, 40\\nAnd Ceremony doffed his pride.\\nThe heir, with roses in his shoes,\\nThat night might village partner choose;\\nThe lord, undelegating, share\\nThe vulgar game of post and pair.\\nAll hailed, with uncontrolled delight\\nAnd general voice, the happy night\\nThat to the cottage, as the crown,\\nBrought tidings of salvation down.\\nThe fire, with well-dried logs supplied, 50\\nWent roaring up the chimney wide;\\nThe huge hall-table s oaken face,\\nScrubbed till it shone, the day to grace,\\nBore then upon its massive board\\nNo mark to part the squire and lord.\\nThen was brought in the lusty brawn\\nBy old blue-coated serving-man;\\nThen the grim boar s -head frowned on\\nhigh,\\nCrested with bays and rosemary.\\nWell can the green-garbed ranger tell 60\\nHow, when, and where, the monster fell,\\nWhat dogs before his death he tore,\\nAnd all the baiting of the boar.\\nThe wassail round, in good brown bowls\\nGarnished with ribbons, blithely trowls.\\nThere the huge sirloin reeked hard by\\nPlum-porridge stood and Christmas pie;\\nNor failed old Scotland to produce\\nAt such high tide her savory goose.\\nThen came the merry maskers in, 70\\nAnd carols roared with blithesome din;\\nIf unmelodious was the song,\\nIt was a hearty note and strong.\\nWho lists may in their mumming see\\nTraces of ancient mystery;\\nWhite shirts supplied the masquerade,\\nAnd smutted cheeks the visors made;\\nBut oh what maskers, richly dight,\\nCan boast of bosoms half so light\\nEngland was merry England when 80\\nOld Christmas brought his sports again.\\nT was Christmas broached the mightiest\\nale,\\nTwas Christmas told the merriest tale;\\nA Christmas gambol oft could cheer\\nThe poor man s heart through half the\\nyear.\\nStill linger in our northern clime\\nSome remnants of the good old time,\\nAnd still within our valleys here\\nWe hold the kindred title dear,\\nEven when, perchance, its far fetche\\nclaim s\\nTo Southron ear sounds empty name;\\nFor course of blood, our proverbs deem,\\nIs warmer than the mountain-stream.\\nAnd thus my Christmas still I hold\\nWhere my great-grandsire came of old,\\nWith amber beard and flaxen hair\\nAnd reverent apostolic air,\\nThe feast and holy-tide to share,\\nAnd mix sobriety with wine,\\nAnd honest mirth with thoughts divine: 10c\\nSmall thought was his, in after time\\nE er to be hitched into a rhyme.\\nThe simple sire could only boast\\nThat he was loyal to his cost,\\nThe banished race of kings revered,\\nAnd lost his land, but kept his beard\\nIn these dear halls, where welcome kinc\\nIs with fair liberty combined,\\nWhere cordial friendship gives the hand,\\nAnd flies constraint the magic wand 1\\nOf the fair dame that rules the land,\\nLittle we heed the tempest drear,\\nWhile music, mirth, and social cheer\\nSpeed on their wings the passing year.\\nAnd Mertoun s halls are fair e en now,\\nWhen not a leaf is on the bough.\\nTweed loves them well, and turns again,\\nAs loath to leave the sweet domain,\\nAnd holds his mirror to her face,\\nAnd clips her with a close embrace: 12\\nGladly as he we seek the dome,\\nAnd as reluctant turn us home.\\nHow just that at this time of glee\\nMy thoughts should, Heber, turn to thee\\nFor many a merry hour we ve known,\\nAnd heard the chimes of midnight s tone.\\nCease, then, my friend a moment cease,\\nAnd leave these classic tomes in peace\\nOf Roman and of Grecian lore\\nSure mortal brain can hold no more. 130\\nThese ancients, as Noll Bluff might say\\nWere pretty fellows in their day,\\nBut time and tide o er all prevail", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0170.jp2"}, "169": {"fulltext": "INTRODUCTION TO CANTO SIXTH\\nJ 39\\nOn Christmas eve a Christmas tale\\nOf wonder and of war Profane\\nWhat leave the lofty Latian strain,\\nHer stately prose, her verse s charms,\\nTo hear the clash of rusty arms;\\nIn Fairy-land or Limbo lost,\\nTo jostle conjurer and ghost, 140\\nGoblin and witch Nay, Heber dear,\\nBefore you touch my charter, hear;\\nThough Ley den aids, alas! no more,\\nMy cause with many-languaged lore,\\nThis may I say in realms of death\\nUlysses meets Alcides wraith,\\niEneas upon Thracia s shore\\nThe ghost of murdered Polydore;\\nFor omens, we in Livy cross\\nAt every turn locutus Bos. 150\\nAs grave and duly speaks that ox\\nAs if he told the price of stocks,\\nOr held in Rome republican\\nThe place of Common-councilman.\\nAll nations have their omens drear,\\nTheir legends wild of woe and fear.\\nTo Cambria look the peasant see\\nBethink him of Glendowerdy\\nAnd shun the Spirit s Blasted Tree.\\nThe Highlander, whose red claymore 160\\nThe battle turned on Maida s shore,\\nWill on a Friday morn look pale,\\nIf asked to tell a fairy tale:\\nHe fears the vengeful Elfin King,\\nWho leaves that day his grassy ring;\\nInvisible to human ken,\\nHe walks among the sons of men.\\nDidst e er, dear Heber, pass along\\nBeneath the towers of Franchemont,\\nWhich, like an eagle s nest in air, 170\\nHang o er the stream and hamlet fair\\nDeep in their vaults, the peasants say,\\nA mighty treasure buried lay,\\nAmassed through rapine and through\\nwrong\\nBy the last Lord of Franchdmont.\\nThe iron chest is bolted hard,\\nA huntsman sits its constant guard;\\nAround his neck his horn is hung,\\nHis hanger in his belt is slung;\\nBefore his feet his bloodhounds lie: 180\\nAn t were not for his gloomy eye,\\nWhose withering glance no heart can\\nbrook,\\nAs true a huntsman doth he look\\nAs bugle e er in brake did sound,\\nOr ever hallooed to a hound.\\nTo chase the fiend and win the prize\\nIn that same dungeon ever tries\\nAn aged necromantic priest;\\nIt is an hundred years at least\\nSince twixt them first the strife begun, 190\\nAnd neither yet has lost nor won.\\nAnd oft the conjurer s words will make\\nThe stubborn demon groan and quake;\\nAnd oft the bands of iron break,\\nOr bursts one lock that still amain\\nFast as t is opened, shuts again.\\nThat magic strife within the tomb\\nMay last until the day of doom,\\nUnless the adept shall learn to tell\\nThe very word that clenched the spell 200\\nWhen Franch mont locked the treasure\\ncell.\\nAn hundred years are passed and gone,\\nAnd scarce three letters has he won.\\nSuch general superstition may\\nExcuse for old Pitscottie say,\\nWhose gossip history has given\\nMy song the messenger from heaven\\nThat warned, in Lithgow, Scotland s king,\\nNor less the infernal summoning;\\nMay pass the Monk of Durham s tale, 210\\nWhose demon fought in Gothic mail;\\nMay pardon plead for Fordun grave,\\nWho told of Giffofd s Goblin-Cave.\\nBut why such instances to you,\\nWho in an instant can renew\\nYour treasured hoards of various lore,\\nAnd furnish twenty thousand more\\nHoards, not like theirs whose volumes\\nrest\\nLike treasures in the Franch mont chest,\\nWhile gripple owners still refuse 220\\nTo others what they cannot use;\\nGive them the priest s whole century,\\nThey shall not spell you letters three,\\nTheir pleasure in the books the same\\nThe magpie takes in pilfered gem.\\nThy volumes, open as thy heart,\\nDelight, amusement, science, art,\\nTo every ear and eye impart;\\nYet who, of all who thus employ them,\\nCan like the owner s self enjoy them 230\\nBut, hark I hear the distant drum\\nThe day of Flodden Field is come,\\nAdieu, dear Heber life and health,\\nAnd store of literary wealth.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0171.jp2"}, "170": {"fulltext": "140\\nMARMION\\nCANTO SIXTH\\nTHE BATTLE\\nWhile great events were on the gale,\\nAnd each hour brought a varying tale,\\nAnd the demeanor, changed and cold,\\nOf Douglas fretted Marmion bold,\\nAnd, like the impatient steed of war,\\nHe snuffed the battle from afar,\\nAnd hopes were none that back again\\nHerald should come from Terouenne,\\nWhere England s king in leaguer lay,\\nBefore decisive battle-day, 10\\nWhile these things were, the mournful\\nClare\\nDid in the dame s devotions share;\\nFor the good countess ceaseless prayed\\nTo Heaven and saints her sons to aid,\\nAnd with short interval did pass\\nFrom prayer to book, from book to mass,\\nAnd all in high baronial pride,\\nA life both dull and dignified:\\nYet, as Lord Marmion nothing pressed\\nUpon her intervals of rest, 20\\nDejected Clara well could bear\\nThe formal state, the lengthened prayer,\\nThough dearest to her wounded heart\\nThe hours that she might spend apart.\\nI said Tantallon s dizzy steep\\nHung o er the margin of the deep.\\nMany a rude tower and rampart there\\nRepelled the insult of the air,\\nWhich, when the tempest vexed the sky,\\nHalf breeze, half spray, came whistling\\nby. 30\\nAbove the rest a turret square\\nDid o er its Gothic entrance bear,\\nOf sculpture rude, a stony shield;\\nThe Bloody Heart was. in the field,\\nAnd in the chief three mullets stood,\\nThe cognizance of Douglas blood.\\nThe turret held a narrow stair,\\nWhich, mounted, gave you access where\\nA parapet s embattled row\\nDid seaward round the castle go. 40\\nSometimes in dizzy steps descending,\\nSometimes in narrow circuit bending,\\nSometimes in platform broad extending,\\nIts varying circle did combine\\nBulwark, and bartizan, and line,\\nAnd bastion, tower, and vantage-coign.\\nAbove the booming ocean leant\\nThe far-projecting battlement;\\nThe billows burst in ceaseless flow\\nUpon the precipice below. so\\nWhere er Tantallon faced the land,\\nGate works and walls were strongly\\nmanned\\nNo need upon the sea-girt side:\\nThe steepy rock and frantic tide\\nApproach of human step denied,\\nAnd thus these lines and ramparts rude\\nWere left in deepest solitude.\\nHi\\nAnd, for they were so lonely, Clare\\nWould to these battlements repair,\\nAnd muse upon her sorrows there, 60\\nAnd list the sea-bird s cry,\\nOr slow, like noontide ghost, would\\nglide\\nAlong the dark-gray bulwarks side,\\nAnd ever on the heaving tide\\nLook down with weary eye.\\nOft did the cliff and swelling main\\nRecall the thoughts of Whitby s fane,\\nA home she ne er might see again;\\nFor she had laid adown,\\nSo Douglas bade, the hood and veil, 70\\nAnd frontlet of the cloister pale,\\nAnd Benedictine gown:\\nIt were unseemly sight, he said,\\nA novice out of convent shade.\\nNow her bright locks with sunny glow\\nAgain adorned her brow of snow;\\nHer mantle rich, whose borders round\\nA deep and fretted broidery bound,\\nIn golden foldings sought the ground;\\nOf holy ornament, alone\\nRemained a cross with ruby stone;\\nAnd often did she look\\nOn that which in her hand she bore,\\nWith velvet bound and broidered o er,\\nHer breviary book.\\nIn such a place, so lone, so grim,\\nAt dawning pale or twilight dim,\\nIt fearful would have been\\nTo meet a form so richly dressed,\\nWith book in hand, and cross on breast, 90\\nAnd such a woful mien.\\nFitz-Eustace, loitering with his bow,\\nTo practise on the gull and crow,\\nSaw her at distance gliding slow,\\nAnd did by Mary swear\\nSome lovelorn fay she might have been,\\nOr in romance some spell-bound queen,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0172.jp2"}, "171": {"fulltext": "CANTO SIXTH: THE BATTLE\\n141\\nFor ne er in work-day world was seen\\nA form so witching fair.\\nOnce walking thus at evening tide 100\\nIt chanced a gliding sail she spied,\\nAnd sighing thought The abbess there\\nPerchance does to her home repair;\\nHer peaceful rule, where Duty free\\nWalks hand in hand with Charity,\\nWhere oft Devotion s tranced glow\\nCan such a glimpse of heaven bestow\\nThat the enraptured sisters see\\nHigh vision and deep mystery,\\nThe very form of Hilda fair, no\\nHovering upon the sunny air\\nAnd smiling on her votaries prayer.\\nOh wherefore to my duller eye\\nDid still the Saint her form deny\\nWas it that, seared by sinful scorn,\\nMy heart could neither melt nor burn\\nOr lie my warm affections low\\nWith him that taught them first to glow\\nYet, gentle abbess, well I knew\\nTo pay thy kindness grateful due, 120\\nAnd well could brook the mild command\\nThat ruled thy simple maiden band.\\nHow different now, condemned to bide\\nMy doom from this dark tyrant s pride\\nBut Marmion has to learn ere long\\nThat constant mind and hate of wrong\\nDescended to a feeble girl\\nFrom Red de Clare, stout Gloster s Earl:\\nOf such a stem a sapling weak,\\nHe ne er shall bend, although he break. 130\\nBut see what makes this armor\\nhere\\nFor in her path there lay\\nTarge, corselet, helm; she viewed them\\nnear.\\nThe breastplate pierced Ay, much I\\nfear,\\nWeak fence wert thou gainst foeman s\\nspear,\\nThat hath made fatal entrance here,\\nAs these dark blood-gouts say.\\nThus Wilton Oh not corselet s ward,\\nNot truth, as diamond pure and hard,\\nCould be thy manly bosom s guard 140\\nOn yon disastrous day\\nShe raised her eyes in mournful mood,\\nWilton himself before her stood\\nIt might have seemed his passing ghost,\\nFor every youthful grace was lost,\\nAnd joy unwonted and surprise\\nGave their strange wildness to his eyes.\\nExpect not, noble dames and lords,\\nThat I can tell such scene in words:\\nWhat skilful limner e er would choose 150\\nTo paint the rainbow s varying hues,\\nUnless to mortal it were given\\nTo dip his brush in dyes of heaven\\nFar less can my weak line declare\\nEach changing passion s shade:\\nBrightening to rapture from despair,\\nSorrow, surprise, and pity there,\\nAnd joy with her angelic air,\\nAnd hope that paints the future fair,\\nTheir varying hues displayed; 160\\nEach o er its rival s ground extending,\\nAlternate conquering, shifting, blending,\\nTill all fatigued the conflict yield,\\nAnd mighty love retains the field.\\nShortly I tell what then he said,\\nBy many a tender word delayed,\\nAnd modest blush, and bursting sigh,\\nAnd question kind, and fond reply:\\nVI\\nDE WILTON S HISTORY\\nForget we that disastrous day\\nWhen senseless in the lists Hay. 170\\nThence dragged, but how I cannot\\nknow,\\nFor sense and recollection fled,\\nI found me on a pallet low\\nWithin my ancient beadsman s shed.\\nAustin, remember st thou, my Clare,\\nHow thou didst blush when the old man,\\nWhen first our infant love began,\\nSaid we would make a matchless\\npair\\n80\\nMenials and friends and kinsmen fled\\nFrom the degraded traitor s bed,\\nHe only held my burning head,\\nAnd tended me for many a day\\nWhile wounds and fever held their sway.\\nBut far more needful was his care\\nWhen sense returned to wake despair;\\nFor I did tear the closing wound,\\nAnd dash me frantic on the ground,\\nIf e er I heard the name of Clare.\\nAt length, to calmer reason brought,\\nMuch by his kind attendance wrought, 190\\nWith him I left my native strand,\\nAnd, in a palmer s weeds arrayed,\\nMy hated name and form to shade,\\nI journeyed many a land,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0173.jp2"}, "172": {"fulltext": "142\\nMARMION\\nNo more a lord of rank and birth,\\nBut mingled with the dregs of earth.\\nOft Austin for my reason feared,\\nWhen I would sit, and deeply brood\\nOn dark revenge and deeds of blood,\\nOr wild mad schemes upreared.\\nMy friend at length fell sick, and said\\nGod would remove him soon;\\nAnd while upon his dying bed\\nHe begged of me a boon\\nIf e er my deadliest enemy\\nBeneath my brand should conquered lie,\\nEven then my mercy should awake\\nAnd spare his life for Austin s sake.\\nStill restless as a second Cain,\\nTo Scotland next my route was ta en, 210\\nFull well the paths I knew:\\nFame of my fate made various sound,\\nThat death in pilgrimage I found,\\nThat I had perished of my wound,\\nNone cared which tale was true;\\nAnd living eye could never guess\\nDe Wilton in his palmer s dress,\\nFor now that sable slough is shed,\\nAnd trimmed my shaggy beard and head,\\nI scarcely know me in the glass. 220\\nA chance most wondrous did provide\\nThat I should be that baron s guide\\nI will not name his name\\nVengeance to God alone belongs;\\nBut, when I think on all my wrongs,\\nMy blood is liquid flame\\nAnd ne er the time shall I forget\\nWhen, in a Scottish hostel set,\\nDark looks we did exchange:\\nWhat were his thoughts I cannot tell, 230\\nBut in my bosom mustered Hell\\nIts plans of dark revenge.\\n1 A word of vulgar augury\\nThat broke from me, I scarce knew why,\\nBrought on a village tale,\\nWhich wrought upon his moody sprite,\\nAnd sent him armed forth by night.\\nI borrowed steed and mail\\nAnd weapons from his sleeping band;\\nAnd, passing from a postern door, 240\\nWe met and countered, hand to hand,\\nHe fell on Gifrord-moor.\\nFor the death-stroke my brand I drew,\\nOh then my helmed head he knew,\\nThe palmer s cowl was gone,\\nThen had three inches of my blade\\nThe heavy debt of vengeance paid,\\nMy hand the thought of Austin stayed;\\nI left him there alone.\\nO good old man even from the grave 250\\nThy spirit could thy master save:\\nIf I had slain my foeman, ne er\\nHad Whitby s abbess in her fear\\nGiven to my hand this packet dear,\\nOf power to clear my injured fame\\nAnd vindicate De Wilton s name.\\nPerchance you heard the abbess tell\\nOf the strange pageantry of hell\\nThat broke our secret speech\\nIt rose from the infernal shade, 260\\nOr featly was some juggle played,\\nA tale of peace to teach.\\nAppeal to Heaven I judged was best\\nWhen my name came among the rest.\\nIX\\nNow here within Tantallon hold\\nTo Douglas late my tale I told,\\nTo whom my house was known of old.\\nWon by my proofs, his falchion bright\\nThis eve anew shall dub me knight.\\nThese were the arms that once did turn 270\\nThe tide of fight on Otterburne,\\nAnd Harry Hotspur forced to yield\\nWhen the Dead Douglas won the field.\\nThese Angus gave his armorer s care\\nEre morn shall every breach repair;\\nFor nought, he said, was in his halls\\nBut ancient armor on the walls,\\nAnd aged chargers in the stalls,\\nAnd women, priests, and gray haired\\nmen;\\nThe rest were all in Twisel glen. 280\\nAnd now I watch my armor here,\\nBy law of arms, till midnight s near;\\nThen, once again a belted knight,\\nSeek Surrey s camp with dawn of light.\\nThere soon again we meet, my Clare\\nThis baron means to guide thee there:\\nDouglas reveres his king s command,\\nElse would he take thee from his band.\\nAnd there thy kinsman Surrey, too,\\nWill give De Wilton justice due. 290\\nNow meeter far for martial broil,\\nFirmer my limbs and strung by toil,\\nOnce more O Wilton must we then\\nRisk new-found happiness again,\\nTrust fate of arms once more", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0174.jp2"}, "173": {"fulltext": "CANTO SIXTH: THE BATTLE\\nJ 43\\nAnd is there not an humble glen\\nWhere we, content and poor,\\nMight build a cottage in the shade,\\nA shepherd thou, and I to aid\\nThy task on dale and moor 300\\nThat reddening brow too well I know\\nNot even thy Clare can peace bestow\\nWhile falsehood stains thy name:\\nGo then to fight Clare bids thee go\\nClare can a warrior s feelings know\\nAnd weep a warrior s shame,\\nCan Red Earl Gilbert s spirit feel,\\nBuckle the spurs upon thy heel\\nAnd belt thee with thy brand of steel,\\nAnd send thee forth to fame 310\\nThat night upon the rocks and bay\\nThe midnight moonbeam slumbering lay,\\nAnd poured its silver light and pure\\nThrough loophole and through embra-\\nsure\\nUpon Tantallon tower and hall;\\nBut chief where arched windows wide\\nIlluminate the chapel s pride\\nThe sober glances fall.\\nMuch was there need; though seamed with\\nscars,\\nTwo veterans of the Douglas wars, 320\\nThough two gray priests were there,\\nAnd each a blazing torch held high,\\nYou could not by their blaze descry\\nThe chapel s carving fair.\\nAmid that dim and smoky light,\\nCheckering the silvery moonshine bright,\\nA bishop by the altar stood,\\nA noble lord of Douglas blood,\\nWith mitre sheen and rochet white. 329\\nYet showed his meek and thoughtful eye\\nBut little pride of prelacy;\\nMore pleased that in a barbarous age\\nHe gave rude Scotland Virgil s page\\nThan that beneath his rule he held\\nThe bishopric of fair Dunkeld.\\nB-side him ancient Angus stood,\\nDoffed his furred gown and sable hood;\\nO er his huge form and visage pale\\nHe wore a cap and shirt of mail, 339\\nAnd leaned his large and wrinkled hand\\nUpon the huge and sweeping brand\\nWhich wont of yore in battle fray\\nHis foeman s limbs to shred away,\\nAs wood-knife lops the sapling spray.\\nHe seemed as, from the tombs around\\nRising at judgment-day,\\nSome giant Douglas may be found\\nIn all his old array;\\nSo pale his face, so huge his limb,\\nSo old his arms, his look so grim. 350\\nXII\\nThen at the altar Wilton kneels,\\nAnd Clare the spurs bound on his heels;\\nAnd think what next he must have felt\\nAt buckling of the falchion belt\\nAnd judge how Clara changed her hue\\nWhile fastening to her lover s side\\nA friend, which, though in danger tried,\\nHe once had found untrue\\nThen Douglas struck him with his blade:\\nSaint Michael and Saint Andrew aid, 360\\nI dub thee knight.\\nArise, Sir Ralph, De Wilton s heir\\nFor king, for church, for lady fair,\\nSee that thou fight.\\nAnd Bishop Gawain, as he rose,\\nSaid: Wilton grieve not for thy woes,\\nDisgrace, and trouble;\\nFor He who honor best bestows\\nMay give thee double.\\nDe Wilton sobbed, for sob he must: 370\\nWhere er I meet a Douglas, trust\\nThat Douglas is my brother\\nNay, nay, old Angus said, not so;\\nTo Surrey s camp thou now must go,\\nThy wrongs no longer smother.\\nI have two sons in yonder field;\\nAnd, if thou meet st them under shield,\\nUpon them bravely do thy worst,\\nAnd foul fall him that blenches first\\nXIII\\n380\\nNot far advanced was morning day\\nWhen Marmion did his troop array\\nTo Surrey s camp to ride;\\nHe had safe-conduct for his band\\nBeneath the royal seal and hand,\\nAnd Douglas gave a guide.\\nThe ancient earl with stately grace\\nWould Clara on her palfrey place,\\nAnd whispered in an undertone,\\nLet the hawk stoop, his prey is flown.\\nThe train from out the castle drew, 390\\nBut Marmion stopped to bid adieu:\\nThough something I might plain, he\\nsaid,\\nOf cold respect to stranger guest,\\nSent hither by your king s behest,\\nWhile in Tantallon s towers I stayed,\\nPart we in friendship from your land,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0175.jp2"}, "174": {"fulltext": "144\\nMARMION\\nAnd, noble earl, receive my hand.\\nBut Douglas round him drew his cloak,\\nFolded his arms, and thus he spoke 399\\nMy manors, halls, and bowers shall still\\nBe open at my sovereign s will\\nTo each one whom he lists, howe er\\nUnmeet to be the owner s peer.\\nMy castles are my king s alone,\\nFrom turret to foundation-stone\\nThe hand of Douglas is his own,\\nAnd never shall in friendly grasp\\nThe hand of such as Marmion clasp.\\nXIV\\nBurned Marmion s swarthy cheek like fire\\nAnd shook his very frame for ire, 410\\nAnd This to me he said,\\nAn t were not for thy hoary beard,\\nSuch hand as Marmion s had not spared\\nTo cleave the Douglas head\\nAnd first I tell thee, haughty peer,\\nHe who does England s message here,\\nAlthough tbe meanest in her state,\\nMay well, proud Angus, be thy mate;\\nAnd, Douglas, more I tell thee here,\\nEven in thy pitch of pride, 420\\nHere in thy hold, thy vassals near,\\nNay, never look upon your lord,\\nAnd lay your hands upon your sword,\\nI tell thee, thou rt defied\\nAnd if thou saidst I am not peer\\nTo any lord in Scotland here,\\nLowland or Highland, far or near,\\nLord Angus, thou hast lied\\nOn the earl s cheek the flush of rage\\nO ercame the ashen hue of age: 430\\nFierce he broke forth, And darest thou\\nthen\\nTo beard the lion in his den,\\nThe Douglas in his hall\\nAnd hopest thou hence unscathed to go\\nNo, by Saint Bride of Bothwell, no\\nUp drawbridge, grooms what, warder, ho\\nLet the portcullis fall.\\nLord Marmion turned, well was his\\nneed,\\nAud dashed the rowels in his steed, 439\\nLike arrow through the archway sprung,\\nThe ponderous grate behind him rung;\\nTo pass there was such scanty room,\\nThe bars descending razed his plume.\\nXV\\nThe steed along the drawbridge flies\\nJust as it trembled on the rise:\\nNot lighter does the swallow skim\\nAlong the smooth lake s level brim:\\nAnd when Lord Marmion reached his\\nband,\\nHe halts, and turns with clenched hand,\\nAnd shout of loud defiance pours, 450\\nAnd shook his gauntlet at the towers.\\nHorse horse the Douglas cried, and\\nchase\\nBut soon he reined his fury s pace:\\nA royal messenger he came,\\nThough most unworthy of the name.\\nA letter forged Saint Jude to speed\\nDid ever knight so foul a deed\\nAt first in heart it liked me ill\\nWhen the king praised his clerkly skill.\\nThanks to Saint Bothan, son of mine, 460\\nSave Gawain, ne er could pen a line;\\nSo swore I, and I swear it still,\\nLet my boy-bishop fret his fill.\\nSaint Mary mend my fiery mood\\nOld age ne er cools the Douglas blood,\\nI thought to slay him where he stood.\\nT is pity of him too, he cried:\\nBold can he speak and fairly ride,\\nI warrant him a warrior tried.\\nWith this his mandate he recalls, 47 o\\nAnd slowly seeks his castle halls.\\nThe day in Marmion s journey wore;\\nYet, ere his passion s gust was o er,\\nThey crossed the heights of Stanrig-moor.\\nHis troop more closely there he scanned,\\nAnd missed the Palmer from the band.\\nPalmer or not, young Blount did say,\\nHe parted at the peep of day;\\nGood sooth, it was in strange array.\\nIn what array said Marmion quick. 480\\nMy lord, I ill can spell the trick;\\nBut all night long with clink and bang\\nClose to my couch did hammers clang;\\nAt dawn the falling drawbridge rang,\\nAnd from a loophole while I peep,\\nOld Bell-the-Cat came from the keep,\\nWrapped in a gown of sables fair,\\nAs fearful of the morning air;\\nBeneath, when that was blown aside,\\nA rusty shirt of mail I spied, 490\\nBy Archibald won in bloody work\\nAgainst the Saracen and Turk:\\nLast night it hung not in the hall;\\nI thought some marvel would befall.\\nAnd next I saw them saddled lead\\nOld Cheviot forth, the earl s best steed,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0176.jp2"}, "175": {"fulltext": "CANTO SIXTH: THE BATTLE\\n145\\nA matchless horse, though something old,\\nPrompt in his paces, cool and bold.\\nI heard the Sheriff Sholto say\\nThe earl did much the Master pray 500\\nTo use him on the battle-day,\\nBut he preferred Nay, Henry, cease\\nThou sworn horse courser, hold thy\\npeace.\\nEustace, thou bear st a brain I pray,\\nWhat did Blount see at break of day\\nIn brief, my lord, we both descried\\nFor then I stood by Henry s side\\nThe Palmer mount and outwards ride\\nUpon the earl s own favorite steed.\\nAll sheathed he was in armor bright, 510\\nAnd much resembled that same knight\\nSubdued by you in Cotswold fight;\\nLord Angus wished him speed.\\nThe instant that Fitz-Eustace spoke,\\nA sudden light on Marmion broke:\\nAh dastard fool, to reason lost\\nHe muttered; T was nor fay nor ghost\\nI met upon the moonlight wold,\\nBut living man of earthly mould.\\nO dotage blind and gross 520\\nHad I but fought as wont, one thrust\\nHad laid De Wilton in the dust,\\nMy path no more to cross.\\nHow stand we now he told his tale\\nTo Douglas, and with some avail;\\nT was therefore gloomed his rugged\\nbrow.\\nWill Surrey dare to entertain\\nGainst Marmion charge disproved and\\nvain\\nSmall risk of that, I trow. 529\\nYet Clare s sharp questions must I sh\u00c2\u00abn,\\nMust separate Constance from the nun\\nOh what a tangled web we weave\\nWhen first we practise to deceive\\nA Palmer too no wonder why\\nI felt rebuked beneath his eye;\\nI might have known there was but one\\nWhose look could quell Lord Marmion.\\nXVIII\\nStung with these thoughts, he urged to\\nspeed\\nHis troop, and reached at eve the Tweed,\\nWhere Lennel s convent closed their\\nmarch. S4 o\\nThere now is left but one frail arch,\\nYet mourn thou not its cells;\\nOur time a fair exchange has made\\nHard by, in hospitable shade,\\nA reverend pilgrim dwells,\\nWell worth the whole Bernardine brood\\nThat e er wore sandal, frock, or hood.\\nYet did Saint Bernard s abbot there\\nGive Marmion entertainment fair,\\nAnd lodging for his train and Clare. 550\\nNext morn the baron climbed the tower,\\nTo view afar the Scottish power,\\nEncamped on Flodden edge;\\nThe white pavilions made a show\\nLike remnants of the winter snow\\nAlong the dusky ridge.\\nLong Marmion looked: at length his eye\\nUnusual movement might descry\\nAmid the shifting lines;\\nThe Scottish host drawn out appears, 560\\nFor, flashing on the hedge of spears,\\nThe eastern sunbeam shines.\\nTheir front now deepening, now extending,\\nTheir flank inclining, wheeling, bending,\\nNow drawing back, and now descending,\\nThe skilful Marmion well could know\\nThey watched the motions of some foe\\nWho traversed on the plain below.\\nXIX\\nEven so it was. From Flodden ridge\\nThe Scots beheld the English host 570\\nLeave Barmore-wood, their evening post,\\nAnd heedful watched them as they\\ncrossed\\nThe Till by Twisel Bridge.\\nHigh sight it is and haughty, while\\nThey dive into the deep defile;\\nBeneath the caverned cliff they fall,\\nBeneath the castle s airy wall.\\nBy rock, by oak, by hawthorn-tree,\\nTroop after troop are disappearing;\\nTroop after troop their banners rear-\\ning 580\\nUpon the eastern bank you see;\\nStill pouring down the rocky den\\nWhere flows the sullen Till,\\nAnd rising from the dim-wood glen,\\nStandards on standards, men on men,\\nIn slow succession still,\\nAnd sweeping o er the Gothic arch,\\nAnd pressing on, in ceaseless march,\\nTo gain the opposing hill.\\nThat morn, to many a trumpet clang, 590\\nTwisel thy rock s deep echo rang,\\nAnd many a chief of birth and rank,\\nSaint Helen at thy fountain drank.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0177.jp2"}, "176": {"fulltext": "146\\nMARMION\\nThy hawthorn glade, which now we see\\nIn spring-tide bloom so lavishly,\\nHad then from many an axe its doom,\\nTo give the marching columns room.\\nXX\\nAnd why stands Scotland idly now,\\nDark Flodden on thy airy brow,\\nSince England gains, the pass the while, 600\\nAnd struggles through the deep defile\\nWhat checks the fiery soul of James\\nWhy sits that champion of the dames\\nInactive on his steed,\\nAnd sees, between him and his land,\\nBetween him and Tweed s southern strand,\\nHis host Lord Surrey lead\\nWhat vails the vain knight errant s\\nbrand\\nO Douglas, for thy leading wand\\nFierce Randolph, for thy speed 610\\nOh for one hour of Wallace wight,\\nOr well-skilled Bruce, to rule the fight\\nAnd cry, Saint Andrew and our right\\nAnother sight had seen that morn,\\nFrom Fate s dark book a leaf been torn,\\nAnd Flodden had been Bannockbourne\\nThe precious hour has passed in vain,\\nAnd England s host has gained the plain,\\nWheeling their march and circling still\\nAround the base of Flodden hill. 620\\nXXI\\nEre yet the bands met Marmion s eye,\\nFitz-Eustace shouted loud and high,\\nHark hark my lord, an English drum\\nAnd see ascending squadrons come\\nBetween Tweed s river and the hill,\\nFoot, horse, and cannon Hap what hap,\\nMy basnet to a prentice cap,\\nLord Surrey s o er the Till\\nYet more yet more how fair arrayed\\nThey file from out the hawthorn shade, 630\\nAnd sweep so gallant by\\nWith all their banners bravely spread,\\nAnd all their armor flashing high,\\nSaint George might waken from the dead,\\nTo see fair England s standards fly/\\nStint in thy prate, quoth Blount, thou dst\\nbest,\\nAnd listen to our lord s behest.\\nWith kindling brow Lord Marmion said,\\nThis instant be our band arrayed;\\nThe river must be quickly crossed, 640\\nThat we may join Lord Surrey s host.\\nIf fight King James, as well 1 trust\\nThat fight he will, and fight he must,\\nThe Lady Clare behind our lines\\nShall tarry while the battle joins.\\nXXII\\nHimself he swift on horseback threw,\\nScarce to the abbot bade adieu,\\nFar less would listen to his prayer\\nTo leave behind the helpless Clare.\\nDown to the Tweed his band he drew, 650\\nAnd muttered as the flood they view,\\nThe pheasant in the falcon s claw,\\nHe scarce will yield to please a daw;\\nLord Angus may the abbot awe,\\nSo Clare shall bide with me.\\nThen on that dangerous ford and deep\\nWhere to the Tweed Leat s eddies creep,\\nHe ventured desperately:\\nAnd not a moment will he bide\\nTill squire or groom before him ride; 660\\nHeadmost of all he stems the tide,\\nAnd stems it gallantly.\\nEustace held Clare upon her horse,\\nOld Hubert led her rein,\\nStoutly they braved the current s course,\\nAnd, though far downward driven perforce,\\nThe southern bank they gain.\\nBehind them straggling came to shore,\\nAs best they might, the train:\\nEach o er his head his yew-bow bore, 670\\nA caution not in vain;\\nDeep need that day that every string,\\nBy wet unharmed, should sharply ring.\\nA moment then Lord Marmion stayed,\\nAnd breathed his steed, his men arrayed,\\nThen forward moved his band,\\nUntil, Lord Surrey s rear-guard won,\\nHe halted by a cross of stone,\\nThat on a hillock standing lone\\nDid all the field command. 680\\nXXIII\\nHence might they see the full array\\nOf either host for deadly fray;\\nTheir marshalled lines stretched east and\\nwest,\\nAnd fronted north and south,\\nAnd distant salutation passed\\nFrom the loud cannon mouth;\\nNot in the close successive rattle\\nThat breathes the voice of modern battle,\\nBut slow and far between.\\nThe hillock gained, Lord Marmion stayed:\\nHere, by this cross, he gently said, 691\\nYou well may view the scene.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0178.jp2"}, "177": {"fulltext": "CANTO SIXTH: THE BATTLE\\n147\\nHere shalt thou tarry, lovely Clare:\\nOh think of Marmion in thy prayer I\\nThou wilt not well, no less my care\\nShall, watchful, for thy weal prepare.\\nYou, Blount and Eustace, are her guard,\\nWith ten picked archers of my train;\\nWith England if the day go hard,\\nTo Berwick speed amain. 700\\nBut if we conquer, cruel maid,\\nMy spoils shall at your feet be laid,\\nWhen here we meet again.\\nHe waited not for answer there,\\nAnd would not mark the maid s despair,\\nNor heed the discontented look\\nFrom either squire, but spurred amain,\\nAnd, dashing through the battle-plain,\\nHis way to Surrey took.\\nXXIV\\ni The good Lord Marmion, by my life 710\\nWelcome to danger s hour\\nShort greeting serves in time of strife.\\nThus have I ranged my power:\\nMyself will rule this central host,\\nStout Stanley fronts their right,\\nMy sons command the vaward post,\\nWith Brian Tunstall, stainless knight;\\nLord Dacre, with his horsemen light,\\nShall be in rearward of the fight,\\nAnd succor those that need it most. 720\\nNow, gallant Marmion, well I know,\\nWould gladly to the vanguard go;\\nEdmund, the Admiral, Tunstall there,\\nWith thee their charge will blithely share;\\nThere fight thine own retainers too\\nBeneath De Burg, thy steward true.\\nThanks, noble Surrey Marmion said,\\nNor further greeting there he paid,\\nBut, parting like a thunderbolt,\\nFirst in the vanguard made a halt, 730\\nWhere such a shout there rose\\nOf Marmion Marmion that the cry,\\nUp Flodden mountain shrilling high,\\nStartled the Scottish foes.\\nBlount and Fitz-Enstace rested still\\nWith Lady Clare upon the hill,\\nOn which for far the day was spent\\nThe western sunbeams now were bent;\\nThe cry they heard, its meaning knew,\\nCould plain their distant comrades view: 740\\nSadly to Blount did Eustace say,\\njj Unworthy office here to stay\\nNo hope of gilded spurs to-day.\\nBut see look up on Flodden bent\\nThe Scottish foe has fired his tent.\\nAnd sudden, as he spoke,\\nFrom the sharp ridges of the hill,\\nAll downward to the banks of Till,\\nWas wreathed in sable smoke.\\nVolumed and vast, and rolling far, 750\\nThe cloud enveloped Scotland s war\\nAs down the hill they broke\\nNor martial shout, nor minstrel tone,\\nAnnounced their march; their tread alone,\\nAt times one warning trumpet blown,\\nAt times a stifled hum,\\nTold England, from his mountain-throne\\nKing James did rushing come.\\nScarce could they hear or see their foes\\nUntil at weapon-point they close. 760\\nThey close in clouds of smoke and dust,\\nWith sword-sway and with lance s thrust;\\nAnd such a yell was there,\\nOf sudden and portentous birth,\\nAs if men fought upon the earth,\\nAnd fiends in upper air:\\nOh life and death were in the shout,\\nRecoil and rally, charge and rout,\\nAnd triumph and despair. 769\\nLong looked the anxious squires their\\neye\\nCould in the darkness nought descry.\\nAt length the freshening western blast\\nAside the shroud of battle cast;\\nAnd first the ridge of mingled spears\\nAbove the brightening cloud appears,\\nAnd in the smoke the pennons flew,\\nAs in the storm the white seamew.\\nThen marked they, dashing broad and far,\\nThe broken billows of the war,\\nAnd plumed crests of chieftains brave 780\\nFloating like foam upon the wave;\\nBut nought distinct they see:\\nWide raged the battle on the plain;\\nSpears shook and falchions flashed amain;\\nFell England s arrow-flight like rain;\\nCrests rose, and stooped, and rose again,\\nWild and disorderly.\\nAmid the scene of tumult, high\\nThey saw Lord Marmion s falcon fly;\\nAnd stainless Tunstall s banner white, 790\\nAnd Edmund Howard s lion bright,\\nStill bear them bravely in the fight,\\nAlthough against them come\\nOf gallant Gordons many a one,\\nAnd many a stubborn Badenoch-man,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0179.jp2"}, "178": {"fulltext": "148\\nMARMION\\nAnd many a rugged Border clan,\\nWith Huntly and with Home.\\nFar on the left, unseen the while,\\nStanley broke Leunox and Argyle,\\nThough there the western mountaineer 800\\nRushed with bare bosom on the spear,\\nAnd flung the feeble targe aside,\\nAnd with both hands the broadsword plied.\\nT was vain. But Fortune, on the right,\\nWith fickle smile cheered Scotland s fight.\\nThen fell that sp*otless banner white,\\nThe Howard s lion fell;\\nYet still Lord Marmion s falcon flew\\nWith wavering flight, while fiercer grew\\nArouud the battle-yell. 810\\nThe Border slogan rent the sky\\nA Home a Gordon was the cry:\\nLoud were the clanging blows;\\nAdvanced, forced back, now low, now\\nhigh,\\nThe pennon sunk and rose;\\nAs bends the bark s-mast in the gale,\\nW T hen rent are rigging, shrouds, and sail,\\nIt wavered mid the foes.\\nNo longer Blount the view could bear:\\nBy heaven and all its saints I swear 820\\nI will not see it lost\\nFitz-Eustace, you with Lady Clare\\nMay bid your beads and patter prayer,\\nI gallop to the host.\\nAnd to the fray he rode amain,\\nFollowed by all the archer train.\\nThe fiery youth, with desperate charge,\\nMade for a space an opening large,\\nThe rescued banner rose,\\nBut darkly closed the war around, 830\\nLike pine-tree rooted from the ground\\nIt sank among the foes.\\nThen Eustace mounted too, yet stayed,\\nAs loath to leave the helpless maid,\\nWhen, fast as shaft can fly,\\nBloodshot his eyes, his nostrils spread,\\nThe loose rein dangling from his head,\\nHousing and saddle bloody red,\\nLord Marmion s steed rushed by;\\nAnd Eustace, maddening at the sight, 840\\nA look and sign to Clara cast\\nTo mark he would return in haste,\\nThen plunged into the fight.\\nXXVIII\\nAsk me not what the maiden feels,\\nLeft in that dreadful hour alone:\\nPerchance her reason stoops or reels;\\nPerchance a courage, not her own,\\nBraces her mind to desperate tone.\\nThe scattered van of England wheels;\\nShe only said, as loud in air 850\\nThe tumult roared, Is Wilton there\\nThey fly, or, maddened by despair,\\nFight but to die, Is Wilton there\\nWith that, straight up the hill there rode\\nTwo horsemen drenched with gore,\\nAnd in their arms, a helpless load,\\nA wounded knight they bore.\\nHis hand still strained the broken brand;\\nHis arms were smeared with blood and\\nsand.\\nDragged from among the horses feet, 860\\nWith dinted shield and helmet beat,\\nThe falcon-crest and plumage gone,\\nCan that be haughty Marmion\\nYoung Blount his armor did unlace,\\nAnd, gazing on his ghastly face,\\nSaid, By Saint George, he s gone\\nThat spear-wound has our master sped,\\nAnd see the deep cut on his head\\nGood-night to Marmion. 869\\nUnnurtured Blount thy brawling cease:\\nHe opes his eyes, said Eustace; peace\\nXXIX\\nWhen, doffed his casque, he felt free air,\\nAround gan Marmion wildly stare:\\nWhere s Harry Blount Fitz Eustace\\nwhere\\nLinger ye here, ye hearts of hare\\nRedeem my pennon, charge again\\nCry, Marmion to the rescue Vain\\nLast of my race, on battle-plain\\nThat shout shall ne er be heard again\\nYet my last thought is England s fly, 880\\nTo Dacre bear my signet-ring;\\nTell him his squadrons up to bring.\\nFitz-Eustace, to Lord Surrey hie:\\nTunsta.ll lies dead upon the field,\\nHis lifeblood stains the spotless shield;\\nEdmund is down; my life is reft;\\nThe Admiral alone is left.\\nLet Stanley charge with spur of fire,\\nWith Chester charge, and Lancashire,\\nFull upou Scotland s central host, 890\\nOr victory and England s lost.\\nMust I bid twice? hence, varlets! fly!\\nLeave Marmion here alone to die.\\nThey parted, and alone he lay;\\nClare drew her from the sight away,\\nTill pain wrung forth a lowly moan,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0180.jp2"}, "179": {"fulltext": "CANTO SIXTH: THE BATTLE\\n149\\nAnd half he murmured, Is there none\\nOf all my halls have nurst,\\nPage, squire, or groom, one cup to bring\\nOf blessed water from the spring, 900\\nTo slake my dying thirst\\nO Woman in our hours of ease\\nUncertain, coy, and hard to please,\\nAnd variable as the shade\\nBy the light quivering aspen made;\\nWhen pain and anguish wring the brow,\\nA ministering angel thou\\nScarce were the piteous accents said,\\nWhen with the baron s casque the maid\\nTo the nigh streamlet ran: 910\\nForgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears;\\nThe plaintive voice alone she hears,\\nSees but the dying man.\\nShe stooped her by the runnel s side,\\nBut in abhorrence backward drew;\\nFor, oozing from the mountain s side\\nWhere raged the war, a dark-red tide\\nWas curdling in the streamlet blue.\\nWhere shall she turn behold her mark\\nA little fountain cell, 920\\nWhere water, clear as diamond spark,\\nIn a stone basin fell.\\nAbove, some half-worn letters say,\\nSBrmfc. ttiraro. pilgrim, ortnft. ano. prap.\\nifor. tte fcmb. sou*, of. ^ib^Tt. JBrep.\\ni\u00c2\u00a9fto. built, tfoe. cro\u00c2\u00a35. antr. ttjeft.\\nShe filled the helm and back she hied,\\nAnd with surprise and joy espied\\nA monk supporting Marmion s head;\\nA pious man, whom duty brought 930\\nTo dubious verge of battle fought,\\nTo shrive the dying, bless the dead.\\nDeep drank Lord Marmion of the wave,\\nAnd, as she stooped his brow to lave\\nIs it the hand of Clare, he said,\\nOr injured Constance, bathes my head?\\nThen, as remembrance rose,\\nSpeak not to me of shrift or prayer\\nI must redress her woes. 939\\nShort space, few words, are mine to spare;\\nForgive and listen, gentle Clare\\nAlas she said, the while,\\nOh think of your immortal weal f\\nIn vain for Constance is your zeal;\\nShe died at Holy Isle.\\nLord Marmion started from the ground\\nAs light as if he felt no wound,\\nThough in the action burst the tide\\nIn torrents from his wounded side. 949\\nThen it was truth, he said I knew\\nThat the dark presage must be true.\\nI would the Fiend, to whom belongs\\nThe vengeance due to all her wrongs,\\nWould spare me but a day!\\nFor wasting fire, and dying groan,\\nAnd priests slain on the altar stone,\\nMight bribe him for delay.\\nIt may not be this dizzy trance\\nCurse on yon base marauder s lance,\\nAnd doubly cursed my failing brand 960\\nA sinful heart makes feeble hand.\\nThen fainting down on earth he sunk,\\nSupported by the trembling monk.\\nWith fruitless labor Clara bound\\nAnd strove to stanch the gushing wound;\\nThe monk with unavailing cares\\nExhausted all the Church s prayers.\\nEver, he said, that, close and near,\\nA lady s voice was in his ear,\\nAnd that the priest he could not hear; 97 o\\nFor that she ever sung,\\n1 In the lost battle, borne down by the flying,\\nWhere mingles war s rattle with groans of the\\ndying\\nSo the notes rung.\\nAvoid thee, Fiend with cruel hand\\nShake not the dying sinner s sand\\nOh look, my son, upon yon sign\\nOf the Redeemer s grace divine;\\nOh think on faith and bliss\\nBy many a death-bed I have been, 980\\nAnd many a sinner s parting seen,\\nBut never aught like this.\\nThe war, that for a space did fail,\\nNow trebly thundering swelled the gale,\\nAnd Stanley was the cry.\\nA light on Marmion s visage spread,\\nAnd fired his glazing eye;\\nWith dying hand above his head\\nHe shook the fragment of his blade,\\nAnd shouted Victory 990\\nCharge, Chester, charge On, Stanley,\\non\\nWere the last words of Marmion.\\nXXXIII\\nBy this, though deep the evening fell,\\nStill rose the battle s deadly swell,\\nFor still the Scots around their king,\\nUnbroken, fought in desperate ring.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0181.jp2"}, "180": {"fulltext": "i5\u00c2\u00b0\\nMARMION\\nWhere s now their victor vaward wing,\\nWhere Huntley, and where Home\\nOh for a blast of that dread horn,\\nOn Fontarabian echoes borne, iooo\\nThat to King Charles did come,\\nWhen Rowland brave, and Olivier,\\nAnd every paladin and peer,\\nOn Roncesvalles died\\nSuch blasts might warn them, not in vain,\\nTo quit the plunder of the slain\\nAnd turn the doubtful day again,\\nWhile yet on Flodden side\\nAfar the Royal Standard flies,\\nAnd round it toils and bleeds and dies ioio\\nOur Caledonian pride\\nIn vain the wish for far away,\\nWhile spoil and havoc mark their way,\\nNear Sibyl s Cross the plunderers stray.\\nO lady, cried the monk, away\\nAnd placed her on her steed,\\nAnd led her to the chapel fair\\nOf Tilmouth upon Tweed.\\nThere all the night they spent in prayer,\\nAnd at the dawn of morning there 1020\\nShe met her kinsman, Lord Fitz-Clare.\\nBut as they left the darkening heath\\nMore desperate grew the strife of death.\\nThe English shafts in volleys hailed,\\nIn headlong charge their horse assailed;\\nFront, flank, and rear, the squadrons sweep\\nTo break the Scottish circle deep\\nThat fought around their king.\\nBut yet, though thick the shafts as snow,\\nThough charging knights like whirlwinds\\ngO, 1030\\nThough billmen ply the ghastly blow,\\nUnbroken was the ring;\\nThe stubborn spearmen still made good\\nTheir dark impenetrable wood,\\nEach stepping where his comrade stood\\nThe instant that he fell.\\nNo thought was there of dastard flight;\\nLinked in the serried phalanx tight,\\nGroom fought like noble, squire like knight,\\nAs fearlessly and well, 1040\\nTill utter darkness closed her wing\\nO er their thin host and wounded king.\\nThen skilful Surrey s sage commands\\nLed back from strife his shattered bands;\\nAnd from the charge they drew,\\nAs mountain-waves from wasted lands\\nSweep back to ocean blue.\\nThen did their loss his foemen know;\\nTheir king, their lords, their mightiest\\nlow,\\nThey melted from the field, as snow, 1050\\nWhen streams are swoln and southwinds\\nblow,\\nDissolves in silent dew.\\nTweed s echoes heard the ceaseless plash,\\nWhile many a broken band\\nDisordered through her currents dash,\\nTo gain the Scottish laud;\\nTo town and tower, to down and dale,\\nTo tell red Flodden s dismal tale,\\nAnd raise the universal wail.\\nTradition, legend, tune, and song 1060\\nShall many an age that wail prolong;\\nStill from the sire the son shall hear\\nOf the stern strife and carnage drear\\nOf Flodden s fatal field,\\nWhere shivered was fair Scotland s spear\\nAnd broken was her shield\\nDay dawns upon the mountain s side.\\nThere, Scotland lay thy bravest pride,\\nChiefs, knights, and nobles, many a one;\\nThe sad survivors all are gone. i\\nView not that corpse mistrustfully,\\nDefaced and mangled though it be;\\nNor to yon Border castle high\\nLook northward with upbraiding eye;\\nNor cherish hope in vain\\nThat, journeying far on foreign strand,\\nThe Royal Pilgrim to his land\\nMay yet return again.\\nHe saw the wreck his rashness wrought;\\nReckless of life, he desperate fought, 1080\\nAnd fell on Flodden plain:\\nAnd well in death his trusty brand,\\nFirm clenched within his manly hand,\\nBeseemed the monarch slain.\\nBut oh how changed since yon blithe\\nnight\\nGladly I turn me from the sight\\nUnto my tale again.\\nXXXVI\\nShort is my tale: Fitz-Eustace care\\nA pierced and mangled body bare\\nTo moated Lichfield s lofty pile; 1090\\nAnd there, beneath the southern aisle,\\nA tomb with Gothic sculpture fair\\nDid long Lord Marmion s image bear.\\nNow vainly for its site you look;\\nT was levelled when fanatic Brook\\nThe fair cathedral stormed and took,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0182.jp2"}, "181": {"fulltext": "L ENVOY\\n5*\\nBut, thanks to Heaven and good Saint\\nChad,\\nA guerdon meet the spoiler had\\nThere erst was martial Marmion found,\\nHis feet upon a eouehant hound, noo\\nHis hands to heaven upraised;\\nAnd all around, on scutcheon rich,\\nAnd tablet carved, and fretted niche,\\nHis arms and feats were blazed.\\nAnd yet, though all was carved so fair,\\nAnd priest for Marmion breathed the\\nprayer,\\nThe last Lord Marmion lay not there.\\nFrom Ettrick woods a peasant swain\\nFollowed his lord to Flodden plain,\\nOne of those flowers whom plaintive lay mo\\nIn Scotland mourns as wede away:\\nSore wounded, Sibyl s Cross he spied,\\nAnd dragged him to its foot, and died\\nClose by the noble Marmion s side.\\nThe spoilers stripped and gashed the slain,\\nAnd thus their corpses were mista en;\\nAnd thus in the proud baron s tomb\\nThe lowly woodsman took the room.\\nLess easy task it were to show\\nLord Marmion s nameless grave and low.\\nThey dug his grave e en where he lay, 1121\\nBut every mark is gone\\nTime s wasting hand has done away\\nThe simple Cross of Sibyl Grey,\\nAnd broke her font of stone\\nBut yet from out the little hill\\nOozes the slender springlet still.\\nOft halts the stranger there,\\nFor thence may best his curious eye\\nThe memorable field descry; 1130\\nAnd shepherd boys repair\\nTo seek the water-flag and rush,\\nAnd rest them by the hazel bush,\\nAnd plait their garlands fair,\\nNor dream they sit upon the grave\\nThat holds the bones of Marmion brave.\\nWhen thou shalt find the little hill,\\nWith thy heart commune and be still.\\nIf ever in temptation strong\\nThou left st the right path for the\\nwrong, 1 140\\nIf every devious step thus trod\\nStill led thee further from the road,\\nDread thou to speak presumptuous doom\\nOn noble Marmion s lowly tomb;\\nBut say, He died a gallant knight,\\nWith sword in hand, for England s right.\\nXXXVIII\\nI do not rhyme to that dull elf\\nWho cannot image to himself\\nThat all through Flodden s dismal night\\nWilton was foremost in the fight, 1150\\nThat when brave Surrey s steed was slain\\nT was Wilton mounted him again;\\nT was Wilton s brand that deepest hewed\\nAmid the spearmen s stubborn wood:\\nUnnamed by Holinshed or Hall,\\nHe was the living soul of all;\\nThat, after fight, his faith made plain,\\nHe won his rank and lands again,\\nAnd charged his old paternal shield\\nWith bearings won on Flodden Field. 1160\\nNor sing I to that simple maid\\nTo whom it must in terms be said\\nThat king and kinsmen did agree\\nTo bless fair Clara s constancy;\\nWho cannot, unless I relate,\\nPaint to her mind the bridal s state,\\nThat Wolsey s voice the blessing spoke,\\nMore, Sands, and Denny, passed the joke;\\nThat bluff King Hal the curtain drew, 1169\\nAnd Katherine s hand the stocking threw;\\nAnd afterwards, for many a day,\\nThat it was held enough to say,\\nIn blessing to a wedded pair,\\n1 Love they like Wilton and like Clare\\nL ENVOY\\nTO THE READER\\nWhy then a final note prolong,\\nOr lengthen out a closing song,\\nUnless to bid the gentles speed,\\nWho long have listed to my rede\\nTo statesmen grave, if such may deign\\nTo read the minstrel s idle strain,\\nSound head, clean hand, and piercing wit\\nAnd patriotic heart as Pitt\\nA garland for the hero s crest,\\nAnd twined by her he loves the best\\nTo every lovely lady bright,\\nWhat can I wish but faithful knight\\nTo every faithful lover too,\\nWhat can I wish but lady true\\nAnd knowledge to the studious sage,\\nAnd pillow soft to head of age\\nTo thee, dear school-boy, whom my lay\\nHas cheated of thy hour of play,\\nLight task and merry holiday\\nTo all, to each, a fair good-night,\\nAnd pleasing dreams, and slumbers light I", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0183.jp2"}, "182": {"fulltext": "THE LADY OF THE LAKE\\nINTRODUCTORY NOTE\\nThe Lady of the Lake, Scott says, was a very\\nsudden thought. It was begun in the fall of\\n1809, when Marmion had enjoyed a year and a\\nhalf of popularity. The first hundred lines,\\nhe writes to Lady Abercorn, were written, I\\nthink, in October, 1809, and the first canto was\\nsent to your Ladyship in Ireland so soon as it\\nwas complete, and you were the first who saw\\nthem, excepting one friend and the printer,\\nMr. Ballantyne, who is a great critic as well as\\nan excellent printer. I have been always,\\nGod help me, too poor and too impatient to\\nlet my poems lie by me for years, or for\\nmonths either on the contrary, they have\\nhitherto been always sent to the press before\\nthey were a third part finished. This is, to be\\nsure, a very reprehensible practice in many\\nrespects, and I hope I shall get the better of\\nit the next time.\\nHe had by this time separated from Consta-\\nble and made Ballantyne s interests his own.\\nIn his Introduction given below, Scott details\\nin lively fashion the effect which the reading\\nof the poem, while in course of composition,\\nhad upon the friend who started in to heeze\\nup his hope. Lockhart quotes also from the\\nrecollection of Robert Cadell an account of\\nthe interest excited by the poem before it\\nwas published. James Ballantyne read the\\ncantos from time to time to select coteries, as\\nthey advanced at press. Common fame was\\nloud in their favor a great poem was on all\\nhands anticipated. I do not recollect that any\\nof all the author s works was ever looked for\\nwith more intense anxiety, or that any one of\\nthem excited a more extraordinary sensation\\nwhen it did appear. The whole country rang\\nwith the praises of the poet crowds set off\\nto view the scenery of Loch Katrine, till then\\ncomparatively unknown and as the book\\ncame out just before the season for excursions,\\nevery house and inn in that neighborhood was\\ncrammed with a constant succession of visitors.\\nI have tried, writes Scott to Lady Abercorn,\\naccording to promise, to make a knight of\\nlove who never broke a vow. But welladay,\\nthough I have succeeded tolerably with the\\ndamsel, my lover, spite of my best exertions,\\nis like to turn out what the players call a\\nwalking gentleman. It is incredible the pains\\nit has cost me to give him a little dignity.\\nAnd then follows this curious and rueful re-\\nflection. Notwithstanding this, I have had\\nin my time melancholy cause to paint f]\\nexperience, for I gained no advantage from\\nthree years constancy, except the said experi-\\nence and some advantage to my conversation\\nand manners. Mrs. Scott s match and mine\\nwas of our own making, and proceeded from\\nthe most sincere affection on both sides, which\\nhas rather increased than diminished during\\ntwelve years marriage. But it was something\\nshort of love in all its forms, which I suspect\\npeople only feel once in their lives folks who\\nhave been nearly drowned in bathing rarely\\nventuring a second time out of their depth.\\nIn a later letter written to the same lady, he\\nreturns to the subject, which plainly gave him\\nsome uneasiness. As for my lover, I find\\nwith deep regret that, however interesting\\nlovers are to each other, it is no easy matter\\nto render them generally interesting. There\\nwas, however, another reason for keeping\\nMalcolm Grseme s character a little under, as\\nthe painters say, for it must otherwise have\\ninterfered with that of the king, which I was\\nmore anxious to bring forward in splendor, or\\nsomething like it.\\nOnce again, in a letter to Miss Smith, who\\ntook the part of Ellen in a dramatization of the\\npoem, he wrote You must know this Mal-\\ncolm Graeme was a great plague to me from\\nthe beginning. You ladies can hardly com-\\nprehend how very stupid lovers are to every-\\nbody but mistresses. I gave him that dip in\\nthe lake by way of making him do something\\nbut wet or dry I could make nothing of him.\\nHis insignificance is the greatest defect among\\nmany others in the poem but the canvas was\\nnot broad enough to include him, considering\\nI had to group the king, Roderick, and Doug-\\nlas.\\nOn another point, Scott had been criticised\\nby his vigilant friend Morritt. The only dis-\\nappointment, writes Morritt, I felt in the\\npoem is your own fault. The character and\\nterrific birth of Brian is so highly wrought\\nthat I expected him to appear again in the di-\\nnouement, and wanted to hear something more\\nof him but as we do not hear of his death,\\nit is your own fault for introducing us to an\\nacquaintance of so much promise and not tell-\\ning us how he was afterwards disposed of.\\nTo this Scott replied Your criticism is quite\\njust as to the Son of the dry bone, Brian.\\nTruth is, I had intended the battle should\\n\u00e2\u0080\u00a252", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0184.jp2"}, "183": {"fulltext": "AUTHOR S INTRODUCTION\\n53\\nhave been more detailed, and that some of the\\npersons mentioned in the third canto, and\\nBrian in particular, should have been commem-\\norated. I intended he should have been shot\\nlike a corbie on a craig as he was excommu-\\nnicating and anathematizing the Saxons from\\nsome of the predominant peaks in the Trosachs.\\nBut I found the battle in itself too much dis-\\nplaced to admit of being prolonged by any de-\\ntails which could be spared. For it was in the\\nfirst place episodical, and then all the princi-\\npal characters had been disposed of before it\\ncame on, and were absent at the time of action,\\nand nothing hinged upon the issue of conse-\\nquence to the fable. So I e en left it to the\\njudgment of my reader whether Brian was\\nworried in the Trosachs, or escaped to take\\nearth in his old retreat in Benharrow, near\\nArdkinlas.\\nThe Lady of the Lake came out early in\\nMay, 1810, and its popularity is shown by the\\nhaste with which the dramatists laid hold of\\nit, three separate versions being attempted.\\ni That Mr. Siddons is bringing it out, Scott\\nwrites to the actress, Miss Smith, is very cer-\\ntain, but it is equally so that I have not seen\\nand do not intend to see a line of it, because I\\nwould not willingly have the public of this\\nplace [Edinburgh] suppose that I was in any\\ndegree responsible for the success of the piece\\nit would be like submitting to be twice tried\\nfor the same offence. My utmost knowledge\\nhas been derived from chatting with Mrs. Sid-\\ndons and Mrs. Young in the green-room, where\\nI have been an occasional lounger since our\\ncompany has been put on a respectable foot-\\ning. Whether the dialogue is in verse or\\nprose I really do not know. There is a third\\nLady of the Lake on the tapis at Covent Gar-\\nden, dramatized by no less genius than the\\nunited firm of Reynolds and Morton. But\\nthough I have these theatrical grandchildren,\\nas I may call them, I have seen none of them.\\nI shall go to the Edinburgh piece when it is\\nrehearsed with lights and scenes, and if I see\\nanything that I think worth your adopting I\\nwill write to you. The strength will probably\\nlie in the dumb show, music and decorations,\\nfor I have no idea that the language can be\\nrendered very dramatic. If any person can\\nmake aught of it, I am sure you will. The\\nmad Lowland captive if well played, should, I\\nthink, answer. I wish I could give you an\\nidea of the original, whom I really saw in the\\nPass of Gleneoe many years ago. It is one of\\nthe wildest and most tremendous passes in the\\nHighlands, winding through huge masses of\\nrock without a pile of verdure, and between\\nmountains that seem rent asunder by an\\nearthquake. This poor woman had placed\\nherself in the wildest attitude imaginable,\\nupon the very top of one of these huge frag-\\nments she had scarce any covering but a tat-\\ntered plaid, which left her arms, legs, and\\nneck bare to the weather. Her long shaggy\\nblack hair was streaming backwards in the\\nwind, and exposed a face rather wild and\\nwasted than ugly, and bearing a very peculiar\\nexpression of frenzy. She had a handful of\\neagle s feathers in her hand. The lady\\nwho plays this part should beware of singing\\nwith too stiff regularity even her music, or\\nrather her style of singing it, should be a little\\nmad.\\nScott summed up his own analysis of the\\nthree long poems thus far published, when he\\nwrote in 1812 The force in the Lay is\\nthrown on style in Marmion, on description,\\nand in The Lady of the Lake, on incident.\\nWhen reissuing the poem in the collective\\nedition of 1830, he prefixed the following\\nINTRODUCTION.\\nAfter the success of Marmion, I felt inclined\\nto exclaim with Ulysses in the Odyssey\\nOutos ftev Si] ae#Ao? aaaro; e/CTereAea-Tai\\nNvv avre ctkottou aAAoi\\\\\\nOdys. x. 5.\\n4 One venturous game my hand has won to-day\\nAnother, gallants, yet remains to play.\\nThe ancient manners, the habits and cus-\\ntoms of the aboriginal race by whom the High-\\nlands of Scotland were inhabited, had always\\nappeared to me peculiarly adapted to poetry.\\nThe change in their manners, too, had taken\\nplace almost within my own time, or at least I\\nhad learned many particulars concerning the\\nancient state of the Highlands from the old\\nmen of the last generation. I had always\\nthought the old Scottish Gael highly adapted\\nfor poetical composition. The feuds and politi-\\ncal dissensions which, half a century earlier,\\nwould have rendered the richer and wealthier\\npart of the kingdom indisposed to countenance\\na poem, the scene of which was laid in the\\nHighlands, were now sunk in the generous\\ncompassion which the English, more than any\\nother nation, feel for the misfortunes of an\\nhonorable foe. The Poems of Ossian had by\\ntheir popularity sufficiently shown that if writ-\\nings on Highland subjects were qualified to\\ninterest the reader, mere national prejudices\\nwere, in the present day, very unlikely to inter-\\nfere with their success.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0185.jp2"}, "184": {"fulltext": "154\\nTHE LADY OF THE LAKE\\nI had also read a great deal, seen much, and\\nheard more, of that romantic country where I\\nwas in the habit of spending some time every\\nautumn and the scenery of Loch Katrine was\\nconnected with the recollection of many a dear\\nfriend and merry expedition of former days.\\nThis poem, the action of which lay among\\nscenes so beautiful and so deeply imprinted on\\nmy recollections, was a labor of love, and it\\nwas no less so to recall the manners and in-\\ncidents introduced. The frequent custom of\\nJames IV., and particularly of James V., to\\nwalk through their kingdom in disguise, af-\\nforded me the hint of an incident which never\\nfails to be interesting if managed with the\\nslightest address or dexterity.\\nI may now confess, however, that the employ-\\nment, though attended with great pleasure, was\\nnot without its doubts and anxieties. A lady,\\nto whom I was nearly related, and with whom\\nI lived, daring her whole life, on the most\\nbrotherly terms of affection, was residing with\\nme at the time when the work was in progress,\\nand used to ask me what I could possibly do to\\nrise so early in the morning (that happening to\\nbe the most convenient to me for composition).\\nAt last I told her the subject of my meditations\\nand I can never forget the anxiety and affection\\nexpressed in her reply. Do not be so rash,\\nshe said, my dearest cousin. You are already\\npopular, more so, perhaps, than you yourself\\nwill believe, or than even I, or other partial\\nfriends, can fairly allow to your merit. You\\nstand high, do not rashly attempt to climb\\nhigher, and incur the risk of a fall for, de-\\npend upon it, a favorite will not be permitted\\neven to stumble with impunity. I replied to\\nthis affectionate expostulation in the words of\\nMontrose,\\nHe either fears his fate too much,\\nOr his deserts are small,\\nWho dares not put it to the touch\\nTo gain or lose it all.\\n1 If I fail, I said, for the dialogue is strong\\nin my recollection, it is a sign that I ought\\nnever to have succeeded, and I will write prose\\nfor life you shall see no change in my temper,\\nnor will I eat a single meal the worse. But if\\nI succeed,\\nUp with the bonnie blue bonnet,\\nThe dirk, and the feather, and a\\nAfterwards I showed my affectionate and\\nanxious critic the first canto of the poem, which\\nreconciled her to my imprudence. Neverthe-\\nless, although I answered thus confidently, with\\nthe obstinacy often said to be proper to those\\nwho bear my surname, I acknowledge that my\\nconfidence was considerably shaken by the\\nwarning 1 of her excellent taste and unbiassed\\nfriendship. Nor was I much comforted by her\\nretractation of the unfavorable judgment, when\\nI recollected how likely a natural partiality was\\nto effect that change of opinion. In such cases\\naffection rises like a light on the canvas, im-\\nproves any favorable tints which it formerly\\nexhibited, and throws its defects into the\\nshade.\\nI remember that about the same time a\\nfriend started in to heeze up my hope, like\\nthe sportsman with his cutty gun, in the old\\nsong. He was bred a farmer, but a man of\\npowerful understanding, natural good taste,\\nand warm poetical f eeling, perfectly competent\\nto supply the wants of an imperfect or irregu-\\nlar education. He was a passionate admirer of\\nfield-sports, which we often pursued together.\\nAs this friend happened to dine with me at\\nAshestiel one day, I took the opportunity of\\nreading to him the first canto of The Lady of\\nthe Lake, in order to ascertain the effect the\\npoem was likely to produce upon a person who\\nwas but too favorable a representative of\\nreaders at large. It is of course to be sup-\\nposed that I determined rather to guide my\\nopinion by what my friend might appear to\\nfeel, than by what he might think fit to say.\\nHis reception of my recitation, or prelection,\\nwas rather singular. He placed his hand\\nacross his brow, and listened with great atten-\\ntion, through the whole account of the stag-\\nhunt, till the dogs threw themselves into the\\nlake to follow their master, who embarks with\\nEllen Douglas. He then started up with a\\nsudden exclamation, struck his hand on the\\ntable, and declared, in a voice of censure cal-\\nculated for the occasion, that the dogs must\\nhave been totally ruined by being permitted\\nto take the water after such a severe chase. I\\nown I was much encouraged by the species\\nof revery which had possessed so zealous a\\nfollower of the sports of the ancient Nimrod,\\nwho had been completely surprised out of all\\ndoubts of the reality of the tale. Another of\\nhis remarks gave me less pleasure. He de-\\ntected the identity of the king with the wan-\\ndering knight, Fitz-James, when he winds his\\nbugle to summon his attendants. He was\\nprobably thinking of the lively, but somewhat\\nlicentious, old ballad, in which the denouement\\nof a royal intrigue takes place as follows\\nHe took a bugle frae his side,\\nHe blew both loud and shrill,\\nAnd four and twenty belted knights\\nCame skipping ower the hill\\nThen he took out a little knife,\\nLet a his duddies fa\\nAnd he was the brawest gentleman\\nThat was aniang them a\\nAnd we 11 go no more a roving, etc.\\nThis discovery, as Mr. Pepys says of the\\nrent in his camlet cloak, was but a trifle, yet it", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0186.jp2"}, "185": {"fulltext": "AUTHOR S INTRODUCTION\\n*55\\ntroubled me and I was at a good deal of pains\\nto efface any marks by wbieh I thought my\\nsecret could be traced before the conclusion,\\nwhen I relied on it with the same hope of pro-\\nducing effect, with which the Irish post-boy is\\nsaid to reserve a trot for the avenue.\\nI took uncommon pains to verify the accu-\\nracy of the local circumstances of this story.\\nI recollect, in particular, that to ascertain\\nwhether I was telling a probable tale I went\\ninto Perthshire, to see whether King James\\ncould actually have ridden from the banks of\\nLoch Vennachar to Stirling Castle within the\\ntime supposed in the poem, and had the plea-\\nsure to satisfy myself that it was quite prac-\\nticable.\\nAfter a considerable delay, The Lady of\\nthe Lake appeared in June, 1810 and its suc-\\ncess was certainly so extraordinary as to induce\\nme for the moment to conclude that I had at\\nlast fixed a nail in the proverbially inconstant\\nwheel of Fortune, whose stability in behalf of\\nan individual who had so boldly courted her\\nfavors for three successive times had not as yet\\nbeen shaken. I had attained, perhaps, that\\ndegree of reputation at which prudence, or\\ncertainly timidity, would have made a halt,\\nand discontinued efforts by which I was far\\nmore likely to diminish my fame than to in-\\ncrease it. But, as the celebrated John Wilkes\\nis said to have explained to his late Majesty,\\nthat he himself, amid his full tide of popular-\\nity, was never a Wilkite, so I can, with honest\\ntruth, exculpate myself from having been at\\nany time a partisan of my own poetry, even\\nwhen it was in the highest fashion with the\\nmillion. It must not be supposed that I was\\neither so ungrateful or so superabundantly\\ncandid as to despise or scorn the value of those\\nwhose voice had elevated me so much higher\\nthan my own opinion told me I deserved. I\\nfelt, on the contrary, the more grateful to the\\npublic, as receiving that from partiality to me,\\nwhich I could not have claimed from merit\\nand I endeavored to deserve the partiality by\\ncontinuing such exertions as I was capable of\\nfor their amusement.\\nIt may be that I did not, in this continued\\ncourse of scribbling, consult either the interest\\nof the public or my own. But the former had\\neffectual means of defending themselves, and\\ncould, by their coldness, sufficiently check any\\napproach to intrusion and for myself, I had\\nnow for several years dedicated my hours so\\nmuch to literary labor that I should have felt\\ndifficulty in employing myself otherwise and\\nso, like Dogberry, I generously bestowed all\\nmy tediousness on the public, comforting my-\\nself with the reflection that, if posterity should\\nthink me undeserving of the favor with which\\nI was regarded by my contemporaries, they\\ncould not but say I had the crown, and had.\\nenjoyed for a time that popularity which is so\\nmuch coveted.\\nI conceived, however, that I held the dis-\\ntinguished situation I had obtained, however\\nunworthily, rather like the champion of pugi-\\nlism, on the condition of being always ready to\\nshow proofs of my skill, than in the manner\\nof the champion of chivalry, who performs his\\nduties only on rare and solemn occasions. I\\nwas in any case conscious that I could not long\\nhold a situation which the caprice rather than\\nthe judgment of the public had bestowed upon\\nme, and preferred being deprived of my pre-\\ncedence by some more worthy rival, to sinking\\ninto contempt for my indolence, and losing my\\nreputation by what Scottish lawyers call the\\nnegative prescription. Accordingly, those who\\nchoose to look at the Introduction to Eokeby,\\nwill be able to trace the steps by which I de-\\nclined as a poet to figure as a novelist as\\nthe ballad says, Queen Eleanor sunk at Charing\\nCross to rise again at Queenhithe.\\nIt only remains for me to say that, during\\nmy short preeminence of popularity, I faith-\\nfully observed the rules of moderation which\\nI had resolved to follow before I began my\\ncourse as a man of letters. If a man is deter-\\nmined to make a noise in the world, he is as\\nsure to encounter abuse and ridicule, as he\\nwho gallops furiously through a village must\\nreckon on being followed by the curs in full\\ncry. Experienced persons know that in stretch-\\ning to flog the latter, the rider is very apt to\\ncatch a bad fall nor is an attempt to chastise\\na malignant critic attended with less danger to\\nthe author. On this principle, I let parody,\\nburlesque, and squibs find their own level\\nand while the latter hissed most fiercely, I was\\ncautious never to catch them up, as schoolboys\\ndo, to throw them back against the naughty\\nboy who fired them off, wisely remembering\\nthat they are in such cases apt to explode in\\nthe handling. Let me add that my reign\\n(since Byron has so called it) was marked by\\nsome instances of good-nature as well as pa-\\ntience. I never refused a literary person of\\nmerit such services in smoothing his way to\\nthe public as were in my power; and I had\\nthe advantage rather an uncommon one with\\nour irritable race to enjoy general favor\\nwithout incurring permanent ill-will, so far as\\nis known to me, among any of my contempo-\\nraries.\\nAbbotsfoed, April, 1830.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0187.jp2"}, "186": {"fulltext": "i5*\\nTHE LADY OF THE LAKE\\nTHE LADY OF THE LAKE\\nTO\\nTHE MOST NOBLE\\nJOHN JAMES, MARQUIS OF ABERCORN\\nc, c, c,\\nTHIS POEM IS INSCRIBED BY\\nTHE AUTHOR.\\nARGUMENT\\nThe scene of the following Poem is laid chiefly in the vicinity of Loch Katrine, in the Western Highlands\\nof Perthshire. The time of Action includes Six Days, and the transactions of each Day occupy a Canto.\\nCANTO FIRST\\nTHE CHASE\\nHarp of the North that mouldering long\\nhast hung\\nOn the witch-elm that shades Saint Fil-\\nlan s spring,\\nAnd down the fitful breeze thy numbers\\nflung,\\nTill envious ivy did around thee cling,\\nMuffling with verdant ringlet every\\nstring,\\nO Minstrel Harp, still must thine accents\\nsleep\\nMid rustling leaves and fountains mur-\\nmuring,\\nStill must thy sweeter sounds their\\nsilence keep,\\nid a wan\\nto weep\\nNot thus, in ancient days of Caledon, 10\\nWas thy voice mute amid the festal\\ncrowd,\\nWhen lay of hopeless love, or glory won,\\nAroused the fearful or subdued the\\nproud.\\nAt each according pause was heard aloud\\nThine ardent symphony sublime and high\\nFair dames and crested chiefs attention\\nbowed;\\nFor still the burden of thy minstrelsy\\nWas Knighthood s dauntless deed, and\\nBeauty s matchless eye.\\nO, wake once more how rude soe er the\\nhand\\nThat ventures o er thy magic maze to\\nstray; 20\\nO, wake once more though scarce my\\nskill command\\nSome feeble echoing of thine earlier lay:\\nThough harsh and faint, and soon to die\\naway,\\nAnd all unworthy of thy nobler strain,\\nYet if one heart throb higher at its sway,\\nThe wizard note has not been touched in\\nvain.\\nThen silent be no more Enchantress,\\nwake again\\nThe stag at eve had drunk his fill,\\nWhere danced the moon on Monan s rill,\\nAnd deep his midnight lair had made 30\\nIn lone Gleuartney s hazel shade;\\nBut when the sun his beacon red\\nHad kindled on Benvoirlich s head,\\nThe deep-mouthed bloodhound s heavy bay\\nResounded up the rocky way,\\nAnd faint, from farther distance borne,\\nWere heard the clanging hoof and horn.\\nAs Chief, who hears his warder call,\\nTo arms the foe men storm the wall/\\nThe antlered monarch of the waste 40\\nSprung from his heathery couch in haste.\\nBut ere his fleet career he took,\\nThe dew-drops from his flanks he shook;", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0188.jp2"}, "187": {"fulltext": "CANTO FIRST: THE CHASE\\n157\\nLike crested leader proud and high\\nTossed his beamed frontlet to the sky;\\nA moment gazed adown the dale,\\nA moment snuffed the tainted gale,\\nA moment listened to the cry,\\nThat thickened as the chase drew nigh;\\nThen, as the headmost foes appeared, 50\\nWith one brave bound the copse he\\ncleared,\\nAnd, stretching forward free and far,\\nSought the wild heaths of Uam-Var.\\nYelled on the view the opening pack;\\nRock, glen, and cavern paid them back;\\nTo many a mingled sound at once\\nThe awakened mountain gave response.\\nA hundred dogs bayed deep and strong,\\nClattered a hundred steeds along,\\nTheir peal the merry horns rung out, 60\\nA hundred voices joined the shout;\\nWith hark and whoop and wild halloo,\\nNo rest Benvoirlich s echoes knew.\\nFar from the tumult fled the roe,\\nClose iu her covert cowered the doe,\\nThe falcon, from her cairn on high,\\nCast on the rout a wondering eye,\\nTill far beyond her piercing ken\\nThe hurricane had swept the glen.\\nFaint, and more faint, its failing din 70\\nReturned from cavern, cliff, and linn,\\nAnd silence settled, wide and still,\\nOn the lone wood and mighty hill.\\nLess loud the sounds of sylvan war\\nDisturbed the heights of Uam-Var,\\nAnd roused the cavern where, t is told,\\nA giant made his den of old;\\nFor ere that steep ascent was won,\\nHigh in his pathway hung the sun,\\nAnd many a gallant, stayed perforce, 80\\nWas fain to breathe his faltering horse,\\nAnd of the trackers of the deer\\nScarce half the lessening pack was near;\\nSo shrewdly on the mountain-side\\nHad the bold burst their mettle tried.\\nThe noble stag was pausing now\\nUpon the mountain s southern brow,\\nWhere broad extended, far beneath,\\nThe varied realms of fair Menteith.\\nWith anxious eye he wandered o er 90\\nMountain and meadow, moss and moor,\\nAnd pondered refuge from his toil,\\nBy far Lochard or Aberfovle.\\nBut nearer was the copse wood gray\\nThat waved and wept on Loch Achray,\\nAnd mingled with the pine-trees blue\\nOn the bold cliffs of Benvenue.\\nFresh vigor with the hope returned,\\nWith flying foot the heath he spurned,\\nHeld westward with unwearied race, 100\\nAnd left behind the panting chase.\\nVI\\nT were long to tell what steeds gave o er,\\nAs swept the hunt through Cambusmore;\\nWhat reins were tightened in despair,\\nWhen rose Benledi s ridge in air;\\nWho flagged upon Bochastle s heath,\\nWho shunned to stem the flooded Teith,\\nFor twice that day, from shore to shore,\\nThe gallant stag swam stoutly o er.\\nFew were the stragglers, following far, no\\nThat reached the lake of Vennachar;\\nAnd when the Brigg of Turk was won,\\nThe headmost horseman rode alone.\\nVII\\nAlone, but with unbated zeal,\\nThat horseman plied the scourge and steel;\\nFor jaded now, and spent with toil,\\nEmbossed with foam, and dark with soil,\\nWhile every gasp with sobs he drew,\\nThe laboring stag strained full in view.\\nTwo dogs of black Saint Hubert s breed, 120\\nUnmatched for courage, breath, and speed,\\nFast on his flying traces came,\\nAnd all but won that desperate game;\\nFor, scarce a spear s length from his\\nhaunch,\\nVindictive toiled the bloodhounds stanch;\\nNor nearer might the dogs attain,\\nNor farther might the quarry strain.\\nThus up the margin of the lake,\\nBetween the precipice and brake,\\nO er stock and rock their race they take. 130\\nVIII\\nThe Hunter marked that mountain high,\\nThe lone lake s western boundary,\\nAnd deemed the stag must turn to bay,\\nWhere that huge rampart barred the way;\\nAlready glorying in the prize,\\nMeasured his antlers with his eyes;\\nFor the death-wound and death-halloo\\nMustered his breath, his whinyard drew:\\nBut thundering as he came prepared,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0189.jp2"}, "188": {"fulltext": "i5\u00c2\u00bb\\nTHE LADY OF THE LAKE\\nWith ready arm and weapon bared, 140\\nThe wily quarry shunned the shock,\\nAnd turned him from the opposing rock;\\nThen, dashing down a darksome glen,\\nSoon lost to hound and Hunter s ken,\\nIn the deep Trosachs wildest nook\\nHis solitary refuge took.\\nThere, while close couched the thicket shed\\nCold dews and wild flowers on his head,\\nHe heard the baffled dogs in vain\\nRave through the hollow pass amain, 150\\nChiding the rocks that yelled again.\\nClose on the hounds the Hunter came,\\nTo cheer them on the vanished game;\\nBut, stumbling in the rugged dell,\\nThe gallant horse exhausted fell.\\nThe impatient rider strove in vain\\nTo rouse him with the spur and rein,\\nFor the good steed, his labors o er,\\nStretched his stiff limbs, to rise no more;\\nThen, touched with pity and remorse, 160\\nHe sorrowed o er the expiring horse.\\nI little thought, when first thy rein\\nI slacked upon the banks of Seine,\\nThat Highland eagle e er should feed\\nOn thy fleet limbs, my matchless steed\\nWoe worth the chase, woe worth the day,\\nThat costs thy life, my gallant gray\\nThen through the dell his horn resounds,\\nFrom vain pursuit to call the hounds. 169\\nBack limped, with slow and crippled pace,\\nThe sulky leaders of the chase;\\nClose to their master s side they pressed,\\nWith drooping tail and humbled crest;\\nBut still the dingle s hollow throat\\nProlonged the swelling bugle-note.\\nThe owlets started from their dream,\\nThe eagles answered with their scream,\\nRound and around the sounds were cast,\\nTill echo seemed an answering blast;\\nAnd on the Hunter hied his way, 180\\nTo join some comrades of the day,\\nYet often paused, so strange the road,\\nSo wondrous were the scenes it showed.\\nXI\\nThe western waves of ebbing day\\nRolled o er the glen their level way;\\nEach purple peak, each flinty spire,\\nWas bathed in floods of living fire.\\nBut not a setting beam could glow\\nWithin the dark ravines below,\\nWhere twined the path in shadow hid, 190\\nRound many a rocky pyramid,\\nShooting abruptly from the dell\\nIts thunder-splintered pinnacle;\\nRound many an insulated mass,\\nThe native bulwarks of the pass,\\nHuge as the tower which builders vain\\nPresumptuous piled on Shinar s plain.\\nThe rocky summits, split and rent,\\nFormed turret, dome, or battlement,\\nOr seemed fantastically set 200\\nWith cupola or minaret,\\nWild crests as pagod ever decked,\\nOr mosque of Eastern architect.\\nNor were these earth-born castles bare,\\nNor lacked they many a banner fair;\\nFor, from their shivered brows displayed,\\nFar o er the unfathomable glade,\\nAll twinkling with the dewdrop sheen,\\nThe brier-rose fell in streamers green,\\nAnd creeping shrubs of thousand dyes 210\\nWaved in the west-wind s summer sighs.\\nXII\\nBoon nature scattered, free and wild,\\nEach plant or flower, the mountain s child.\\nHere eglantine embalmed the air,\\nHawthorn and hazel mingled there;\\nThe primrose pale and violet flower\\nFound in each clift a narrow bower;\\nFoxglove and nightshade, side by side,\\nEmblems of punishment and pride, 219\\nGrouped their dark hues with every stain\\nThe weather-beaten crags retain.\\nWith boughs that quaked at every breath,\\nGray birch and aspen wept beneath;\\nAloft, the ash and warrior oak\\nCast anchor in the rifted rock;\\nAnd, higher yet, the pine-tree hung\\nHis shattered trunk, and frequent flung,\\nWhere seemed the cliffs to meet on high,\\nHis boughs athwart the narrowed sky. 229\\nHighest of all, where white peaks glanced,\\nWhere glistening streamers waved and\\ndanced,\\nThe wanderer s eye could barely view\\nThe summer heaven s delicious blue;\\nSo wondrous wild, the whole might seem\\nThe scenery of a fairy dream.\\nOnward, amid the copse gan peep\\nA narrow inlet, still and deep,\\nAffording scarce such breadth of brim", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0190.jp2"}, "189": {"fulltext": "CANTO FIRST: THE CHASE\\nAs served the wild duck s brood to swim. 239\\nLost for a space, through thickets veering,\\nBut broader when again appearing,\\nTall rocks and tufted knolls their face\\nCould on the dark-blue mirror trace;\\nAnd farther as the Hunter strayed,\\nStill broader sweep its channels made.\\nThe shaggy mounds no longer stood,\\nEmerging from entangled wood,\\nBut, wave-encircled, seemed to float,\\nLike castle girdled with its moat;\\nYet broader floods extending still 250\\nDivide them from their parent hill,\\nTill each, retiring, claims to be\\nAn islet in an inland sea.\\nXIV\\nAnd now, to issue from the glen,\\nNo pathway meets the wanderer s ken,\\nUnless he climb with footing nice\\nA far-projecting precipice.\\nThe broom s tough roots his ladder made,\\nThe hazel saplings lent their aid;\\nAnd thus an airy point he won, 260\\nWhere, gleaming with the setting sun,\\nOne burnished sheet of living gold,\\nLoch Katrine lay beneath him rolled,\\nIn all her length far winding lay,\\nWith promontory, creek, and bay,\\nAnd islands that, empurpled bright,\\nFloated amid the livelier light,\\nAnd mountains that like giants stand\\nTo sentinel enchanted land.\\nHigh on the south, huge Benvenue 270\\nDown to the lake in masses threw\\nCrags, knolls, and mounds, confusedly\\nhurled,\\nThe fragments of an earlier world;\\nA wildering forest feathered o er\\nHis ruined sides and summit hoar,\\nWhile on the north, through middle air,\\nBen-an heaved high his forehead bare.\\nxv\\nFrom the steep promontory gazed\\nThe stranger, raptured and amazed; 279\\nAnd, What a scene were here, he cried,\\nFor princely pomp or churchman s pride\\nOn this bold brow, a lordly tower;\\nIn that soft vale, a lady s bower;\\nOn yonder meadow far away,\\nThe turrets of a cloister gray;\\nHow blithely might the bugle-horn\\nChide on the lake the lingering morn\\nHow sweet at eve the lover s lute\\nChime when the groves were still and\\nmute\\nAnd when the midnight moon should lave\\nHer forehead in the* silver wave, 29 r\\nHow solemn on the ear would come\\nThe holy matins distant hum,\\nWhile the deep peal s commanding tone\\nShould wake, in yonder islet lone,\\nA sainted hermit from his cell,\\nTo drop a bead with every knell\\nAnd bugle, lute, and bell, and all,\\nShould each bewildered stranger call\\nTo friendly feast and lighted hall. 30a\\nXVI\\nBlithe were it then to wander here\\nBut now beshrew yon nimble deer\\nLike that same hermit s, thin and spare,\\nThe copse must give my evening fare;\\nSome mossy bank my couch must be,\\nSome rustling oak my canopy.\\nYet pass we that; the war and chase\\nGive little choice of resting-place;\\nA summer night in greenwood spent\\nWere but to-morrow s merriment: 310\\nBut hosts may in these wilds abound,\\nSuch as are better missed than found;\\nTo meet with Highland plunderers here\\nWere worse than loss of steed or deer.\\nI am alone; my bugle-strain\\nMay call some straggler of the train;\\nOr, fall the worst that may betide,\\nEre now this falchion has been tried.\\nXVII\\nBut scarce again his horn he wound,\\nWhen lo forth starting at the sound, 320\\nFrom underneath an aged oak\\nThat slanted from the islet rock,\\nA damsel guider of its way,\\nA little skiff shot to the bay,\\nThat round the promontory steep\\nLed its deep line in graceful sweep,\\nEddying, in almost viewless wave,\\nThe weeping willow twig to lave,\\nAnd kiss, with whispering sound and slow,\\nThe beach of pebbles bright as snow. 330.\\nThe boat had touched this silver strand\\nJust as the Hunter left his stand\\nAnd stood concealed amid the brake,\\nTo view this Lady of the Lake.\\nThe maiden paused, as if again\\nShe thought to catch the distant strain.\\nWith head upraised, and look intent,\\nAnd eye and ear attentive bent,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0191.jp2"}, "190": {"fulltext": "THE LADY OF THE LAKE\\n,nd lips apart,\\ncian art, 340\\neemed to stand,\\nthe strand.\\nXVIII\\nAnd ne er did Grecian chisel trace\\nA Nymph, a Naiad, or a Grace,\\nOf finer form or lovelier face\\nWhat though the sun, with ardent frown,\\nHad slightly tinged her cheek with\\nbrown,\\nThe sportive toil, which, short and light,\\nHad dyed her glowing hue so bright.\\nServed too in hastier swell to show 350\\nShort glimpses of a breast of snow:\\nWhat though no rule of courtly grace\\nTo measured mood had trained her pace,\\nA foot more light, a step more true,\\nNe er from the heath-flower dashed the dew;\\nE en the slight harebell raised its head,\\nElastic from her airy tread:\\nWhat though upon her speech there hung\\nThe accents of the mountain tongue,\\nThose silver sounds, so soft, so dear, 360\\nThe listener held his breath to hear\\nXIX\\nA chieftain s daughter seemed the maid;\\nHer satin snood, her silken plaid,\\nHer golden brooch, such birth betrayed.\\nAnd seldom was a snood amid\\nSuch wild luxuriant ringlets hid,\\nWhose glossy black to shame might bring\\nThe plumage of the raven s wing;\\nAnd seldom o er a breast so fair\\nMantled a plaid with modest care, 370\\nAnd never brooch the folds combined\\nAbove a heart more good and kind.\\nHer kindness and her worth to spy,\\nYou need but gaze on Ellen s eye;\\nNot Katrine in her mirror blue\\nGives back the shaggy banks more true,\\nThan every free-born glance confessed\\nThe guileless movements of her breast;\\nWhether joy danced in her dark eye,\\nOr woe or pity claimed a sigh, 380\\nOr filial love was glowing there,\\nOr meek devotion poured a prayer,\\nOr tale of injury called forth\\nThe indignant spirit of the North.\\nOne only passion unrevealed\\nWith maiden pride the maid concealed,\\nYet not less purely felt the flame\\nO, need I tell that passion s name\\nImpatient of the silent horn,\\nNow on the gale her voice was borne: 390\\nFather she cried the rocks around\\nLoved to prolong the gentle sound.\\nAwhile she paused, no answer came;\\nMalcolm, was thine the blast the name\\nLess resolutely uttered fell,\\nThe echoes could not catch the swell.\\nA stranger I, the Huntsman said,\\nAdvancing from the hazel shade.\\nThe maid, alarmed, with hasty oar\\nPushed her light shallop from the shore, 400\\nAnd when a space was gained between,\\nCloser she drew her bosom s screen;\\nSo forth the startled swan would swing,\\nSo turn to prune his ruffled wing.\\nThen safe, though fluttered and amazed,\\nShe paused, and on the stranger gazed.\\nNot his the form, nor his the eye,\\nThat youthful maidens wont to fly.\\nOn his bold visage middle age\\nHad slightly pressed its signet sage, 410\\nYet had not quenched the open truth\\nAnd fiery vehemence of youth;\\nForward and frolic glee was there,\\nThe will to do, the soul to dare,\\nThe sparkling glance, soon blown to fire,\\nOf hasty love or headlong ire.\\nHis limbs were cast in manly mould\\nFor hardy sports or contest bold;\\nAnd though in peaceful garb arrayed,\\nAnd weaponless except his blade, 420\\nHis stately mien as well implied\\nA high-born heart, a martial pride,\\nAs if a baron s crest he wore,\\nAnd sheathed in armor trode the shore.\\nSlighting the petty need lie showed,\\nHe told of his benighted road;\\nHis ready speech flowed fair and free,\\nIn phrase of gentlest courtesy,\\nYet seemed that tone and gesture bland\\nLess used to sue than to command. 430\\nXXII\\nAwhile the maid the stranger eyed,\\nAnd, reassured, at length replied,\\nThat Highland halls were open still\\nTo wildered wanderers of the hill.\\nNor think you unexpected c\\nTo yon lone isle, our desert\\nBefore the heath had lost th\\nThis morn, a couch was pull", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0192.jp2"}, "191": {"fulltext": "Y OF THE LAKE\\nng\\n54\u00c2\u00b0\\nor tne am, a ua,.a.Gu. u^uv\\npped from the sheath, that careless\\nflung\\nUpon a stag s huge antlers swung;\\nFor all around, the walls to grace,\\nHung trophies of the fight or chase:\\nA target there, a bugle here,\\nA battle-axe, a hunting-spear,\\nAnd broadswords, bows, and arrows store,\\nWith the tusked trophies of the boar.\\nHere grins the wolf as when he died, 550\\nAnd there the wild-cat s brindled hide\\nThe frontlet of the elk adorns,\\nOr mantles o er the bison s horns\\nPennons and flags defaced and stained,\\nThat blackening streaks of blood retained,\\nAnd deer-skins, dappled, dun, and white,\\nWith otter s fur and seal s unite,\\nIn rude and uncouth tapestry all,\\nTo garnish forth the sylvan hall. 559\\nXXVIII\\nThe wondering stranger round him gazed,\\nAnd next the fallen weapon raised:\\nFew were the arms whose sinewy strength\\nSufficed to stretch it forth at length.\\nAnd as the brand he poised and swayed,\\nf I never knew but one, he said,\\nf Whose stalwart arm might brook to wield\\nA blade like this in battle-field.\\nShe sighed, then smiled and took the word\\nYou see the guardian champion s sword;\\nAs light it trembles in his hand 570\\nAs in my grasp a hazel wand\\nMy sire s tall form might grace the part\\nOf Ferragus or Ascabart,\\nBut in the absent giant s hold\\nAre women now, and menials old.\\nXXIX\\nThe mistress of the mansion came,\\nMature of age, a graceful dame,\\nWhose easy step and stately port\\nHad well become a princely court,\\nTo whom, though more than kindred\\nknew, 580\\nYoung Ellen gave a mother s due.\\nMeet welcome to her guest she made,\\nAnd every courteous rite was paid,\\nThat hospitality could claim,\\nThough all unasked his birth ai\\nSuch then the reverence to a gi\\nThat fellest foe might join the\\nAnd from his deadliest foeman\\nUnquestioned turn, the banque\\nAt length his rank the strange:\\nThe Knight of Snowdoun, t\\nJames\\nLord of a barren heritage,\\nWhich his brave sires, from ag\\nBy their good swords had held\\nHis sire had fallen in such tun\\nAnd he, God wot, was forced t\\nOft for his right with blade in\\nThis morning with Lord Mora\\nHe chased a stalwart stag in v\\nOutstripped his comrades, mis;\\nLost his good steed, and wand 1\\nFain would the Knight in turn E\\nThe name and state of Ellen s\\nWell showed the elder lady s\\nThat courts and cities she had\\nEllen, though more her looks\\nThe simple grace of sylvan mj\\nIn speech and gesture, form ai\\nShowed she was come of gentl\\nT were strange in ruder rank\\nSuch looks, such manners, and\\nEach hint the Knight of Snow\\nDame Margaret heard with siJ\\nOr Ellen, innocently gay,\\nTurned all inquiry light away:\\nWeird women we by dale a\\nWe dwell, afar from tower an\\nWe stem the flood, we ride thi\\nOn wandering knights our spe\\nWhile viewless minstrels toue\\nT is thus our charmed rhyme;\\nShe sung, and still a harp uns\\nFilled up the symphony betwe\\nSoldier, rest thy warfare o\\nSleep the sleep that know\\ning;\\nDream of battled fields no mc\\nDays of danger, nights of \\\\s\\nIn our isle s enchanted hall,\\nHands unseen thy couch arc\\nFairy strains of music fall,\\nEvery sense in slumber de\\\\A\\nSoldier, rest thy warfare o e", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0193.jp2"}, "192": {"fulltext": "CANTO FIRST: THE CHASK\\nlountain s purple head\\ngan and heath-cock bled, 440\\nid nets have swept the mere,\\n)rth your evening cheer.\\n3 rood, my lovely maid,\\n.y has erred, he said;\\n,ve I to claim, misplaced,\\nt of expected guest.\\nhere by fortune tost,\\nfriends, my courser lost,\\ne, believe me, fair,\\n?awn your mountain air, 450\\nake s romantic strand\\nt in fairy land\\nve, the maid replied,\\nskiff approached the side,\\nre, that ne er before\\ns trod Loch Katrine s shore;\\nir as yesternight,\\nne foretold your plight,\\n1 sire, whose eye intent\\ndsioned future bent. 460\\nsteed, a dappled gray,\\neath the birchen way;\\nfc your form and mien,\\nf-suit of Lincoln green,\\nd horn so gayly gilt,\\nl s crooked blade and hilt,\\nh heron plumage trim,\\nhounds so dark and grim.\\nall should ready be\\naest of fair degree 470\\neld his prophecy,\\nit was my father s horn\\ns o er the lake were borne.\\nr smiled: Since to your\\n^rant-knight I come,\\ny prophet sooth and old,\\nbtless, for achievement bold,\\n:ont each high emprise\\nglance of those bright eyes.\\nrst the task to guide 480\\nigate o er the tide.\\nth smile suppressed and sly,\\nDnted saw him try;\\n;ure, if e er before,\\nid had grasped an oar:\\nain strength his strokes he\\nlake the shallop flew:\\nWith heads erect and wl\\nThe hounds behind their pa,\\nNor free\\nThe dark\\nUntil tht\\nAnd mo\\nThe stra:\\nT was al\\nNor traa\\nThat hue\\nUntil the\\nA clambe\\nThat winded through the tangled screen,\\nAnd opened on a narrow green,\\nWhere weeping birch and willow round\\nWith their long fibres swept the ground.\\nHere, for retreat in dangerous hour,\\nSome chief had framed a rustic bower.\\nXXVI\\nIt was a lodge of ample size,\\nBut strange of structure and device;\\nOf such materials as around\\nThe workman s hand had readiest found.\\nLopped of their boughs, their hoar trunks\\nbared, 5I0\\nAnd by the hatchet rudely squared,\\nTo give the walls their destined height,\\nThe sturdy oak and ash unite;\\nWhile moss and clay and leaves combined\\nTo fence each crevice from the wind.\\nThe lighter pine-trees overhead\\nTheir slender length for rafters spread,\\nAnd withered heath and rushes dry\\nSupplied a russet canopy.\\nDue westward, fronting to the green, 520\\nA rural portico was seen,\\nAloft on native pillars borne,\\nOf mountain fir with bark unshorn,\\nWhere Ellen s hand had taught to twine\\nThe ivy and Idsean vine,\\nThe clematis, the favored flower\\nWhich boasts the name of virgin-bower,\\nAnd every hardy plant could bear\\nLoch Katrine s keen and searching air.\\nAn instant in this porch she stayed, 530\\nAnd gayly to the stranger said:\\nOn heaven and on thy lady call,\\nAnd enter the enchanted hall\\nMy hope, my heaven, my trust must be,\\nMy gentle guide, in following thee", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0194.jp2"}, "193": {"fulltext": "CANTO FIRST: THE CHASE\\n163\\nDream of fighting fields no more;\\nSleep the sleep that knows not breaking,\\nMorn of toil, nor night of waking.\\nNo rude sound shall reach thine ear,\\nArmor s clang of war-steed champing,\\nTrump nor pibroch summon here\\nMustering clan or squadron tramping.\\nYet the lark s shrill fife may come 640\\nAt the daybreak from the fallow,\\nAnd the bittern sound his drum,\\nBooming from the sedgy shallow.\\nRuder sounds shall none be near,\\nGuards nor warders challenge here,\\nHere s no war-steed s neigh and champ-\\ning,\\nShouting clans or squadrons stamping.\\nXXXII\\nShe paused, then, blushing, led the lay,\\nTo grace the stranger of the day.\\nHer mellow notes awhile prolong 650\\nThe cadence of the flowing song,\\nTill to her lips in measured frame\\nThe minstrel verse spontaneous came.\\nSONG CONTINUED\\n1 Huntsman, rest thy chase is done\\nWhile our slumbrous spells assail ye,\\nDream not, with the rising sun,\\nBugles here shall sound reveille\\nSleep the deer is in his den;\\nSleep thy hounds are by thee lying:\\nSleep nor dream in yonder glen 660\\nHow thy gallant steed lay dying.\\nHuntsman, rest thy chase is done;\\nThink not of the rising sun,\\nFor at dawning to assail ye\\nHere no bugles sound reveille\\nThe hall was cleared, the stranger s bed\\nWas there of mountain heather spread,\\nWhere oft a hundred guests had lain,\\nAnd dreamed their forest sports again.\\nBut vainly did the heath-flower shed 670\\nIts moorland fragrance round his head;\\nNot Ellen s spell had lulled to rest\\nThe fever of his tronl }1 st.\\nIn broken dream ose\\nOf varied perils, jes:\\nHis steed now flc j brake,\\nNow sinks his bs lake\\nNow leader of a\\nHis standard fal s lost.\\nThen, from my couch may heavenly\\nmight 680\\nChase that worst phantom of the night\\nAgain returned the scenes of youth,\\nOf confident, undoubting truth;\\nAgain his soul he interchanged\\nWith friends whose hearts were long es-\\ntranged.\\nThey come, in dim procession led,\\nThe cold, the faithless, and the dead;\\nAs warm each hand, each brow as gay,\\nAs if they parted yesterday.\\nAnd doubt distracts him at the view, 690\\nO were his senses false or true\\nDreamed he of death or broken vow,\\nOr is it all a vision now\\nXXXIV\\nAt length, with Ellen in a grove\\nHe seemed to walk and speak of love;\\nShe listened with a blush and sigh,\\nHis suit was warm, his hopes were high.\\nHe sought her yielded hand to clasp,\\nAnd a cold gauntlet met his grasp:\\nThe phantom s sex was changed and\\ngone, 700\\nUpon its head a helmet shone;\\nSlowly enlarged to giant size,\\nWith darkened cheek and threatening eyes,\\nThe grisly visage, stern and hoar,\\nTo Ellen still a likeness bore.\\nHe woke, and, panting with affright,\\nRecalled the vision of the night.\\nThe hearth s decaying brands were red,\\nAnd deep and dusky lustre shed,\\nHalf showing, half concealing, all 710\\nThe uncouth trophies of the hall.\\nMid those the stranger fixed his eye\\nWhere that huge falchion hung on high,\\nAnd thoughts on thoughts, a countless\\nthrong,\\nRushed, chasing countless thoughts along,\\nUntil, the giddy whirl to cure,\\nHe rose and sought the moonshine pure.\\nxxxv\\nThe wild rose, eglantine, and broom\\nWasted around their rich perfume;\\nThe birch-trees wept in fragrant balm 720\\nThe aspens slept beneath the calm;\\nThe silver light, with quivering glance,\\nPlayed on the water s still expanse^\\nWild were the heart whose passion s sway\\nCould rage beneath the sober ray\\nHe felt its calm, that warrior guest,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0195.jp2"}, "194": {"fulltext": "164\\nTHE LADY OF THE LAKE\\nWhile thus he communed with his\\nbreast:\\nWhy is it, at each turn I trace\\nSome memory of that exiled race\\nCan I not mountain maiden spy, 730\\nBut she must bear the Douglas eye\\nCan I not view a Highland brand,\\nBut it must match the Douglas hand\\nCan I not frame a fevered dream,\\nBut still the Douglas is the theme\\nI 11 dream no more, by manly mind\\nNot even in sleep is will resigned.\\nMy midnight orisons said o er,\\nI 11 turn to rest, and dream no more.\\nHis midnight orisons he told, 740\\nA prayer with every bead of gold,\\nConsigned to heaven his cares and woes,\\nAnd sunk in undisturbed repose,\\nUntil the heath-cock shrilly crew,\\nAnd morning dawned on Benvenue.\\nCANTO SECOND\\nTHE ISLAND\\nI\\nAt morn the black-cock trims his jetty\\nwing,\\nT is morning prompts the linnet s blith-\\nest lay,\\nAll Nature s children feel the matin spring\\nOf life reviving, with reviving day;\\nAnd while yon little bark glides down the\\nbay,\\nWafting the stranger on his way again,\\nMorn s genial influence roused a minstrel\\ngray,\\nAnd sweetly o er the lake was heard thy\\nstrain,\\nMixed with the sounding harp, O white-\\nhaired Allan-bane\\nSONG\\nNot faster yonder rowers might i\\nFlings from their oars the spray,\\nNot faster yonder rippling bright,\\nThat tracks the shallop s course in light,\\nMelts in the lake away,\\nThan men from memory erase\\nThe benefits of former days;\\nThen, stranger, go good speed the while,\\nNor think again of the lonely isle.\\nHigh place to thee in royal court,\\nHigh place in battled line,\\nGood hawk and hound for sylvan sport\\nWhere beauty sees the brave resort,\\nThe honored meed be thine\\nTrue be thy sword, thy friend sincere,\\nThy lady constant, kind, and dear,\\nAnd lost in love s and friendship s smile\\nBe memory of the lonely isle\\nHI\\nSONG CONTINUED\\nBut if beneath yon southern sky\\nA plaided stranger roam,\\nWhose drooping crest and stifled sigh,\\nAnd sunken cheek and heavy eye,\\nPine for his Highland home\\nThen, warrior, then be thine to show\\nThe care that soothes a wanderer s woe;\\nRemember then thy hap erewhile,\\nA stranger in the lonely isle.\\nOr if on life s uncertain main\\nMishap shall mar thy sail;\\nIf faithful, wise, and brave in vain,\\nWoe, want, and exile thou sustain 40\\nBeneath the fickle gale\\nWaste not a sigh on fortune changed,\\nOn thankless courts, or friends estranged,\\nBut come where kindred worth shall\\nsmile,\\nTo greet thee in the lonely isle.\\nIV\\nAs died the stfunds upon the tide,\\nThe shallop reached the mainland side,\\nAnd ere his onward way he took,\\nThe stranger cast a lingering look,\\nWhere easily his eye might reach 50\\nThe Harper on the islet beach,\\nReclined against a blighted tree,\\nAs wasted, gray, and worn as he.\\nTo minstrel meditation given,\\nHis reverend brow was raised to heaven,\\nAs from the rising sun to claim\\nA sparkle of inspiring flame.\\nHis hand, reclined upon the wire,\\nSeemed watching the awakening fire\\nSo still he sat as those who wait 60\\nTill judgment speak the doom of fate;\\nSo still, as if no breeze might dare\\nTo lift one lock of hoary hair;\\nSo still, as life itself were fled\\nIn the last sound his harp had sped.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0196.jp2"}, "195": {"fulltext": "CANTO SECOND: THE ISLAND\\n165\\nUpon a rock with lichens wild,\\nBeside him Ellen sat and smiled.\\nSmiled she to see the stately drake\\nLead forth his fleet upon the lake,\\nWhile her vexed spaniel from the beach 70\\nBayed at the prize beyond his reach\\nYet tell me, then, the maid who knows,\\nWhy deepened on her cheek the rose\\nForgive, forgive, Fidelity\\nPerchance the maiden smiled to see\\nYon parting lingerer wave adieu,\\nAnd stop and turn to wave anew;\\nAnd, lovely ladies, ere your ire\\nCondemn the heroine of my lyre,\\nShow me the fair would scorn to spy 80\\nAnd prize such conquest of her eye\\nVI\\nWhile yet he loitered on the spot,\\nIt seemed as Ellen marked him not;\\nBut when he turned him to the glade,\\nOne courteous parting sign she made;\\nAnd after, oft the knight would say,\\nThat not when prize of festal day\\nWas dealt him by the brightest fair\\nWho e er wore jewel in her hair,\\nSo highly did his bosom swell 90\\nAs at that simple mute farewell.\\nNow with a trusty mountain-guide,\\nAnd his dark stag-hounds by his side,\\nHe parts, the maid, unconscious still,\\nWatched him wind slowly round the\\nhill;\\nBut when his stately form was hid,\\nThe guardian in her bosom chid,\\nThy Malcolm vain and selfish maid\\nT was thus upbraiding conscience said,\\nI Not so had Malcolm idly hung 100\\nOn the smooth phrase of Southern tongue;\\nNot so had Malcolm strained his eye\\nAnother step than thine to spy.\\nWake, Allan-bane, aloud she cried\\nTo the old minstrel b}^ her side,\\nArouse thee from thy moody dream\\nI 11 give thy harp heroic theme,\\nAnd warm thee with a noble name\\nPour forth the glory of the Grseme\\nScarce from her lip the word had\\nrushed, no\\nWhen deep the conscious maiden blushed;\\nFor of his clan, in hall and bower,\\nYoung Malcolm Graeme was held the\\nflower.\\nThe minstrel waked his harp, three times\\nArose the well-known martial chimes,\\nAnd thrice their high heroic pride\\nIn melancholy murmurs died.\\nVainly thou bidst, O noble maid,\\nClasping his withered hands, he said,\\nVainly thou bidst me wake the strain, 120\\nThough all unwont to bid in vain.\\nAlas than mine a mightier hand\\nHas tuned my harp, my strings has\\nspanned\\nI touch the chords of joy, but low\\nAnd mournful answer notes of woe;\\nAnd the proud march which victors tread\\nSinks in the wailing for the dead.\\nO, well for me, if mine alone\\nThat dirge s deep prophetic tone\\nIf, as my tuneful fathers said, 130\\nThis harp, which erst Saint Modan swayed,\\nCan thus its master s fate foretell,\\nThen welcome be the minstrel s knell\\nVIII\\nBut ah dear lady, thus it sighed\\nThe eve thy sainted mother died;\\nAnd such the sounds which, while I strove\\nTo wake a lay of war or love,\\nCame marring all the festal mirth,\\nAppalling me who gave them birth,\\nAnd, disobedient to my call, 140\\nWailed loud through Bothwell s bannered\\nhall,\\nEre Douglases, to ruin driven,\\nWere exiled from their native heaven.\\nO if yet worse mishap and woe\\nMy master s house must undergo,\\nOr aught but weal to Ellen fair\\nBrood in these accents of despair,\\nNo future bard, sad Harp shall fling\\nTriumph or rapture from thy string;\\nOne short, one final strain shall flow, 150\\nFraught with unutterable woe,\\nThen shivered shall thy fragments lie,\\nThy master cast him down and die\\nIX\\nSoothing she answered him Assuage,\\nMine honored friend, the fears of age;\\nAll melodies to thee are known\\nThat harp has rung or pipe has blown,\\nIn Lowland vale or Highland glen,\\nFrom Tweed to Spey what marvel, then,\\nAt times unbidden notes should rise, 160", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0197.jp2"}, "196": {"fulltext": "i66\\nTHE LADY OF THE LAKE\\nConfusedly bound in memory s ties,\\nEntangling, as they rush along,\\nThe war-march with the funeral song\\nSmall ground is now for boding fear;\\nObscure, but safe, we rest us here.\\nMy sire, in native virtue great,\\nResigning lordship, lands, and state,\\nNot then to fortune more resigned\\nThan yonder oak might give the wind;\\nThe graceful foliage storms may reave, 170\\nThe noble stem they cannot grieve.\\nFor me she stooped, and, looking round,\\nPlucked a blue harebell from the\\nground,\\nFor me, whose memory scarce conveys\\nAn image of more splendid days,\\nThis little flower that loves the lea\\nMay well my simple emblem be;\\nIt drinks heaven s dew as blithe as rose\\nThat in the King s own garden grows;\\nAnd when I place it in my hair, 180\\nAllan, a bard is bound to swear\\nHe ne er saw coronet so fair.\\nThen playfully the chaplet wild\\nShe wreathed in her dark locks, and\\nsmiled.\\nHer smile, her speech, with winning sway,\\nWiled the old Harper s mood away.\\nWith such a look as hermits throw,\\nWhen angels stoop to soothe their woe,\\nHe gazed, till fond regret and pride\\nThrilled to a tear, then thus replied: 190\\nLoveliest and best thou little know st\\nThe rank, the honors, thou hast lost\\nO, might I live to see thee grace,\\nIn Scotland s court, thy birthright place,\\nTo see my favorite s step advance\\nThe lightest in the courtly dance,\\nThe cause of every gallant s sigh,\\nAnd leading star of every eye,\\nAnd theme of every minstrel s art,\\nThe Lady of the Bleeding Heart 200\\nXI\\nFair dreams are these, the maiden\\ncried,\\nLight was her accent, yet she sighed,\\nYet is this mossy rock to me\\nWorth splendid chair and canopy;\\nNor would my footstep spring more gay\\nIn courtly dance than blithe strathspey,\\nNor half so pleased mine ear incline\\nTo royal minstrel s lay as thine.\\nAnd then for suitors proud and high,\\nTo bend before my conquering eye, 2x0\\nThou, flattering bard thyself wilt say,\\nThat grim Sir Roderick owns its sway.\\nThe Saxon scourge, Clan- Alpine s pride,\\nThe terror of Loch Lomond s side,\\nWould, at my suit, thou know st, delay\\nA Lennox foray for a day.\\nThe ancient bard her glee repressed:\\n111 hast thou chosen theme for jest\\nFor who, through all this western wild,\\nNamed Black Sir Roderick e er, and\\nsmiled 220\\nIn Holy-Rood a knight he slew\\nI saw, when back the dirk he drew,\\nCourtiers give place before the stride\\nOf the undaunted homicide;\\nAnd since, though outlawed, hath his hand\\nFull sternly kept his mountain land.\\nWho else dared give ah woe the day,\\nThat I such hated truth should say\\nThe Douglas, like a stricken deer,\\nDisowned by every noble peer, 230\\nEven the rude refuge we have here\\nAlas, this wild marauding Chief\\nAlone might hazard our relief,\\nAnd now thy maiden charms expand,\\nLooks for his guerdon in thy hand;\\nFull soon may dispensation sought,\\nTo back his suit, from Rome be brought.\\nThen, though an exile on the hill,\\nThy father, as the Douglas, still\\nBe held in reverence and fear; 240\\nAnd though to Roderick thou rt so dear\\nThat thou mightst guide with silken thread,\\nSlave of thy will, this chieftain dread,\\nYet, O loved maid, thy mirth refrain\\nThy hand is on a lion s mane.\\nMinstrel, the maid replied, and high\\nHer father s soul glanced from her eye,\\nMy debts to Roderick s house I know:\\nAll that a mother could bestow\\nTo Lady Margaret s care I owe,\\nSince first an orphan in the wild\\nShe sorrowed o er her sister s child;\\nTo her brave chieftain son, from ire\\nOf Scotland s king who shrouds my sire,\\nA deeper, holier debt is owed;\\nAnd, could I pay it with my blood,\\nAllan Sir Roderick should command\\nMy blood, my life, but not my hand.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0198.jp2"}, "197": {"fulltext": "CANTO SECOND: THE ISLAND\\n167\\nRather will Ellen Douglas dwell\\nA votaress in Maronnan s cell; 260\\nRather through realms beyond the sea,\\nSeeking the world s cold charity,\\nWhere ne er was spoke a Scottish word,\\nAnd ne er the name of Douglas heard,\\nAn outcast pilgrim will she rove,\\nThan wed the man she cannot love.\\nThou shak st, good friend, thy tresses\\ngray,\\nThat pleading look, what can it say\\nBut what I own I grant him brave, 269\\nBut wild as Bracklinn s thundering wave;\\nAnd generous, save vindictive mood\\nOr jealous transport chafe his blood:\\nI grant him true to friendly band,\\nAs his claymore is to his hand;\\nBut O that very blade of steel\\nMore mercy for a foe would feel:\\nI grant him liberal, to fling\\nAmong his clan the wealth they bring,\\nWhen back by lake and glen they wind,\\nAnd in the Lowland leave behind, 280\\nWhere once some pleasant hamlet stood,\\nA mass of ashes slaked with blood.\\nThe hand that for my father fought\\nI honor, as his daughter ought;\\nBut can I clasp it reeking red\\nFrom peasants slaughtered in their shed\\nNo wildly while his virtues gleam,\\nThey make his passions darker seem,\\nAnd flash along his spirit high,\\nLike lightning o er the midnight sky. 290\\nWhile yet a child, and children know,\\nInstinctive taught, the friend and foe,\\nI shuddered at his brow of gloom,\\nHis shadowy plaid and sable plume;\\nA maiden grown, I ill could bear\\nHis haughty mien and lordly air:\\nBut, if thou join st a suitor s claim,\\nIn serious mood, to Roderick s name,\\nI thrill with anguish or, if e er\\nA Douglas knew the word, with fear. 300\\nTo change such odious theme were best,\\nWhat think st thou of our stranger\\nguest\\nXV\\nI What think I of him woe the while\\nThat brought such wanderer to our isle\\nThy father s battle-brand, of yore\\nFor Tine-man forged by fairy lore,\\nWhat time he leagued, no longer foes,\\nHis Border spears with Hotspur s bows,\\nDid, self-uuscabbarded, foreshow\\nThe footstep of a secret foe. 310\\nIf courtly spy hath harbored here,\\nWhat may we for the Douglas fear\\nW T hat for this island, deemed of old\\nClan- Alpine s last and surest hold\\nIf neither spy nor foe, I pray\\nWhat yet may jealous Roderick say\\nNay, wave not thy disdainful head\\nBethink thee of the discord dread\\nThat kindled when at Beltane game\\nThou ledst the dance with Malcolm Grseme;\\nStill, though thy sire the peace renewed, 321\\nSmoulders in Roderick s breast the feud:\\nBeware But hark what sounds are\\nthese\\nMy dull ears catch no faltering breeze,\\nNo weeping birch nor aspens wake,\\nNor breath is dimpling in the lake;\\nStill is the canna s hoary beard,\\nYet, by my minstrel faith, I heard\\nAnd hark again some pipe of war\\nSends the bold pibroch from afar. 330\\nFar up the lengthened lake were spied\\nFour darkening specks upon the tide,\\nThat, slow enlarging on the view,\\nFour manned and masted barges grew,\\nAnd, bearing downwards from Glengyle,\\nSteered full upon the lonely isle;\\nThe point of Brianchoil they passed,\\nAnd, to the windward as they cast,\\nAgainst the sun they gave to shine\\nThe bold Sir Roderick s bannered Pine. 340\\nNearer and nearer as they bear,\\nSpears, pikes, and axes flash in air.\\nNow might you see the tartans brave,\\nAnd plaids and plumage dance and wave:\\nNow see the bonnets sink and rise,\\nAs his tough oar the rower plies;\\nSee, flashing at each sturdy stroke,\\nThe wave ascending into smoke;\\nSee the proud pipers on the bow,\\nAnd mark the gaudy streamers flow 350\\nFrom their loud chanters down, and sweep\\nThe furrowed bosom of the deep,\\nAs, rushing through the lake amain,\\nThey plied the ancient Highland strain.\\nXVII\\nEver, as on they bore, more loud\\nAnd louder rung the pibroch proud.\\nAt first the sounds, by distance tame,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0199.jp2"}, "198": {"fulltext": "i68\\nTHE LADY OF THE LAKE\\nMellowed along the waters came,\\nAnd, lingering long by cape and bay,\\nWailed every harsher note away, 360\\nThen bursting bolder on the ear,\\nThe clan s shrill Gathering they could hear,\\nThose thrilling sounds that call the might\\nOf old Clan- Alpine to the fight.\\nThick beat the rapid notes, as when\\nThe mustering hundreds shake the glen,\\nAnd hurrying at the signal dread,\\nThe battered earth returns their tread.\\nThen prelude light, of livelier tone,\\nExpressed their merry marching on, 370\\nEre peal of closing battle rose,\\nWith mingled outcry, shrieks, and blows;\\nAnd mimic din of stroke and ward,\\nAs broadsword upon target jarred;\\nAnd groaning pause, ere yet again,\\nCondensed, the battle yelled amain:\\nThe rapid charge, the rallying shout,\\nRetreat borne headlong into rout,\\nAnd bursts of triumph, to declare\\nClan-Alpine s conquest all were there. 380\\nNor ended thus the strain, but slow\\nSunk in a moan prolonged and low,\\nAnd changed the conquering clarion swell\\nFor wild lament o er those that fell.\\nXVIII\\nThe war-pipes ceased, but lake and hill\\nWere busy with their echoes still;\\nAnd, when they slept, a vocal strain\\nBade their hoarse chorus wake again,\\nWhile loud a hundred clansmen raise\\nTheir voices in their Chieftain s praise. 390\\nEach boatman, bending to his oar,\\nWith measured sweep the burden bore,\\nIn such wild cadence as the breeze\\nMakes through December s leafless trees.\\nThe chorus first could Allan know,\\nRoderick Vich Alpine, ho iro\\nAnd near, and nearer as they rowed,\\nDistinct the martial ditty flowed.\\nXIX\\nBOAT SONG\\nHail to the Chief who in triumph advances\\nHonored and blessed be the ever-green\\nPine 400\\nLong may the tree, in his banner that\\nglances,\\nFlourish, the shelter and grace of our\\nline\\nHeaven send it happy dew,\\nEarth lend it sap anew,\\nGayly to bourgeon and broadly to grow,\\nWhile every Highland glen\\nSends our shout back again,\\nRoderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho ieroe\\nOurs is no sapling, chance-sown by the\\nfountain,\\nBlooming at Beltane, in winter to\\nfade; 4 i\\nWhen the whirlwind has stripped every\\nleaf on the mountain,\\nThe more shall Clan- Alpine exult in her\\nshade.\\nMoored in the rifted rock,\\nProof to the tempest s shock,\\nFirmer he roots him the ruder it blow;\\nMenteith and Breadalbane, then,\\nEcho his praise again,\\nRoderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho ieroe\\nProudly our pibroch has thrilled in Glen\\nFruin,\\nAnd Bannochar s groans to our slogan\\nreplied; 420\\nGlen-Luss and Ross-dhu, they are smoking\\nin ruin,\\nAnd the best of Loch Lomond lie dej\\non her side.\\nWidow and Saxon maid\\nLong shall lament our raid,\\nThink of Clan- Alpine with fear and witl\\nwoe;\\nLennox and Leven-glen\\nShake when they hear again,\\nRoderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho ieroe\\nad\\nRow, vassals, row, for the pride of the\\nHighlands\\nStretch to your oars for the ever-green\\nPine 430\\nthat the rosebud that graces yon islands\\nWere wreathed in a garland around him\\nto twine\\nO that some seedling gem,\\nWorthy such noble stem\\nHonored and blessed in their shadow\\nmight grow\\nLoud should Clan-Alpine then\\nRing from her deepmost glen,\\nRoderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho ieroe\\nXXI\\nWith all her joyful female band\\nHad Lady Margaret sought the strand. 44 o", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0200.jp2"}, "199": {"fulltext": "CANTO SECOND: THE ISLAND\\n169\\nLoose on the breeze their tresses flew,\\nAnd high their snowy arms they threw,\\nAs echoing back with shrill acclaim,\\nAnd chorus wild, the Chieftain s name;\\nWhile, prompt to please, with mother s art,\\nThe darling passion of his heart,\\nThe Dame called Ellen to the strand,\\nTo greet her kinsman ere he land:\\nj Come, loiterer, come a Douglas thou,\\nAnd shun to wreathe a victor s brow 450\\nReluctantly and slow, the maid\\nThe unwelcome summoning obeyed,\\nAnd when a distant bugle rung,\\nIn the mid-path aside she sprung:\\nList, Allan-bane From mainland cast\\nI hear my father s signal blast.\\nBe ours, she cried, the skiff to guide,\\nAnd waft him from the mountain-side.\\nThen, like a sunbeam, swift and bright,\\nShe darted to her shallop light, 460\\nAnd, eagerly while Roderick scanned,\\nFor her dear form, his mother s band,\\nThe islet far behind her lay,\\nAnd she had landed in the bay.\\nSome feelings are to mortals given\\nWith less of earth in them than heaven;\\nAnd if there be a human tear\\nFrom passion s dross refined and clear,\\nA tear so limpid and so meek\\nIt would not stain an angel s cheek, 470\\nT is that which pious fathers shed\\nUpon a duteous daughter s head\\nAnd as the Douglas to his breast\\nHis darling Ellen closely pressed,\\nSuch holy drops her tresses steeped,\\nThough t was an hero s eye that weeped.\\nNor while on Ellen s faltering tongue\\nHer filial welcomes crowded hung,\\nMarked she that fear affection s proof\\nStill held a graceful youth aloof; 480\\nNo not till Douglas named his name,\\nAlthough the youth was Malcom Graeme.\\nXXIII\\nAllan, with wistful look the while,\\nMarked Roderick landing on the isle;\\nHis master piteously he eyed,\\nThen gazed upon the Chieftain s pride,\\nThen dashed with hasty hand away\\nFrom his dimmed eye the gathering spray;\\nAnd Douglas, as his hand he laid\\nOn Malcolm s shoulder, kindly said: 490\\nCanst thou, young friend, no meaning spy\\nIn my poor follower s glistening eye\\nI 11 tell thee he recalls the day\\nWhen in my praise he led the lay\\nO er the arched gate of Bothwell proud,\\nWhile many a minstrel answered loud,\\nWhen Percy s Norman pennon, won\\nIn bloody field, before me shone,\\nAnd twice ten knights, the least a name\\nAs mighty as yon Chief may claim, 500\\nGracing my pomp, behind me came.\\nYet trust me, Malcolm, not so proud\\nWas I of all that marshalled crowd,\\nThough the waned crescent owned my\\nmight,\\nAnd in my train trooped lord and knight,\\nThough Blantyre hymned her holiest lays,\\nAnd Bothwell s bards flung back my praise,\\nAs when this old man s silent tear,\\nAnd this poor maid s affection dear,\\nA welcome give more kind and true 510\\nThan aught my better fortunes knew.\\nForgive, my friend, a father s boast,\\nO, it out-beggars all I lost\\nXXIV\\nDelightful praise like summer rose,\\nThat brighter in the dew-drop glows,\\nThe bashful maiden s cheek appeared,\\nFor Douglas spoke, and Malcolm heard.\\nThe flush of shame-faced joy to hide,\\nThe hounds, the hawk, her cares divide;\\nThe loved caresses of the maid 520\\nThe dogs with crouch and whimper paid;\\nAnd, at her whistle, on her hand\\nThe falcon took his favorite stand,\\nClosed his dark wing, relaxed his eye,\\nNor, though unhooded, sought to fly.\\nAnd, trust, while in such guise she stood,\\nLike fabled Goddess of the wood,\\nThat if a father s partial thought\\nO erweighed her worth and beauty aught,\\nWell might the lover s judgment fail 530\\nTo balance with a juster scale\\nFor with each secret glance he stole,\\nThe fond enthusiast sent his soul.\\nXXV\\nOf stature fair, and slender frame,\\nBut firmly knit, was Malcolm Graeme.\\nThe belted plaid and tartan hose\\nDid ne er more graceful limbs disclose\\nHis flaxen hair, of sunny hue,\\nCurled closely round his bonnet blue.\\nTrained to the chase, his eagle eye 540\\nThe ptarmigan in snow could spy;", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0201.jp2"}, "200": {"fulltext": "170\\nTHE LADY OF THE LAKE\\nEach pass, by mountain, lake, and heath,\\nHe knew, through Lennox and Menteith;\\nVain was the bound of dark-brown doe\\nWhen Malcolm bent his sounding bow,\\nAnd scarce that doe, though winged with\\nfear,\\nOutstripped in speed the mountaineer:\\nRight up Ben Lomond could he press,\\nAnd not a sob his toil confess.\\nHis form accorded with a mind 550\\nLively and ardent, frank and kind\\nA blither heart, till Ellen came,\\nDid never love nor sorrow tame;\\nIt danced as lightsome in his breast\\nAs played the feather on his crest.\\nYet friends, who nearest knew the youth,\\nHis scorn of wrong, his zeal for truth,\\nAnd bards, who saw his features bold\\nWhen kindled by the tales of old,\\nSaid, were that youth to manhood grown, 560\\nNot long should Roderick Dhu s renown\\nBe foremost voiced by mountain fame,\\nBut quail to that of Malcolm Graeme.\\nXXVI\\nNow back they wend their watery way,\\nAnd, O my sire did Ellen say,\\nWhy urge thy chase so far astray\\nAnd why so late returned And why\\nThe rest was in her speaking eye.\\nMy child, the chase I follow far,\\nT is mimicry of noble war; 570\\nAnd with that gallant pastime reft\\nWere all of Douglas I have left.\\nI met young Malcolm as I strayed\\nFar eastward, in Glenfinlas shade\\nNor strayed I safe, for all around\\nHunters and horsemen scoured the ground.\\nThis youth, though still a royal ward,\\nRisked life and land to be my guard,\\nAnd through the passes of the wood\\nGuided my steps, not unpursued; 580\\nAnd Roderick shall his welcome make,\\nDespite old spleen, for Douglas sake.\\nThen must he seek Strath-Endrick glen,\\nNor peril aught for me again.\\nXXVII\\nSir Roderick, who to meet them came,\\nReddened at sight of Malcolm Grseme,\\nYet, not in action, word, or eye,\\nFailed aught in hospitality.\\nIn talk and sport they whiled away\\nThe morning of that summer day; 590\\nBut at high noon a courier light\\nHeld secret parley with the knight,\\nWhose moody aspect soon declared\\nThat evil were the news he heard.\\nDeep thought seemed toiling in his head\\nYet was the evening banquet made\\nEre he assembled round the flame\\nHis mother, Douglas, and the Graeme,\\nAnd Ellen too; then cast around\\nHis eyes, then fixed them on the ground, 600\\nAs studying phrase that might avail\\nBest to convey unpleasant tale.\\nLong with his dagger s hilt he played,\\nThen raised his haughty brow, and said\\nXXVIII\\nShort be my speech nor time affords,\\nNor my plain temper, glozing words.\\nKinsman and father, if such name\\nDouglas vouchsafe to Roderick s claim;\\nMine honored mother; Ellen, why,\\nMy cousin, turn away thine eye 610\\nAnd Grseme, in whom I hope to know\\nFull soon a noble friend or foe,\\nWhen age shall give thee thy command,\\nAnd leading in thy native land,\\nList all The King s vindictive pride\\nBoasts to have tamed the Border-side,\\nWhere chiefs, with hound and hawk who\\ncame\\nTo share their monarch s sylvan game,\\nThemselves in bloody toils were snared,\\nAnd when the banquet they prepared, 620\\nAnd wide their loyal portals flung,\\nO er their own gateway struggling hung.\\nLoud cries their blood from Meggat s\\nmead,\\nFrom Yarrow braes and banks of Tweed,\\nWhere the lone streams of Ettrick glide,\\nAnd from the silver Teviot s side\\nThe dales, where martial clans did ride,\\nAre now one sheep-walk, waste and wide.\\nThis tyrant of the Scottish throne,\\nSo faithless and so ruthless known, 630\\nNow hither comes his end the same,\\nThe same pretext of sylvan game.\\nWhat grace for Highland Chiefs, judge ye\\nBy fate of Border chivalry.\\nYet more; amid Glenfinlas green,\\nDouglas, thy stately form was seen.\\nThis by espial sure I know:\\nYour counsel in the streight I show.\\nXXIX\\nEllen and Margaret fearfully\\nSought comfort in each other s eye,\\n640", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0202.jp2"}, "201": {"fulltext": "CANTO SECOND: THE ISLAND\\n171\\nThen turned their ghastly look, each one,\\nThis to her sire, that to her son.\\nThe hasty color went and came\\nIn the bold cheek of Malcolm Graeme,\\nBut from his glance it well appeared\\nT was but for Ellen that he feared\\nWhile, sorrowful, but undismayed,\\nThe Douglas thus his counsel said:\\nBrave Roderick, though the tempest roar,\\nIt may but thunder and pass o er; 650\\nNor will I here remain an hour,\\nTo draw the lightning on thy bower;\\nFor well thou know st, at this gray head\\nThe royal bolt were fiercest sped.\\nFor thee, who, at thy King s command,\\nCanst aid him with a gallant band,\\nSubmission, homage, humbled pride,\\nShall turn the Monarch s wrath aside.\\nPoor remnants of the Bleeding Heart,\\nEllen and I will seek apart 660\\nThe refuge of some forest cell;\\nThere, like the hunted quarry, dwell,\\nTill on the mountain and the moor\\nThe stern pursuit be passed and o er.\\nI No, by mine honor, Roderick said,\\nSo help me Heaven, and my good blade\\nNo, never Blasted be yon Pine,\\nMy father s ancient crest and mine,\\nIf from its shade in danger part\\nThe lineage of the Bleeding Heart 670\\nHear my blunt speech: grant me this maid\\nTo wife, thy counsel to mine aid\\nTo Douglas, leagued with Rhoderick Dhu,\\nWill friends and allies flock enow;\\nLike cause of doubt, distrust, and grief,\\nWill bind to us each Western Chief.\\nWhen the loud pipes my bridal tell,\\nThe Links of Forth shall hear the knell,\\nThe guards shall start in Stirling s porch;\\nAnd when I light the nuptial torch, 680\\nA thousand villages in flames\\nShall scare the slumbers of King James\\nNay, Ellen, blench not thus away,\\nAnd, mother, cease these signs, I pray;\\nI meant not all my heat might say.\\nSmall need of inroad or of fight,\\nWhen the sage Douglas may unite\\nEach mountain clan in friendly band,\\nTo guard the passes of their land,\\nTill the foiled King from pathless glen 690\\nShall bootless turn him home again.\\nXXXI\\nThere are who have, at midnight hour,\\nIn slumber scaled a dizzy tower,\\nAnd, on the verge that beetled o er\\nThe ocean tide s incessant roar,\\nDreamed calmly out their dangerous\\ndream,\\nTill wakened by the morning beam;\\nWhen, dazzled by the eastern glow,\\nSuch startler cast his glance below,\\nAnd saw unmeasured depth around, 700\\nAnd heard unintermitted sound,\\nAnd thought the battled fence so frail,\\nIt waved like cobweb in the gale\\nAmid his senses giddy wheel,\\nDid he not desperate impulse feel,\\nHeadlong to plunge himself below,\\nAnd meet the worst his fears foreshow\\nThus Ellen, dizzy and astound,\\nAs sudden ruin yawned around,\\nBy crossing terrors wildly tossed, 710\\nStill for the Douglas fearing most,\\nCould scarce the desperate thought with-\\nstand,\\nTo buy his safety with her hand.\\nXXXII\\nSuch purpose dread could Malcolm spy\\nIn Ellen s quivering lip and eye,\\nAnd eager rose to speak, but ere\\nHis tongue could hurry forth his fear,\\nHad Douglas marked the hectic strife,\\nWhere death seemed combating with life\\nFor to her cheek, in feverish flood, 720\\nOne instant rushed the throbbing blood,\\nThen ebbing back, with sudden sway,\\nLeft its domain as wan as clay.\\nRoderick, enough enough he cried,\\nMy daughter cannot be thy bride\\nNot that the blush to wooer dear,\\nNor paleness that of maiden fear.\\nIt may not be, forgive her, Chief,\\nNor hazard aught for our relief.\\nAgainst his sovereign, Douglas ne er 73 o\\nWill level a rebellious spear.\\nT was I that taught his youthful hand\\nTo rein a steed and wield a brand;\\nI see him yet, the princely boy\\nNot Ellen more my pride and joy;\\nI love him still, despite my wrongs\\nBy hasty wrath and slanderous tongues.\\nO, seek the grace you well may find,\\nWithout a cause to mine combined", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0203.jp2"}, "202": {"fulltext": "172\\nTHE LADY OF THE LAKE\\nXXXIII\\nTwice through the hall the Chieftain\\nstrode 740\\nThe waving of his tartans broad,\\nAnd darkened brow, where wounded pride\\nWith ire and disappointment vied,\\nSeemed, by the torch s gloomy light,\\nLike the ill Demon of the night,\\nStooping his pinions shadowy sway\\nUpon the nighted pilgrim s way:\\nBut, unrequited Love thy dart\\nPlunged deepest its envenomed smart, 749\\nAnd Roderick, with thine anguish stung,\\nAt length the hand of Douglas wrung,\\nWhile eyes that mocked at tears before\\nWith bitter drops were running o er.\\nThe death-pangs of long-cherished hope\\nScarce in that ample breast had scope,\\nBut, struggling with his spirit proud,\\nConvulsive heaved its checkered shroud,\\nWhile every sob so mute were all\\nWas heard distinctly through the hall.\\nThe son s despair, the mother s look, 760\\n111 might the gentle Ellen brook;\\nShe rose, and to her side there came,\\nTo aid her parting steps, the Graeme.\\nxxxiv\\nThen Roderick from the Douglas broke\\nAs flashes flame through sable smoke,\\nKindling its wreaths, long, dark, and low,\\nTo one broad blaze of ruddy glow,\\nSo the deep anguish of despair\\nBurst, in fierce jealousy, to air.\\nWith stalwart grasp his hand he laid 770\\nOn Malcolm s breast and belted plaid:\\nBack, beardless boy he sternly said,\\nBack, minion holdst thou thus at nought\\nThe lesson I so lately taught\\nThis roof, the Douglas, and that maid,\\nThank thou for punishment delayed.\\nEager as greyhound on his game,\\nFiercely with Roderick grappled Graeme.\\nPerish my name, if aught afford\\nIts Chieftain safety save his sword 780\\nThus as they strove their desperate hand\\nGriped to the dagger or the brand,\\nAnd death had been but Douglas rose,\\nAnd thrust between the struggling foes\\nHis giant strength: Chieftains, forego\\nI hold the first who strikes my foe.\\nMadmen, forbear your frantic jar\\nWhat is the Douglas fallen so far,\\nHis daughter s hand is deemed the spoil\\nOf such dishonorable broil 790\\nSullen and slowly they unclasp,\\nAs struck with shame, their desperate\\ngrasp,\\nAnd each upon his rival glared,\\nWith foot advanced and blade half bared.\\nxxxv\\nEre yet the brands aloft were flung,\\nMargaret on Roderick s mantle hung,\\nAnd Malcolm heard his Ellen s scream,\\nAs faltered through terrific dream.\\nThen Roderick plunged in sheath his sword,\\nAnd veiled his wrath in scornful word: 800\\nRest safe till morning; pity t were\\nSuch cheek should feel the midnight air\\nThen mayst thou to James Stuart tell,\\nRoderick will keep the lake and fell,\\nNor lackey with his freeborn clan\\nThe pageant pomp of earthly man.\\nMore would he of Clan-Alpine know,\\nThou canst our strength and passes show.\\nMalise, what ho his henchman came\\nGive our safe-conduct to the Graeme. 810\\nYoung Malcolm answered, calm and bold:\\nFear nothing for thy favorite hold\\nThe spot an angel deigned to grace\\nIs blessed, though robbers haunt the place.\\nThy churlish courtesy for those\\nReserve, who fear to be thy foes.\\nAs safe to me the mountain way\\nAt midnight as in blaze of day,\\nThough with his boldest at his back\\nEven Roderick Dhu beset the track. 820\\nBrave Douglas, lovely Ellen, nay,\\nNought here of parting will I say.\\nEarth does not hold a lonesome glen\\nSo secret but we meet again.\\nChieftain we too shall find an hour,\\nHe said, and left the sylvan bower.\\nxxxvi\\nOld Allan followed to the strand\\nSuch was the Douglas s command\\nAnd anxious told, how, on the morn, 829\\nThe stern Sir Roderick deep had sworn,\\nThe Fiery Cross should circle o er\\nDale, glen, and valley, down and moor.\\nMuch were the peril to the Graeme\\nFrom those who to the signal came;\\nFar up the lake t were safest land,\\nHimself would row him to the strand.\\nHe gave his counsel to the wind,\\nWhile Malcolm did, unheeding, bind,\\nRound dirk and pouch and broadsword\\nrolled,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0204.jp2"}, "203": {"fulltext": "CANTO THIRD: THE GATHERING\\ni73\\nHis ample plaid in tightened fold, 840\\nAnd stripped his limbs to such array\\nAs best might suit the watery way,\\nXXXVII\\nThen spoke abrupt: Farewell to thee,\\nPattern of old fidelity\\nThe Minstrel s hand he kindly pressed,\\n0, could I point a place of rest\\nMy sovereign holds in ward my land,\\nMy uncle leads my vassal band;\\nTo tame his foes, his friends to aid,\\nPoor Malcolm has but heart and blade. 850\\nYet, if there be one faithful Graeme\\nWho loves the chieftain of his name,\\nNot long shall honored Douglas dwell\\nLike hunted stag in mountain cell;\\nNor, ere yon pride-swollen robber dare,\\nI may not give the rest to air\\nTell Roderick Dhu I owed him nought,\\nNot the poor service of a boat,\\nTo waft me to yon mountain-side.\\nThen plunged he in the flashing tide. 860\\nBold o er the flood his head he bore,\\nAnd stoutly steered him from the shore;\\nAnd Allan strained his anxious eye,\\nFar mid the lake his form to spy,\\nDarkening across each puny wave,\\nTo which the moon her silver gave.\\nFast as the cormorant could skim,\\nThe swimmer plied each active limb;\\nThen landing in the moonlight dell,\\nLoud shouted of his weal to tell. 870\\nThe Minstrel heard the far halloo,\\nAnd joyful from the shore withdrew.\\nCANTO THIRD\\nTHE GATHERING\\nTime rolls his ceaseless course. The race\\nof yore,\\nWho danced our infancy upon their\\nknee,\\nAnd told our marvelling boyhood legends\\nstore\\nOf their strange ventures happed by land\\nor sea,\\nHow are they blotted from the things that\\nbe!\\nHow few, all weak and withered of their\\nforce,\\nWait on the verge of dark eternity,\\nLike stranded wrecks, the tide returning\\nhoarse,\\nTo sweep them from our sight Time\\nrolls his ceaseless course.\\nYet live there still who can remember\\nwell, 10\\nHow, when a mountain chief his bugle\\nblew,\\nBoth field and forest, dingle, cliff, and dell,\\nAnd solitary heath, the signal knew;\\nAnd fast the faithful clan around him\\ndrew,\\nWhat time the warning note was keenly\\nwound,\\nWhat time aloft their kindred banner flew,\\nWhile clamorous war-pipes yelled the\\ngathering sound,\\nAnd while the Fiery Cross glanced, like a\\nmeteor, round.\\nThe Summer dawn s reflected hue\\nTo purple changed Loch Katrine blue; 20\\nMildly and soft the western breeze\\nJust kissed the lake, just stirred the trees,\\nAnd the pleased lake, like maiden coy,\\nTrembled but dimpled not for joy:\\nThe mountain-shadows on her breast\\nWere neither broken nor at rest;\\nIn bright uncertainty they lie,\\nLike future joys to Fancy s eye.\\nThe water-lily to the light\\nHer chalice reared of silver bright; 30\\nThe doe awoke, and to the lawn,\\nBegemmed with dew-drops, led her fawn;\\nThe gray mist left the mountain-side,\\nThe torrent showed its glistening pride;\\nInvisible in flecked sky\\nThe lark sent down her revelry;\\nThe blackbird and the speckled thrush\\nGood-morrow gave from brake and bush;\\nIn answer cooed the cushat dove\\nHer notes of peace and rest and love. 40\\nill\\nNo thought of peace, no thought of rest,\\nAssuaged the storm in Roderick s breast.\\nWith sheathed broadsword in his hand,\\nAbrupt he paced the islet strand,\\nAnd eyed the rising sun, and laid\\nHis hand on his impatient blade.\\nBeneath a rock, his vassals care\\nWas prompt the ritual to prepare,\\nWith deep and deathful meaning fraught;", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0205.jp2"}, "204": {"fulltext": "174\\nTHE LADY OF THE LAKE\\nFor such Antiquity had taught 50\\nWas preface meet, ere yet abroad\\nThe Cross of Fire should take its road.\\nThe shrinking band stood oft aghast\\nAt the impatient glance he cast;\\nSuch glance the mountain eagle threw,\\nAs, from the cliffs of Benvenue,\\nShe spread her dark sails on the^wind,\\nAnd, high in middle heaven reclined,\\nWith her broad shadow on the lake,\\nSilenced the warblers of the brake. 60\\nIV\\nA heap of withered boughs was piled,\\nOf juniper and rowan wild,\\nMingled with shivers from the oak,\\nRent by the lightning s recent stroke.\\nBrian the Hermit by it stood,\\nBarefooted, in his frock and hood.\\nHis grizzled beard and matted hair\\nObscured a visage of despair;\\nHis naked arms and legs, seamed o er,\\nThe scars of frantic penance bore. 70\\nThat monk, of savage form and face,\\nThe impending danger of his race\\nHad drawn from deepest solitude,\\nFar in Benharrow s bosom rude.\\nNot his the mien of Christian priest,\\nBut Druid s, from the grave released,\\nWhose hardened heart and eye might brook\\nOn human sacrifice to look;\\nAnd much, t was said, of heathen lore\\nMixed in the charms he muttered o er. 80\\nThe hallowed creed gave only worse\\nAnd deadlier emphasis of curse.\\nNo peasant sought that Hermit s prayer,\\nHis cave the pilgrim shunned with care\\nThe eager huntsman knew his bound,\\nAnd in mid chase called off his hound;\\nOr if, in lonely glen or strath,\\nThe desert-dweller met his path,\\nHe prayed, and signed the cross between,\\nWhile terror took devotion s mien. 90\\nOf Brian s birth strange tales were told.\\nHis mother watched a midnight fold,\\nBuilt deep within a dreary glen,\\nWhere scattered lay the bones of men\\nIn some forgotten battle slain,\\nAnd bleached by drifting wind and rain.\\nIt might have tamed a warrior s heart\\nTo view such mockery of his art\\nThe knot-grass fettered there the hand\\nWhich once could burst an iron band;\\nBeneath the broad and ample bone,\\nThat bucklered heart to fear unknown,\\nA feeble and a timorous guest,\\nThe fieldfare framed her lowly nest;\\nThere the slow blindworm left his slime\\nOn the fleet limbs that mocked at time;\\nAnd there, too, lay the leader s skull,\\nStill wreathed with chaplet, flushed and\\nfull,\\nFor heath-bell with her purple bloom\\nSupplied the bonnet and the plume. no\\nAll night, in this sad glen, the maid\\nSat shrouded in her mantle s shade:\\nShe said no shepherd sought her side,\\nNo hunter s hand her snood untied,\\nYet ne er again to braid her hair\\nThe virgin snood did Alice wear;\\nGone was her maiden glee and sport,\\nHer maiden girdle all too short,\\nNor sought she, from that fatal night,\\nOr holy church or blessed rite, 120\\nBut locked her secret in her breast,\\nAnd died in travail, unconfessed.\\nAlone, among his young compeers,\\nWas Brian from bis infant years;\\nA moody and heart-broken boy,\\nEstranged from sympathy and joy,\\nBearing each taunt which careless tongue\\nOn his mysterious lineage flung.\\nWhole nights he spent by moonlight pale,\\nTo wood and stream his hap to wail, 130\\nTill, frantic, he as truth received\\nWhat of his birth the crowd believed,\\nAnd sought, in mist and meteor fire,\\nTo meet and know his Phantom Sire\\nIn vain, to soothe his wayward fate,\\nThe cloister oped her pitying gate\\nIn vain the learning of the age\\nUnclasped the sable-lettered page;\\nEven in its treasures he could find\\nFood for the fever of his mind. 140\\nEager he read whatever tells\\nOf magic, cabala, and spells,\\nAnd every dark pursuit allied\\nTo curious and presumptuous pride;\\nTill with fired brain and nerves o erstrung,\\nAnd heart with mystic horrors wrung,\\nDesperate he sought Benharrow s den,\\nAnd hid him from the haunts of men.\\nVII\\nThe desert gave him visions wild,\\nSuch as might suit the spectre s child. 150", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0206.jp2"}, "205": {"fulltext": "CANTO THIRD: THE GATHERING\\ni7S\\nWhere with black cliffs the torrents toil,\\nHe watched the wheeling eddies boil,\\nTill from their foam his dazzled eyes\\nBeheld the River Demon rise\\nThe mountain mist took form and limb\\nOf noontide hag or goblin grim;\\nThe midnight wind came wild and dread,\\nSwelled with the voices of the dead;\\nFar on the future battle-heath\\nHis eye beheld the ranks of death; 160\\nThus the lone Seer, from mankind hurled,\\nShaped forth a disembodied world.\\nOne lingering sympathy of mind\\nStill bound him to the mortal kind;\\nThe only parent he could claim\\nOf ancient Alpine s lineage came.\\nLate had he heard, in prophet s dream,\\nThe fatal Ben-Shie s boding scream;\\nSounds, too, had come in midnight blast\\nOf charging steeds, careering fast 170\\nAlong Benharrow s shingly side,\\nWhere mortal horseman ne er might ride;\\nThe thunderbolt had split the pine,\\nAll augured ill to Alpine s line.\\nHe girt his loins, and came to show\\nThe signals of impending woe,\\nAnd now stood prompt to bless or ban,\\nAs bade the Chieftain of his clan..\\nT was all prepared and from the rock\\nA goat, the patriarch of the flock, 180\\nBefore the kindling pile was laid,\\nAnd pierced by Roderick s ready blade.\\nPatient the sickening victim eyed\\nThe life-blood ebb in crimson tide\\nDown his clogged beard and shaggy limb,\\nTill darkness glazed his eyeballs dim.\\nThe grisly priest, with murmuring prayer,\\nA slender crosslet framed with care,\\nA cubit s length in measure due;\\nThe shaft and limbs were rods of yew, 190\\nWhose parents in Inch-Cailliach wave\\nTheir shadows o er Clan- Alpine s grave,\\nAnd, answering Lomond s breezes deep,\\nSoothe many a chieftain s endless sleep.\\nThe Cross thus formed he held on high,\\nWith wasted hand and haggard eye,\\nAnd strange and mingled feelings woke,\\nWhile his anathema he spoke\\nIX\\n4 Woe to the clansman who shall view\\nThis symbol of sepulchral yew, 200\\nForgetful that its branches grew\\nWhere weep the heavens their holiest\\ndew\\nOn Alpine s dwelling low\\nDeserter of his Chieftain s trust,\\nHe ne er shall mingle with their dust,\\nBut, from his sires and kindred thrust,\\nEach clansman s execration just\\nShall doom him wrath and woe.\\nHe paused the word the vassals took,\\nWith forward step and fiery look, 2 10\\nOn high their naked brands they shook,\\nTheir clattering targets wildly strook;\\nAnd first in murmur low,\\nThen, like the billow in his course,\\nThat far to seaward finds his source,\\nAnd flings to shore his mustered force,\\nBurst with loud roar their answer hoarse,\\nWoe to the traitor, woe\\nBen-an s gray scalp the accents knew,\\nThe joyous wolf from covert drew, 220\\nThe exulting eagle screamed afar,\\nThey knew the voice of Alpine s war.\\nThe shout was hushed on lake and fell,\\nThe Monk resumed his muttered spell:\\nDismal and low its accents came,\\nThe while he scathed the Cross with flame\\nAnd the few words that reached the air,\\nAlthough the holiest name was there,\\nHad more of blasphemy than prayer.\\nBut when he shook above the crowd 230\\nIts kindled points, he spoke aloud\\nWoe to the wretch who fails to rear\\nAt this dread sign the ready spear\\nFor, as the flames this symbol sear,\\nHis home, the refuge of his fear,\\nA kindred fate shall know;\\nFar o er its roof the volumed flame\\nClan- Alpine s vengeance shall proclaim,\\nWhile maids and matrons on his name\\nShall call down wretchedness and shame, 240\\nAnd infamy and woe.\\nThen rose the cry of females, shrill\\nAs goshawk s whistle on the hill,\\nDenouncing misery and ill,\\nMingled with childhood s babbling trill\\nOf curses stammered slow;\\nAnswering with imprecation dread,\\nSunk be his home in embers red\\nAnd cursed be the meanest shed\\nThat e er shall hide the houseless head 250\\nWe doom to want and woe\\nA sharp and shrieking echo gave,\\nCoir-Uriskin, thy goblin cave", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0207.jp2"}, "206": {"fulltext": "176\\nTHE LADY OF THE LAKE\\nAnd the gray pass where birches wave\\nOn Beala-nam-bo.\\nXI\\nThen deeper paused the priest anew,\\nAnd hard his laboring breath he drew,\\nWhile, with set teeth and clenched hand,\\nAnd eyes that glowed like fiery brand,\\nHe meditated curse more dread, 260\\nAnd deadlier, on the clansman s head\\nWho, summoned to his chieftain s aid,\\nThe signal saw and disobeyed.\\nThe crosslet s points of sparkling wood\\nHe quenched among the bubbling blood,\\nAnd, as again the sign he reared,\\nHollow and hoarse his voice was heard:\\nWhen flits this Cross from man to man,\\nVich-Alpine s summons to his clan,\\nBurst be the ear that fails to heed 270\\nPalsied the foot that shuns to speed\\nMay ravens tear the careless eyes,\\nWolves make the coward heart their prize!\\nAs sinks that blood-stream in the earth,\\nSo may his heart s-blood drench his hearth\\nAs dies in hissing gore the spark,\\nQuench thou his light, Destruction dark\\nAnd be the grace to him denied,\\nBought by this sign to all beside\\nHe ceased; no echo gave again 280\\nThe murmur of the deep Amen.\\nXII\\nThen Roderick with impatient look\\nFrom Brian s hand the symbol took:\\nSpeed, Malise, speed he said, and gave\\nThe crosslet to his henchman brave.\\nThe muster-place be Lanrick mead\\nInstant the time speed, Malise, speed\\nLike heath-bird, when the hawks pursue,\\nA barge across Loch Katrine flew:\\nHigh stood the henchman on the prow; 290\\nSo rapidly the barge-men row,\\nThe bubbles, where they launched the boat,\\nWere all unbroken and afloat,\\nDancing in foam and ripple still,\\nWhen it had neared the mainland hill;\\nAnd from the silver beach s side\\nStill was the prow three fathom wide,\\nWhen lightly bounded to the land\\nThe messenger of blood and brand. 299\\nSpeed, Malise, speed the dun deer s hide\\nOn fleeter foot was never tied.\\nSpeed, Malise, speed such cause of haste\\nThine active sinews never braced.\\nBend gainst the steepy hill thy breast,\\nBurst down like torrent from its crest;\\nWith short and springing footstep pass\\nThe trembling bog and false morass;\\nAcross the brook like roebuck bound,\\nAnd thread the brake like questing hound\\nThe crag is high, the scaur is deep, 310\\nYet shrink not from the desperate leap:\\nParched are thy burning lips and brow,\\nYet by the fountain pause not now;\\nHerald of battle, fate, and fear,\\nStretch onward in thy fleet career\\nThe wounded hind thou track st not now,\\nPursuest not maid through greenwood\\nbough,\\nNor pliest thou now thy flying pace\\nWith rivals in the mountain race;\\nBut danger, death, and warrior deed 320\\nAre in thy course speed, Malise, speed\\nXIV\\nFast as the fatal symbol flies,\\nIn arms the huts and hamlets rise;\\nFrom winding glen, from upland brown,\\nThey poured each hardy tenant down.\\nNor slacked the messenger his pace;\\nHe showed the sign, he named the place,\\nAnd, pressing forward like the wind,\\nLeft clamor and surprise behind.\\nThe fisherman forsook the strand, 330\\nThe swarthy smith took dirk and brand;\\nWith changed cheer, the mower blithe\\nLeft in the half-cut swath his scythe;\\nThe herds without a keeper strayed,\\nThe plough was in mid-furrow stayed,\\nThe falconer tossed his hawk away,\\nThe hunter left the stag at bay;\\nPrompt at the signal of alarms,\\nEach son of Alpine rushed to arms;\\nSo swept the tumult and affray\\nAlong the margin of Achray.\\nAlas, thou lovely lake that e er\\nThy banks should echo sounds of fear\\nThe rocks, the bosky thickets, sleep\\nSo stilly on thy bosom deep,\\nThe lark s blithe carol from the cloud\\nSeems for the scene too gayly loud.\\nXV\\nSpeed, Malise, speed The lake is past,\\nDuncraggan s huts appear at last,\\nAnd peep, like moss-grown rocks, hal:\\nseen, 35*\\nHalf hidden in the copse so green;", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0208.jp2"}, "207": {"fulltext": "CANTO THIRD: THE GATHERING\\n177\\n370\\nThere inayst thou rest, thy labor done,\\nTheir lord shall speed the signal on.\\nAs stoops the hawk upon his prey,\\nThe henchman shot him down the way.\\nWhat woeful accents load the gale\\nThe funeral yell, the female wail\\nA gallant hunter s sport is o er,\\nA valiant warrior fights no more.\\nWho, in the battle or the chase, 360\\nAt Roderick s side shall fill his place\\nWithin the hall, where torch s ray\\nSupplies the excluded beams of day,\\nLies Duncan on his lowly bier,\\nAnd o er him streams his widow s tear.\\nHis stripling son stands mournful by,\\nHis youngest weeps, but knows not why\\nThe village maids and matrons round\\nThe dismal coronach resound.\\nXVI\\nCORONACH\\nHe is gone on the mountain,\\nHe is lost to the forest,\\nLike a summer-dried fountain,\\nWhen our need was the sorest.\\nThe font, reappearing,\\nFrom the rain-drops shall borrow,\\nBut to us comes no cheering,\\nTo Duncan no morrow\\nThe hand of the reaper\\nTakes the ears that are hoary,\\nBut the voice of the weeper\\nWails manhood in glory.\\nThe autumn winds rushing\\nWaft the leaves that are searest,\\nBut our flower was in flushing,\\nWhen blighting was nearest.\\nFleet foot on the correi,\\nSage counsel in cumber,\\nRed hand in the foray,\\nHow sound is thy slumber\\nLike the dew on the mountain,\\nLike the foam on the river,\\nLike the bubble on the fountain,\\nThou art gone, and forever\\nXVII\\nSee Stumah, who, the bier beside,\\nHis master s corpse with wonder eyed,\\nPoor Stumah whom his least halloo\\nCould send like lightning o er the dew,\\nBristles his crest, and points his ears,\\n380\\n39\u00c2\u00b0\\nAs if some stranger step he hears.\\nT is not a mourner s muffled tread, 400\\nWho comes to sorrow o er the dead,\\nBut headlong baste or deadly fear\\nUrge the precipitate career.\\nAll stand aghast unheeding all,\\nThe henchman bursts into the hall;\\nBefore the dead man s bier he stood,\\nHeld forth the Cross besmeared with\\nblood;\\nThe muster-place is Lanrick mead\\nSpeed forth the signal clansmen, speed\\nAngus, the heir of Duncan s line, 410\\nSprung forth, and seized the fatal sign.\\nIn haste the stripling to his side\\nHis father s dirk and broadsword tied;\\nBut when he saw his mother s eye\\nWatch him in speechless agony,\\nBack to her opened arms he flew,\\nPressed on her lips a fond adieu,\\nAlas she sobbed, and yet be gone,\\nAnd speed thee forth, like Duncan s son\\nOne look he cast upon the bier, 420\\nDashed from his eye the gathering tear,\\nBreathed deep to clear his laboring breast,\\nAnd tossed aloft his bonnet crest,\\nThen, like the high-bred colt when, freed,\\nFirst he essays his fire and speed,\\nHe vanished, and o er moor and moss\\nSped forward with the Fiery Cross.\\nSuspended was the widow s tear\\nWhile yet his footsteps she could hear;\\nAnd when she marked the henchman s\\neye 430\\nWet with unwonted sympathy,\\ni Kinsman, she said, his race is run\\nThat should have sped thine errand on;\\nThe oak has fallen, the sapling bough\\nIs all Duncraggan s shelter now.\\nYet trust I well, his duty done,\\nThe orphan s God will guard my son.\\nAnd you, in many a danger true,\\nAt Duncan s best your blades that drew,\\nTo arms, and guard that orphan s head\\nLet babes and women wail the dead. 441\\nThen weapon-clang and martial call\\nResounded through the funeral hall,\\nWhile from the walls the attendant band\\nSnatched sword and targe with hurried\\nhand;\\nAnd short and flitting energy\\nGlanced from the mourner s sunken eye,\\nAs if the sounds to warrior dear", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0209.jp2"}, "208": {"fulltext": "178\\nTHE LADY OF THE LAKE\\nMight rouse her Duncan from his bier.\\nBut faded soon that borrowed force 450\\nGrief claimed his right, and tears their\\nBenledi saw the Cross of Fire,\\nIt glanced like lightning up Strath-Ire.\\nO er dale and hill the summons flew,\\nNor rest nor pause young Angus knew;\\nThe tear that gathered in his eye\\nHe left the mountain-breeze to dry;\\nUntil, where Teith s young waters roll\\nBetwixt him and a wooded knoll 459\\nThat graced the sable strath with green,\\nThe chapel of Saint Bride was seen.\\nSwoln was the stream, remote the bridge,\\nBut Angus paused not on the edge;\\nThough the dark waves danced dizzily,\\nThough reeled his sympathetic eye,\\nHe dashed amid the torrent s roar:\\nHis right hand high the crosslet bore,\\nHis left the pole-axe grasped, to guide\\nAnd stay his footing in the tide.\\nHe stumbled twice, the foam splashed\\nhigh, 470\\nWith hoarser swell the stream raced by;\\nAnd had he fallen, forever there,\\nFarewell Duncraggan s orphan heir\\nBut still, as if in parting life,\\nFirmer he grasped the Cross of strife,\\nUntil the opposing bank he gained,\\nAnd up the chapel pathway strained.\\nXX\\nA blithesome rout that morning-tide\\nHad sought the chapel of Saint Bride.\\nHer troth Tombea s Mary gave 480\\nTo Norman, heir of Armandave,\\nAnd, issuing from the Gothic arch,\\nThe bridal now resumed their march.\\nIn rude but glad procession came\\nBonneted sire and coif -clad dame;\\nAnd plaided youth, with jest and jeer,\\nWhich snooded maiden would not hear;\\nAnd children, that, unwitting why,\\nLent the gay shout their shrilly cry;\\nAnd minstrels, that in measures vied 490\\nBefore the young and bonny bride,\\nWhose downcast eye and cheek disclose\\nThe tear and blush of morning rose.\\nWith virgin step and bashful hand\\nShe held the kerchief s snowy band.\\nThe gallant bridegroom by her side\\nBeheld his prize with victor s pride,\\nAnd the glad mother in her ear\\nWas closely whispering word of cheer. 499\\nXXI\\nWho meets them at the churchyard gate\\nThe messenger of fear and fate\\nHaste in his hurried accent lies,\\nAnd grief is swimming in his eyes.\\nAll dripping from the recent flood,\\nPanting and travel-soiled he stood,\\nThe fatal sign of fire and sword\\nHeld forth, and spoke the appointed word:\\nThe muster-place is Lanrick mead;\\nSpeed forth the signal Norman, speed\\nAnd must he change so soon the hand 5 10\\nJust linked to his by holy band,\\nFor the fell Cross of blood and brand\\nAnd must the day so blithe that rose,\\nAnd promised rapture in the close,\\nBefore its setting hour, divide\\nThe bridegroom from the plighted bride\\nO fatal doom it must it must\\nClan- Alpine s cause, her Chieftain s trust,\\nHer summons dread, brook no delay;\\nStretch to the race, away away 520\\nXXII\\nYet slow he laid his plaid aside,\\nAnd lingering eyed his lovely bride,\\nUntil he saw the starting tear\\nSpeak woe he might not stop to cheer;\\nThen, trusting not a second look,\\nIn haste he sped him up the brook,\\nNor backward glanced till on the heath\\nWhere Lubnaig s lake supplies the Teith.\\nWhat in the racer s bosom stirred\\nThe sickening pang of hope deferred, 5;\\nAnd memory with a torturing train\\nOf all his morning visions vain.\\nMingled with love s impatience, came\\nThe manly thirst for martial fame;\\nThe stormy joy of mountaineers\\nEre yet they rush upon the spears;\\nAnd zeal for Clan and Chieftain burning,\\nAnd hope, from well-fought field return-\\ning?\\nWith war s red honors on his crest,\\nTo clasp his Mary to his breast.\\nStung by such thoughts, o er bank\\nbrae,\\nLike fire from flint he glanced away,\\nWhile high resolve and feeling strong\\nBurst into voluntary song.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0210.jp2"}, "209": {"fulltext": "CANTO THIRD: THE GATHERING\\n179\\nXXIII\\nSONG\\nThe heath this night must be my bed,\\nThe bracken curtain for my head,\\nMy lullaby the warder s tread,\\nFar, far, from love and thee, Mary;\\nTo-morrow eve, more stilly laid,\\nMy couch may be my bloody plaid, 550\\nMy vesper song thy wail, sweet maid\\nIt will not waken me, Mary\\nI may not, dare not, fancy now\\nThe grief that clouds thy lovely brow,\\nI dare not think upon thy vow,\\nAnd all it promised me, Mary.\\nNo fond regret must Norman know;\\nWhen bursts Clan- Alpine on the foe,\\nHis heart must be like bended bow,\\nHis foot like arrow free, Mary. 560\\nA time will come with feeling fraught,\\nFor, if I fall in battle fought,\\nThy hapless lover s dying thought\\nShall be a thought on thee, Mary.\\nAnd if returned from conquered foes,\\nHow blithely will the evening close,\\nHow sweet the linnet sing repose,\\nTo my young bride and me, Mary\\nXXIV\\nNot faster o er thy heathery braes,\\nBalquidder, speeds the midnight blaze, 570\\nRushing in conflagration strong\\nThy deep ravines and dells along,\\nWrapping thy cliffs in purple glow,\\nAnd reddening the dark lakes below;\\nNor faster speeds it, nor so far,\\nAs o er thy heaths the voice of war.\\nThe signal roused to martial coil\\nThe sullen margin of Loch Voil,\\nWaked still Loch Doine, and to the source\\nAlarmed, Balvaig, thy swampy course; 580\\nThence southward turned its rapid road\\nAdown Strath-Gartney s valley broad,\\nTill rose in arms each man might claim\\nA portion in Clan-Alpine s name,\\nFrom the gray sire, whose trembling hand\\nCould hardly buckle on his brand,\\nTo the raw boy, whose shaft and bow\\nWere yet scarce terror to the crow.\\nEach valley, each sequestered glen,\\nMustered its little horde of men, 590\\nThat met as torrents from the height\\nIn highland dales their streams unite,\\nStill gathering, as they pour along,\\nA voice more loud, a tide more strong,\\nTill at the rendezvous they stood\\nBy hundreds prompt for blows and blood,\\nEach trained to arms since life began,\\nOwning no tie but to his clan,\\nNo oath but by his chieftain s hand,\\nNo law but Roderick Dhu s command. 600\\nXXV\\nThat summer morn had Roderick Dhu\\nSurveyed the skirts of Benvenue,\\nAnd sent his scouts o er hill and heath,\\nTo view the frontiers of Menteith.\\nAll backward came with news of truce;\\nStill lay each martial Grseme and Bruce,\\nIn Rednock courts no horsemen wait,\\nNo banner waved on Cardross gate,\\nOn Duchray s towers no beacon shone,\\nNor scared the herons from Loch Con; 610\\nAll seemed at peace. Now wot ye why\\nThe Chieftain with such anxious eye,\\nEre to the muster he repair,\\nThis western frontier scanned with care\\nIn Benvenue s most darksome cleft,\\nA fair though cruel pledge was left;\\nFor Douglas, to his promise true,\\nThat morning from the isle withdrew,\\nAnd in a deep sequestered dell\\nHad sought a low and lonely cell. 620\\nBy many a bard in Celtic tongue\\nHas Coir-nan -Uriskin been sung;\\nA softer name the Saxons gave,\\nAnd called the grot the Goblin Cave.\\nXXVI\\nIt was a wild and strange retreat,\\nAs e er was trod by outlaw s feet.\\nThe dell, upon the mountain s crest,\\nYawned like a gash on warrior s breast;\\nIts trench had stayed full many a rock,\\nHurled by primeval earthquake shock 630\\nFrom Benvenue s gray summit wild,\\nAnd here, in random ruin piled,\\nThey frowned incumbent o er the spot,\\nAnd formed the rugged sylvan grot.\\nThe oak and birch with mingled shade\\nAt noontide there a twilight made,\\nUnless when short and sudden shone\\nSome straggling beam on cliff or stone,\\nWith such a glimpse as prophet s eye\\nGains on thy depth, Futurity. 640\\nNo murmur waked the solemn still,\\nSave tinkling of a fountain rill;\\nBut when the wind chafed with the lake,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0211.jp2"}, "210": {"fulltext": "i8o\\nTHE LADY OF THE LAKE\\nA sullen sound would upward break,\\nWith dashing hollow voice, that spoke\\nThe incessant war of wave and rock.\\nSuspended cliffs with hideous sway\\nSeemed nodding o er the cavern gray.\\nFrom such a den the wolf had sprung,\\nIn such the wild-cat leaves her young; 650\\nYet Douglas and his daughter fair\\nSought for a space their safety there.\\nGray Superstition s whisper dread\\nDebarred the spot to vulgar tread\\nFor there, she said, did fays resort,\\nAnd satyrs hold their sylvan court,\\nBy moonlight tread their mystic maze,\\nAnd blast the rash beholder s gaze.\\nXXVII\\nNow eve, with western shadows long,\\nFloated on Katrine bright and strong, 660\\nWhen Roderick with a chosen few\\nRepassed the heights of Benvenue.\\nAbove the Goblin Cave they go,\\nThrough the wild pass of Beal-nam-bo;\\nThe prompt retainers speed before,\\nTo launch the shallop from the shore,\\nFor cross Loch Katrine lies his way\\nTo view the passes of Achray,\\nAnd place his clansmen in array.\\nYet lags the Chief in musing mind, 670\\nUnwonted sight, his men behind.\\nA single page, to bear his sword,\\nAlone attended on his lord;\\nThe rest their way through thickets break,\\nAnd soon await him by the lake.\\nIt was a fair and gallant sight,\\nTo view them from the neighboring height,\\nBy the low-levelled sunbeam s light\\nFor strength and stature, from the clan\\nEach warrior was a chosen man, 680\\nAs even afar might well be seen,\\nBy their proud step and martial mien.\\nTheir feathers dance, their tartans float,\\nTheir targets gleam, as by the boat\\nA wild and warlike group they stand,\\nThat well became such mountain-strand.\\nXXVIII\\nTheir Chief with step reluctant still\\nWas lingering on the craggy hill,\\nHard by where turned apart the road\\nTo Douglas s obscure abode. 690\\nIt was but with that dawning morn\\nThat Roderick Dhu had proudly sworn\\nTo drown his love in war s wild roar,\\nNor think of Ellen Douglas more;\\nBut he who stems a stream with sand,\\nAnd fetters flame with flaxen band,\\nHas yet a harder task to prove,\\nBy firm resolve to conquer love\\nEve finds the Chief, like restless ghost,\\nStill hovering near his treasure lost; 700\\nFor though his haughty heart deny\\nA parting meeting to his eye,\\nStill fondly strains his anxious ear\\nThe accents of her voice to hear,\\nAnd inly did he curse the breeze\\nThat waked to sound the rustling trees.\\nBut hark what mingles in the strain\\nIt is the harp of Allan-bane,\\nThat wakes its measure slow and high,\\nAttuned to sacred minstrelsy. 710\\nWhat melting voice attends the strings\\nT is Ellen, or an angel, sings.\\nXXIX\\nHYMN TO THE VIRGIN\\nAve Maria I maiden mild\\nListen to a maiden s prayer\\nThou canst hear though from the wild,\\nThou canst save amid despair.\\nSafe may we sleep beneath thy care,\\nThough banished, outcast, and reviled\\nMaiden hear a maiden s prayer;\\nMother, hear a suppliant child 720\\nAve Maria\\nAve Maria undefiled\\nThe flinty couch we now must share\\nShall seem with down of eider piled,\\nIf thy protection hover there.\\nThe murky cavern s heavy air\\nShall breathe of balm if thou hast\\nsmiled;\\nThen, Maiden hear a maiden s prayer,\\nMother, list a suppliant child\\nAve Maria\\nA ve Maria stainless styled\\nFoul demons of the earth and air, 730\\nFrom this their wonted haunt exiled,\\nShall flee before thy presence fair.\\nWe bow us to our lot of care,\\nBeneath thy guidance reconciled:\\nHear for a maid a maiden s prayer,\\nAnd for a father hear a child\\nAve Maria\\nXXX\\nDied on the harp the closing hymn,\\nUnmoved in attitude and limb,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0212.jp2"}, "211": {"fulltext": "CANTO FOURTH: THE PROPHECY\\n181\\nAs listening still, Clan-Alpine s lord\\nStood leaning on his heavy sword, 740\\nUntil the page with humble sign\\nTwice pointed to the sun s decline.\\nThen while his plaid he round him cast,\\nIt is the last time t is the last,\\nHe muttered thrice, the last time e er\\nThat angel-voice shall Roderick hear\\nIt was a goading thought, his stride\\nHied hastier down the mountain-side;\\nSullen he flung him in the boat,\\nAn instant cross the lake it shot. 750\\nThey landed in that silvery bay,\\nAnd eastward held their hasty way,\\nTill, with the latest beams of light,\\nThe band arrived on Lanrick height,\\nWhere mustered in the vale below\\nClan- Alpine s men in martial show.\\nXXXI\\nA various scene the clansmen made\\nSome sat, some stood, some slowly strayed\\nBut most with mantles folded round,\\nWere couched to rest upon the ground, 760\\nScarce to be known by curious eye\\nFrom the deep heather where they lie,\\nSo well was matched the tartan screen\\nWith heath-bell dark and brackens green;\\nUnless where, here and there, a blade\\nOr lance s point a glimmer made,\\nLike glow-worm twinkling through the\\nshade.\\nBut when, advancing through the gloom,\\nThey saw the Chieftain s eagle plume,\\nTheir shout of welcome, shrill and wide, 770\\nShook the steep mountain s steady side.\\nThrice it arose, and lake and fell\\nThree times returned the martial yell;\\nIt died upon Bochastle s plain,\\nAnd Silence claimed her evening reign.\\nCANTO FOURTH\\nTHE PROPHECY\\nI\\nThe rose is fairest when t is budding\\nnew,\\nAnd hope is brightest when it dawns\\nfrom fears;\\nThe rose is sweetest washed with morning\\ndew,\\nAnd love is loveliest when embalmed in\\ntears.\\nO wilding rose, whom fancy thus endears,\\nI bid your blossoms in my bonnet wave,\\nEmblem of hope and love through future\\nyears\\nThus spoke young Norman, heir of Ar-\\nmandave,\\nWhat time the sun arose on Vennachar s\\nbroad wave.\\nSuch fond conceit, half said, half sung, 10\\nLove prompted to the bridegroom s tongue.\\nAll while he stripped the wild-rose spray,\\nHis axe and bow beside him lay,\\nFor on a pass twixt lake and wood\\nA wakeful sentinel he stood.\\nHark on the rock a footstep rung,\\nAnd instant to his arms he sprung.\\nStand, or thou diest What, Malise\\nsoon\\nArt thou returned from Braes of Doune.\\nBy thy keen step and glance I know, 20\\nThou bring st us tidings of the foe.\\nFor while the Fiery Cross hied on,\\nOn distant scout had Malise gone.\\nWhere sleeps the Chief the henchman\\nsaid.\\nApart, in yonder misty glade\\nTo his lone couch I 11 be your guide.\\nThen called a slumberer by his side,\\nAnd stirred him with his slackened bow,\\nUp, up, Glentarkin rouse thee, ho\\nWe seek the Chieftain; on the track 30\\nKeep eagle watch till I come back.\\nTogether up the pass they sped:\\n4 What of the foeman Norman said.\\nVarying reports from near and far;\\nThis certain, that a band of war\\nHas for two days been ready boune,\\nAt prompt command to march from\\nDoune\\nKing James the while, with princely\\npowers,\\nHolds revelry in Stirling towers.\\nSoon will this dark and gathering cloud 40\\nSpeak on our glens in thunder loud.\\nInured to bide such bitter bout,\\nThe warrior s plaid may bear it out;\\nBut, Norman, how wilt thou provide\\nA shelter for thy bonny bride\\nWhat know ye not that Roderick s care\\nTo the lone isle hath caused repair\\nEach maid and matron of the clan,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0213.jp2"}, "212": {"fulltext": "l82\\nTHE LADY OF THE LAKE\\nAnd every child and aged man\\nUnfit for arms; and given his charge, 50\\nNor skiff nor shallop, boat nor barge,\\nUpon these lakes shall float at large,\\nBut all beside the islet moor,\\nThat such dear pledge may rest se-\\nIV\\nT is well advised, the Chieftain s plan\\nBespeaks the father of his clan.\\nBut wherefore sleeps Sir Roderick Dhu\\nApart from all his followers true\\nIt is because last evening-tide\\nBrian an augury hath tried, 60\\nOf that dread kind which must not be\\nUnless in dread extremity,\\nThe Taghairm called; by which, afar,\\nOur sires foresaw the events of war.\\nDuncraggan s milk-white bull they slew.\\nAh well the gallant brute I knew\\nThe choicest of the prey we had\\nWhen swept our merrymen Gallangad.\\nHis hide was snow, his horns were dark,\\nHis red eye glowed like fiery spark 70\\nSo fierce, so tameless, and so fleet,\\nSore did he cumber our retreat,\\nAnd kept our stoutest kerns in awe,\\nEven at the pass of Beal maha.\\nBut steep and flinty was the road,\\nAnd sharp the hurrying pikeman s goad,\\nAnd when we came to Dennan s Bow\\nA child might scathless stroke his brow.\\nNORMAN\\nThat bull was slain his reeking hide\\nThey stretched the cataract beside, 80\\nWhose waters their wild tumult toss\\nAdown the black and craggy boss\\nOf that huge cliff whose ample verge\\nTradition calls the Hero s Targe.\\nCouched on a shelf beneath its brink,\\nClose where the thundering torrents sink,\\nRocking beneath their headlong sway,\\nAnd drizzled by the ceaseless spray,\\nMidst groan of rock and roar of stream,\\nThe wizard waits prophetic dream. 90\\nNor distant rests the Chief; but hush\\nSee, gliding slow through mist and bush,\\nThe hermit gains yon rock, and stands\\nTo gaze upon our slumbering bands.\\nSeems he not, Malise, like a ghost,\\nThat hovers o er a slaughtered host\\nOr raven on the blasted oak,\\nThat, watching while the deer is broke,\\nHis morsel claims with sullen croak\\n1 Peace peace to other than to me 100\\nThy words were evil augury;\\nBut still I hold Sir Roderick s blade\\nClan- Alpine s omen and her aid,\\nNot aught that, gleaned from heaven or\\nhell,\\nYon fiend-begotten Monk can tell.\\nThe Chieftain joins him, see and now\\nTogether they descend the brow.\\nVI\\nAnd, as they came, with Alpine s Lord\\nThe Hermit Monk held solemn word:\\nRoderick it is a fearful strife, no\\nFor man endowed with mortal life,\\nWhose shroud of sentient clay can still\\nFeel feverish pang and fainting chill,\\nWhose eye can stare in stony trance,\\nWhose hair can rouse like warrior s\\nlance,\\nT is hard for such to view, unfurled,\\nThe curtain of the future world.\\nYet, witness every quaking limb,\\nMy sunken pulse, mine eyeballs dim,\\nMy soul with harrowing anguish torn, 120\\nThis for my Chieftain have I borne\\nThe shapes that sought my fearful couch\\nA human tongue may ne er avouch;\\nNo mortal man save he, who, bred\\nBetween the living and the dead,\\nIs gifted beyond nature s law\\nHad e er survived to say he saw.\\nAt length the fateful answer came\\nIn characters of living flame\\nNot spoke in word, nor blazed in scroll, 130\\nBut borne and branded on my soul\\nWhich spills the foremost foeman s\\nLIFE,\\nThat party conquers in the strife.\\nThanks, Brian, for thy zeal and care\\nGood is thine augury, and fair.\\nClan- Alpine ne er in battle stood\\nBut first our broadswords tasted blood.\\nA surer victim still I know,\\nSelf-offered to the auspicious blow:\\nA spy has sought my land this morn, 140\\nNo eve shall witness his return", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0214.jp2"}, "213": {"fulltext": "CANTO FOURTH: THE PROPHECY\\n183\\nMy followers guard each pass s mouth,\\nTo east, to westward, and to south;\\nRed Murdoch, bribed to be his guide,\\nHas charge to lead his steps aside,\\nTill in deep path or dingle brown\\nHe light on those shall bring him down.\\nBut see, who comes his news to show\\nMalise what tidings of the foe 149\\nVIII\\nAt Doune, o er many a spear and glaive,\\nTwo Barons proud their banners wave.\\nI saw the Moray s silver star,\\nAnd marked the sable pale of Mar.\\nBy Alpine s soul, high tidings those\\nI love to hear of worthy foes.\\nWhen move they on To-morrow s noon\\nWill see them here for battle boune.\\nThen shall it see a meeting stern\\nBut, for the place, say, couldst thou\\nlearn\\nNought of the friendly clans of Earn 160\\nStrengthened by them, we well might bide\\nThe battle on Benledi s side.\\nThou couldst not well Clan- Alpine s\\nmen\\nShall man the Trosachs shaggy glen\\nWithin Loch Katrine s gorge we 11 fight,\\nAll in our maids and matrons sight,\\nEach for his hearth and household fire,\\nFather for child, and son for sire,\\nLover for maid beloved But why\\nIs it the breeze affects mine eye 170\\nOr dost thou come, ill-omened tear\\nA messenger of doubt or fear\\nNo sooner may the Saxon lance\\nUnfix Benledi from his stance,\\nThan doubt or terror can pierce through\\nThe unyielding heart of Roderick Dhu\\nTis stubborn as his trusty targe.\\nEach to his post all know their charge.\\nThe pibroch sounds, the bands advance,\\nThe broadswords gleam, the banners\\ndance, 180\\nObedient to the Chieftain s glance.\\nI turn me from the martial roar,\\nAnd seek Coir-Uriskin once more.\\nIX\\nWhere is the Douglas he is gone\\nAnd Ellen sits on the gray stone\\nFast by the cave, and makes her moan,\\nWhile vainly Allan s words of cheer\\nAre poured on her unheeding ear.\\nHe will return dear lady, trust\\nWith joy return; he will he must. 190\\nWell was it time to seek afar\\nSome refuge from impending war,\\nWhen e en Clan-Alpine s rugged swarm\\nAre cowed by the approaching storm.\\nI saw their boats with many a light,\\nFloating the livelong yesternight,\\nShifting like flashes darted forth\\nBy the red streamers of the north;\\nI marked at morn how close they ride,\\nThick moored by the lone islet s side, 200\\nLike wild ducks couching in the fen\\nWhen stoops the hawk upon the glen.\\nSince this rude race dare not abide\\nThe peril on the mainland side,\\nShall not thy noble father s care\\nSome safe retreat for thee prepare\\nELLEN\\nNo, Allan, no Pretext so kind\\nMy wakeful terrors could not blind.\\nWhen in such tender tone, yet grave,\\nDouglas a parting blessing gave, 210\\nThe tear that glistened in his eye\\nDrowned not his purpose fixed and high.\\nMy soul, though feminine and weak,\\nCan image his; e en as the lake,\\nItself disturbed by slightest stroke,\\nReflects the invulnerable rock.\\nHe hears report of battle rife,\\nHe deems himself the cause of strife.\\nI saw him redden when the theme\\nTurned, Allan, on thine idle dream 220\\nOf Malcolm Grseme in fetters bound,\\nWhich I, thou saidst, about him wound.\\nThink st thou he trowed thine omen aught\\nO no t was apprehensive thought\\nFor the kind youth, for Roderick too\\nLet me be just that friend so true;\\nIn danger both, and in our cause\\nMinstrel, the Douglas dare not pause.\\nWhy else that solemn warning given,\\nIf not on earth, we meet in heaven 230\\nWhy else, to Cambus-kenneth s fane,\\nIf eve return him not again,\\nAm I to hie and make me known\\nAlas he goes to Scotland s throne,\\nBuys his friends safety with his own;\\nHe goes to do what I had done,\\nHad Douglas daughter been his son\\nNay, lovely Ellen dearest, nay\\nIf aught should his return delay,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0215.jp2"}, "214": {"fulltext": "184\\nTHE LADY OF THE LAKE\\nHe only named yon holy fane 240\\nAs fitting place to meet again.\\nBe sure he s safe, and for the Graeme,\\nHeaven s blessing on his gallant name\\nMy visioned sight may yet prove true,\\nNor bode of ill to him or you.\\nWhen did my gifted dream beguile\\nThink of the stranger at the isle,\\nAnd think upon the harpiugs slow\\nThat presaged this approaching woe\\nSooth was my prophecy of fear; 250\\nBelieve it when it augurs cheer.\\nWould we had left this dismal spot\\nIll luck still haunts a fairy grot.\\nOf such a wondrous tale I know\\nDear lady, change that look of woe,\\nMy harp was wont thy grief to cheer.\\nWell, be it as thou wilt I hear,\\nBut cannot stop the bursting tear.\\nThe Minstrel tried his simple art,\\nBut distant far was Ellen s heart. 260\\nXII\\nBALLAD\\nALICE BRAND\\nMerry it is in the good greenwood,\\nWhen the mavis and merle are singing,\\nWhen the deer sweeps by, and the hounds\\nare in cry,\\nAnd the hunter s horn is ringing.\\nO Alice Brand, my native land\\nIs lost for love of you;\\nAnd we must hold by wood and wold,\\nAs outlaws wont to do.\\nO Alice, t was all for thy locks so bright,\\nAnd t was all for thine eyes so blue, 270\\nThat on the night of our luckless flight\\nThy brother bold I slew.\\nNow must I teach to hew the beech\\nThe hand that held the glaive,\\nFor leaves to spread our lowly bed,\\nAnd stakes to fence our cave.\\nAnd for vest of pall, thy fingers small,\\nThat wont on harp to stray,\\nA cloak must shear from the slaughtered\\ndeer,\\nTo keep the cold away. 280\\nO Richard if my brother died,\\nT was but a fatal chance;\\nFor darkling was the battle tried,\\nAnd fortune sped the lance.\\n1 If pall and vair no more I wear,\\nNor thou the crimson sheen,\\nAs warm, we 11 say, is the russet gray,\\nAs gay the forest-green.\\nAnd, Richard, if our lot be hard,\\nAnd lost thy native land,\\nStill Alice has her own Richard,\\nAnd he his Alice Brand.\\nXIII\\nBALLAD CONTINUED\\nT is merry, t is merry, in good greenwood;\\nSo blithe Lady Alice is singing;\\nOn the beech s pride, and oak s brown side,\\nLord Richard s axe is ringing.\\nUp spoke the moody Elfin King,\\nWho woned within the hill,\\nLike wind in the porch of a ruined church,\\nHis voice was ghostly shrill. 300\\nWhy sounds yon stroke on beech and\\noak,\\nOur moonlight circle s screen\\nOr who comes here to chase the deer,\\nBeloved of our Elfin Queen\\nOr who may dare on wold to wear\\nThe fairies fatal green\\nUp, Urgan, up to yon mortal hie,\\nFor thou wert christened man;\\nFor cross or sign thou wilt not fly,\\nFor muttered word or ban. 310\\nLay on him the curse of the withered heart,\\nThe curse of the sleepless eye;\\nTill he wish and pray that his life would\\npart,\\nNor yet find leave to die.\\nBALLAD CONTINUED\\nT is merry, t is merry, in good green-\\nwood,\\nThough the birds have stilled their sing-\\ning;\\nThe evening blaze doth Alice raise,\\nAnd Richard is fagots bringing.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0216.jp2"}, "215": {"fulltext": "CANTO FOURTH: THE PROPHECY\\n185\\nUp Urgan starts, that hideous dwarf,\\nBefore Lord Richard stands, 320\\nAnd, as he crossed and blessed himself,\\n1 1 fear not sign, quoth the grisly elf,\\nThat is made with bloody hands.\\nBut out then spoke she, Alice Brand,\\nThat woman void of fear,\\nI And if there s blood upon his hand,\\nT is but the blood of deer.\\n4 Now loud thou liest, thou bold of mood\\nIt cleaves unto his hand,\\nThe stain of thine own kindly blood, 330\\nThe blood of Ethert Brand.\\nThen forward stepped she, Alice Brand,\\nAnd made the holy sign,\\nAnd if there s blood on Richard s hand,\\nA spotless hand is mine.\\nAnd I conjure thee, demon elf,\\nBy Him whom demons fear,\\nTo show us whence thou art thyself,\\nAnd what thine errand here\\nBALLAD CONTINUED\\n1 T is merry, t is merry, in Fairy-land, 340\\nWhen fairy birds are singing,\\nWhen the court doth ride by their monarch s\\nside,\\nWith bit and bridle ringing:\\nAnd gayly shines the Fairy-land\\nBut all is glistening show,\\nLike the idle gleam that December s beam\\nCan dart on ice and snow.\\nAnd fading, like that varied gleam,\\nIs our inconstant shape,\\nWho now like knight and lady seem, 350\\nAnd now like dwarf and ape.\\nIt was between the night and day,\\nWhen the Fairy King has power,\\nThat I sunk down in a sinful fray,\\nAnd twixt life and death was snatched away\\nTo the joyless Elfin bower.\\nBut wist I of a woman bold,\\nWho thrice my brow durst sign,\\nI might regain my mortal mould,\\nAs fair a form as thine. 360\\nShe crossed him once she crossed him\\ntwice\\nThat lady was so brave;\\nThe fouler grew his goblin hue,\\nThe darker grew the cave.\\nShe crossed him thrice, that lady bold;\\nHe rose beneath her hand\\nThe fairest knight on Scottish mould,\\nHer brother, Ethert Brand\\nMerry it is in good greenwood,\\nWhen the mavis and merle are sing-\\ning, 370\\nBut merrier were they in Dunfermline gray,\\nWhen all the bells were ringing.\\nXVI\\nJust as the minstrel sounds were stayed,\\nA stranger climbed the steepy glade;\\nHis martial step, his stately mien,\\nHis hunting-suit of Lincoln green,\\nHis eagle glance, remembrance claims\\nT is Snowdoun s Knight, t is James Fitz-\\nJames.\\nEllen beheld as in a dream,\\nThen, starting, scarce suppressed a\\nscream: 380\\nO stranger in such hour of fear\\nWhat evil hap has brought thee here\\nAn evil hap how can it be\\nThat bids me look again on thee\\nBy promise bound, my former guide\\nMet me betimes this morning-tide,\\nAnd marshalled over bank and bourne\\nThe happy path of my return.\\nThe happy path what said he\\nnought\\nOf war, of battle to be fought, 390\\nOf guarded pass No, by my faith\\nNor saw I aught could augur scathe.\\nO haste thee, Allan, to the kern:\\nYonder his tartans I discern;\\nLearn thou his purpose, and conjure\\nThat he will guide the stranger sure\\nWhat prompted thee, unhappy man\\nThe meanest serf in Roderick s clan\\nHad not been bribed, by love or fear,\\nUnknown to him to guide thee here. 400\\nXVII\\nSweet Ellen, dear my life must be,\\nSince it is worthy care from thee;\\nYet life I hold but idle breath\\nWhen love or honor s weighed with death.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0217.jp2"}, "216": {"fulltext": "i86\\nTHE LADY OF THE LAKE\\nThen let me profit by my chance,\\nAnd speak my purpose bold at once.\\nI come to bear thee from a wild\\nWhere ne er before such blossom smiled,\\nBy this soft hand to lead thee far\\nFrom frantic scenes of feud and war. 410\\nNear Bochastle my horses wait;\\nThey bear us soon to Stirling gate.\\nI 11 place thee in a lovely bower,\\nI 11 guard thee like a tender flower\\nO hush, Sir Knight t were female art,\\nTo say I do not read thy heart;\\nToo much, before, my selfish ear\\nWas idly soothed my praise to hear.\\nThat fatal bait hath lured thee back,\\nIn deathful hour, o er dangerous track; 420\\nAnd how, O how, can I atone\\nThe wreck my vanity brought on\\nOne way remains I 11 tell him all\\nYes struggling bosom, forth it shall\\nThou, whose light folly bears the blame,\\nBuy thine own pardon with thy shame\\nBut first my father is a man\\nOutlawed and exiled, under ban;\\nThe price of blood is on his head,\\nWith me, t were infamy to wed. 430\\nStill wouldst thou speak then hear the\\ntruth\\nFitz-James, there is a noble youth\\nIf yet he is exposed for me\\nAnd mine to dread extremity\\nThou hast the secret of my heart;\\nForgive, be generous, and depart\\nXVIII\\nFitz-James knew every wily train\\nA lady s fickle heart to gain,\\nBut here he knew and felt them vain.\\nThere shot no glance from Ellen s eye, 440\\nTo give her steadfast speech the lie\\nIn maiden confidence she stood,\\nThough mantled in her cheek the blood,\\nAnd told her love with such a sigh\\nOf deep and hopeless agony,\\nAs death had sealed her Malcolm s doom\\nAnd she sat sorrowing on his tomb.\\nHope vanished from Fitz-James s eye,\\nBut not with hope fled sympathy.\\nHe proffered to attend her side, 450\\nAs brother would a sister guide.\\n1 O little know st thou Roderick s heart\\nSafer for both we go apart.\\nO haste thee, and from Allan learn\\nIf thou mayst trust yon wily kern.\\nWith hand upon his forehead laid,\\nThe conflict of his mind to shade,\\nA parting step or two he made;\\nThen, as some thought had crossed his\\nbrain,\\nHe paused, and turned, and came again. 460\\nXIX\\nHear, lady, yet a parting word\\nIt chanced in fight that my poor sword\\nPreserved the life of Scotland s lord.\\nThis ring the grateful Monarch gave,\\nAnd bade, when I had boon to crave,\\nTo bring it back, and boldly claim\\nThe recompense that I would name.\\nEllen, I am no courtly lord,\\nBut one who lives by lance and sword,\\nWhose castle is his helm and shield, 470\\nHis lordship the embattled field.\\nWhat from a prince can I demand,\\nWho neither reck of state nor land\\nEllen, thy hand the ring is thine\\nEach guard and usher knows the sign.\\nSeek thou the King without delay;\\nThis signet shall secure thy way:\\nAnd claim thy suit, whate er it be,\\nAs ransom of his pledge to me.\\nHe placed the golden circlet on, 480\\nPaused kissed her hand and then was\\ngone.\\nThe aged Minstrel stood aghast.\\nSo hastily Fitz-James shot past.\\nHe joined his guide, and wending down\\nThe ridges of the mountain brown,\\nAcross the stream they took their way\\nThat joins Loch Katrine to Achray.\\nAll in the Trosachs glen was still,\\nNoontide was sleeping on the hill: 489\\nSudden his guide whooped loud and high\\nMurdoch was that a signal cry\\nHe stammered forth, I shout to scare\\nYon raven from his dainty fare.\\nHe looked he knew the raven s prey,\\nHis own brave steed: Ah gallant gray\\nFor thee for me, perchance t were well\\nWe ne er had seen the Trosachs dell.\\nMurdoch, move first but silently;\\nWhistle or whoop, and thou shalt die\\nJealous and sullen on they fared, 500\\nEach silent, each upon his guard.\\nXXI\\nNow wound the path its dizzy ledge\\nAround a precipice s edge,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0218.jp2"}, "217": {"fulltext": "CANTO FOURTH: THE PROPHECY\\n187\\nWhen lo a wasted female form,\\nBlighted by wrath of sun and storm,\\nIn tattered weeds and wild array,\\nStood on a cliff beside the way,\\nAnd glancing round her restless eye,\\nUpon the wood, the rock, the sky,\\nSeemed nought to mark, yet all to spy. 510\\nHer brow was wreathed with gaudy\\nbroom;\\nWith gesture wild she waved a plume\\nOf feathers, which the eagles fling\\nTo crag and cliff from dusky wing;\\nSuch spoils her desperate step had sought,\\nWhere scarce was footing for the goat.\\nThe tartan plaid she first descried,\\nAnd shrieked till all the rocks replied;\\nAs loud she laughed when near they\\ndrew,\\nFor then the Lowland garb she knew; 520\\nAnd then her hands she wildly wrung,\\nAnd then she wept, and then she sung\\nShe sung the voice, in better time,\\nPerchance to harp or lute might chime\\nAnd now, though strained and roughened,\\nstill\\nRung wildly sweet to dale and hill.\\nXXII\\nThey bid me sleep, they bid me pray,\\nThey say my brain is warped and\\nwrung\\nI cannot sleep on Highland brae,\\nI cannot pray in Highland tongue. 530\\nBut were I now where Allan glides,\\nOr heard my native Devan s tides,\\nSo sweetly would I rest, and pray\\nThat Heaven would close my wintry day\\nT was thus my hair they bade me braid,\\nThey made me to the church repair;\\nIt was my bridal morn, they said,\\nAnd my true love would meet me there.\\nBut woe betide the cruel guile 539\\nThat drowned in blood the morning smile\\nAnd woe betide the fairy dream\\nI only waked to sob and scream.\\nXXIII\\nWho is this maid what means her lay\\nShe hovers o er the hollow way,\\nAnd flutters wide her mantle gray,\\nAs the lone heron spreads his wing,\\nBy twilight, o er a haunted spring.\\nT is Blanche of Devan, Murdoch said.\\nA crazed and captive Lowland maid,\\nTa en on the morn she was a bride, 550\\nWhen Roderick forayed Devan-side.\\nThe gay bridegroom resistance made,\\nAnd felt our Chief s unconquered blade.\\nI marvel she is now at large,\\nBut oft she scapes from Maudlin s\\ncharge.\\nHence, brain-sick fool He raised his\\nbow:\\nNow, if thou strik st her but one blow,\\nI 11 pitch thee from the cliff as far\\nAs ever peasant pitched a bar\\nThanks, champion, thanks the Maniac\\ncried, 560\\nAnd pressed her to Fitz-James s side.\\nSee the gray pennons I prepare,\\nTo seek my true love through the air\\nI will not lend that savage groom,\\nTo break his fall, one downy plume\\nNo deep amid disjointed stones,\\nThe wolves shall batten on his bones,\\nAnd then shall his detested plaid,\\nBy bush and brier in mid-air stayed,\\nWave forth a banner fair and free, 570\\nMeet signal for their revelry.\\nXXIV\\nHush thee, poor maiden, and be still\\nO thou look st kindly, and I will.\\nMine eye has dried and wasted been,\\nBut still it loves the Lincoln green;\\nAnd, though mine ear is all unstrung,\\nStill, still it loves the Lowland tongue.\\nFor O my sweet William was forester\\ntrue,\\nHe stole poor Blanche s heart away 579\\nHis coat it was all of the greenwood hue,\\nAnd so blithely he trilled the Lowland\\nIt was not that I meant to tell\\nBut thou art wise and guessest well.\\nThen, in a low and broken tone,\\nAnd hurried note, the song went on.\\nStill on the Clansman fearfully\\nShe fixed her apprehensive eye,\\nThen turned it on the Knight, and then\\nHer look glanced wildly o er the glen.\\nxxv\\nThe toils are pitched, and the stakes are\\nset, 590\\nEver sing merrily, merrily;", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0219.jp2"}, "218": {"fulltext": "i88\\nTHE LADY OF THE LAKE\\nThe bows they bend, and the knives they\\nwhet,\\nHunters live so cheerily.\\nIt was a stag, a stag of ten,\\nBearing its branches sturdily;\\nHe came stately down the glen,\\nEver sing hardily, hardily.\\nIt was there he met with a wounded\\ndoe,\\nShe was bleeding deathfully;\\nShe warned him of the toils below, 600\\nO, so faithfully, faithfully\\nHe had an eye, and he could heed,\\nEver sing warily, warily;\\nHe had a foot, and he could speed,\\nHunters watch so narrowly.\\nXXVI\\nFitz-James s mind was passion-tossed,\\nWhen Ellen s hints and fears were lost;\\nBut Murdoch s shout suspicion wrought,\\nAnd Blanche s song conviction brought.\\nNot like a stag that spies the snare, 610\\nBut lion of the hunt aware,\\nHe waved at once his blade on high,\\nDisclose thy treachery, or die\\nForth at full speed the Clansman flew,\\nBut in his race his bow he drew.\\nThe shaft just grazed Fitz-James s crest,\\nAnd thrilled in Blanche s faded breast.\\nMurdoch of Alpine prove thy speed,\\nFor ne er had Alpine s son such need;\\nWith heart of fire, and foot of wind, 620\\nThe fierce avenger is behind\\nFate judges of the rapid strife\\nThe forfeit death the prize is life;\\nThy kindred ambush lies before,\\nClose couched upon the heathery moor;\\nThem couldst thou reach it may not\\nbe\\nThine ambushed kin thou ne er shalt see,\\nThe fiery Saxon gains on thee\\nResistless speeds the deadly thrust,\\nAs lightning strikes the pine to dust; 630\\nWith foot and hand Fitz James must\\nstrain\\nEre he can win his blade again.\\nBent o er the fallen with falcon eye,\\nHe grimly smiled to see him die,\\nThen slower wended back his way,\\nWhere the poor maiden bleeding lay.\\nXXVII\\nShe sat beneath the birchen tree,\\nHer elbow resting on her knee;\\nShe had withdrawn the fatal shaft,\\nAnd gazed on it, and feebly laughed; 640\\nHer wreath of broom and feathers gray,\\nDaggled with blood, beside her lay.\\nThe Knight to stanch the life-stream\\ntried,\\nStranger, it is in vain she cried.\\nThis hour of death has given me more\\nOf reason s power than years before;\\nFor, as these ebbing veins decay,\\nMy frenzied visions fade away.\\nA helpless injured wretch I die,\\nAnd something tells me in thine eye 650\\nThat thou wert mine avenger born.\\nSeest thou this tress O, still I ve worn\\nThis little tress of yellow hair,\\nThrough danger, frenzy, and despair\\nIt once was bright and clear as thine,\\nBut blood and tears have dimmed its shine.\\nI will not tell thee when t was shred,\\nNor from what guiltless victim s head,\\nMy brain would turn but it shall wave\\nLike plumage on thy helmet brave, 660\\nTill sun and wind shall bleach the stain,\\nAnd thou wilt bring it me again.\\nI waver still. O God more bright\\nLet reason beam her parting light\\nO, by thy knighthood s honored sign,\\nAnd for thy life preserved by mine,\\nWhen thou shalt see a darksome man,\\nWho boasts him Chief of Alpine s Clan,\\nWith tartans broad and shadowy plume,\\nAnd hand of blood, and brow of gloom, 670\\nBe thy heart bold, thy weapon strong,\\nAnd wreak poor Blanche of Devan s\\nwrong\\nThey watch for thee by pass and fell\\nAvoid the path O God fare-\\nwell\\nA kindly heart had brave Fitz- James;\\nFast poured his eyes at pity s claims;\\nAnd now, with mingled grief and ire,\\nHe saw the murdered maid expire.\\n1 God, in my need, be my relief,\\nAs I wreak this on yonder Chief 3 680\\nA lock from Blanche s tresses fair\\nHe blended with her bridegroom s hair;\\nThe mingled braid in blood he dyed,\\nAnd placed it on his bonnet-side:", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0220.jp2"}, "219": {"fulltext": "CANTO FOURTH: THE PROPHECY\\n189\\nBy Him whose word is truth, I swear,\\nNo other favor will I wear,\\nTill this sad token I imbrue\\nIn the best blood of Roderick Dhu\\nBut hark what means yon faint halloo\\nThe chase is up, but they shall know, 690\\nThe stag at bay s a dangerous foe.\\nBarred from the known but guarded way,\\nThrough copse and cliffs Fitz-James must\\nstray,\\nAnd oft must change his desperate track,\\nBy stream and precipice turned back.\\nHeartless, fatigued, and faint, at length,\\nFrom lack of food and loss of strength,\\nHe couched him in a thicket hoar,\\nAnd thought his toils and perils o er:\\nOf all my rash adventures past, 700\\nThis frantic feat must prove the last\\nWho e er so mad but might have guessed\\nThat all this Highland hornet s nest\\nWould muster up in swarms so soon\\nAs e er they heard of bands at Doune\\nLike bloodhounds now they search me\\nout,\\nHark, to the whistle and the shout\\nIf farther through the wilds I go,\\nI only fall upon the foe:\\nI 11 couch me here till evening gray, 710\\nThen darkling try my dangerous way.\\nXXIX\\nThe shades of eve come slowly down,\\nThe woods are wrapt in deeper brown,\\nThe owl awakens from her dell,\\nThe fox is heard upon the fell;\\nEnough remains of glimmering light\\nTo guide the wanderer s steps aright,\\nYet not enough from far to show\\nHis figure to the watchful foe.\\nWith cautious step and ear awake, 720\\nHe climbs the crag and threads the brake;\\nAnd not the summer solstice there\\nTempered the midnight mountain air,\\nBut every breeze that swept the wold\\nBenumbed his drenched limbs with cold.\\nIn dread, in danger, and alone,\\nFamished and chilled, through ways un-\\nknown,\\nTangled and steep, he journeyed on;\\nTill, as a rock s huge point he turned,\\nA watch-fire close before him burned. 730\\nxxx\\nBeside its embers red and clear,\\nBasked in his plaid a mountaineer;\\nAnd up he sprung with sword in hand,\\nThy name and purpose Saxon, stand\\nA stranger. What dost thou require\\nRest and a guide, and food and fire.\\nMy life s beset, my path is lost,\\nThe gale has chilled my limbs with frost.\\nArt thou a friend to Roderick No.\\nThou dar st not call thyself a foe 740\\nI dare to him and all the band\\nHe brings to aid his murderous hand.\\nBold words but, though the beast of\\ngame\\nThe privilege of chase may claim,\\nThough space and law the stag we lend,\\nEre hound we slip or bow we bend,\\nWho ever recked, where, how, or when,\\nThe prowling fox was trapped or slain\\nThus treacherous scouts, yet sure they\\nlie,\\nWho say thou cam st a secret spy 750\\nThey do, by heaven come Roderick\\nDhu,\\nAnd of his clan the boldest two,\\nAnd let me but till morning rest,\\nI write the falsehood on their crest.\\nIf by the blaze I mark aright,\\nThou bear st the belt and spur of Knight.\\nThen by these tokens mayst thou know\\nEach proud oppressor s mortal foe.\\nEnough, enough; sit down and share\\nA soldier s couch, a soldier s fare. 760\\nHe gave him of his Highland cheer,\\nThe hardened flesh of mountain deer;\\nDry fuel on the fire he laid,\\nAnd bade the Saxon share his plaid.\\nHe tended him like welcome guest,\\nThen thus his further speech addressed:\\nStranger, I am to Roderick Dhu\\nA clansman born, a kinsman true:\\nEach word against his honor spoke\\nDemands of me avenging stroke; 770\\nYet more, upon thy fate, t is said,\\nA mighty augury is laid.\\nIt rests with me to wind my horn,\\nThou art with numbers overborne;\\nIt rests with me, here, brand to brand,\\nWorn as thou art, to bid thee stand:\\nBut, not for clan, nor kindred s cause,\\nWill I depart from honor s laws;\\nTo assail a wearied man were shame,\\nAnd stranger is a holy name; 780\\nGuidance and rest, and food and fire,\\nIn vain he never must require.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0221.jp2"}, "220": {"fulltext": "190\\nTHE LADY OF THE LAKE\\nThen rest thee here till dawn of day;\\nMyself will guide thee on the way,\\nO er stock and stone, through watch and\\nward,\\nTill past Clan-Alpine s outmost guard,\\nAs far as Coilantogle s ford;\\nFrom thence thy warrant is thy sword.\\nI take thy courtesy, by heaven,\\nAs freely as t is nobly given 79 o\\nWell, rest thee for the bittern s cry\\nSings us the lake s wild lullaby.\\nWith that he shook the gathered heath,\\nAnd spread his plaid upon the wreath;\\nAnd the brave foemen, side by side,\\nLay peaceful down like brothers tried,\\nAnd slept until the dawning beam\\nPurpled the mountain and the stream.\\nCANTO FIFTH\\nTHE COMBAT\\nFair as the earliest beam of eastern light,\\nWhen first, by the bewildered pilgrim\\nspied,\\nIt smiles upon the dreary brow of night,\\nAnd silvers o er the torrent s foaming\\ntide,\\nAnd lights the fearful path on mountain-\\nside,\\nFair as that beam, although the fairest\\nfar,\\nGiving to horror grace, to danger pride,\\nShine martial Faith, and Courtesy s\\nbright star,\\nThrough all the wreckf ul storms that cloud\\nthe brow of War.\\nThat early beam, so fair and sheen,\\nWas twinkling through the hazel screen,\\nWhen, rousing at its glimmer red,\\nThe warriors left their lowly bed,\\nLooked out upon the dappled sky,\\nMuttered their soldier matins by,\\nAnd then awaked their fire, to steal,\\nAs short and rude, their soldier meal.\\nThat o er, the Gael around him threw\\nHis graceful plaid of varied hue,\\nAnd, true to promise, led the way,\\nBy thicket green and mountain gray.\\nA wildering path they winded now\\nAlong the precipice s brow,\\nCommanding the rich scenes beneath,\\nThe windings of the Forth and Teith,\\nAnd all the vales between that lie,\\nTill Stirling s turrets melt in sky;\\nThen, sunk in copse, their farthest glance\\nGained not the length of horseman s lance.\\nT was oft so steep, the foot was fain\\nAssistance from the hand to gain;\\nSo tangled oft that, bursting through,\\nEach hawthorn shed her showers of\\ndew,\\nThat diamond dew, so pure and clear,\\nIt rivals all but Beauty s tear\\nHI\\nAt length they came where, stern and\\nsteep,\\nThe hill sinks down upon the deep.\\nHere Vennachar in silver flows,\\nThere, ridge on ridge, Benledi rose\\nEver the hollow path twined on, 4\\nBeneath steep bank and threatening stone\\nA hundred men might hold the post\\nWith hardihood against a host.\\nThe rugged mountain s scanty cloak\\nWas dwarfish shrubs of birch and oak,\\nWith shingles bare, and cliffs between,\\nAnd patches bright of bracken green,\\nAnd heather black, that waved so high,\\nIt held the copse in rivalry.\\nBut where the lake slept deep and still, 5\\nDank osiers fringed the swamp and hill;\\nAnd oft both path and hill were torn,\\nWhere wintry torrent down had borne,\\nAnd heaped upon the cumbered land\\nIts wreck of gravel, rocks, and sand.\\nSo toilsome was the road to trace,\\nThe guide, abating of his pace,\\nLed slowly through the pass s jaws,\\nAnd asked Fitz-James by what strange\\ncause\\nHe sought these wilds, traversed by few,\\nWithout a pass from Roderick Dhu.\\nIV\\nBrave Gael, my pass, in danger tried,\\nHangs in my belt and by my side;\\nYet, sooth to tell, the Saxon said,\\nI dreamt not now to claim its aid.\\nWhen here, but three days since, I came,\\nBewildered in pursuit of game,\\nAll seemed as peaceful and as still\\nAs the mist slumbering on yon hill;\\nThy dangerous Chief was then afar,\\nNor soon expected back from war.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0222.jp2"}, "221": {"fulltext": "CANTO FIFTH: THE COMBAT\\n191\\nThus said, at least, my mountain-guide,\\nThough deep perchance the villain lied.\\nYet why a second venture try\\nA warrior thou, and ask me why\\nMoves our free course by such fixed cause\\nAs gives the poor mechanic laws\\nEnough, I sought to drive away\\nThe lazy hours of peaceful day;\\nSlight cause will then suffice to guide 8c\\nA Knight s free footsteps far and wide,\\nA falcon flown, a greyhound strayed,\\nThe merry glance of mountain maid;\\nOr, if a path be dangerous known,\\nThe danger s self is lure alone.\\nThy secret keep, I urge thee not;\\nYet, ere again ye sought this spot,\\nSay, heard ye nought of Lowland war,\\nAgainst Clan- Alpine, raised by Mar\\nNo, by my word of bands prepared 90\\nTo guard King James s sports I heard;\\nNor doubt I aught, but, when they hear\\nThis muster of the mountaineer,\\nTheir pennons will abroad be flung,\\nWhich else in Doune had peaceful hung.\\nFree be they flung for we were loath\\nTheir silken folds should feast the moth.\\nFree be they flung as free shall wave\\nClan-Alpine s pine in banner brave.\\nBut, stranger, peaceful since you came, 100\\nBewildered in the mountain-game,\\nWhence the bold boast by which you show\\nVich- Alpine s vowed and mortal foe\\nWarrior, but yester-morn I knew\\nNought of thy Chieftain, Roderick Dhu,\\nSave as an outlawed desperate man,\\nThe chief of a rebellious clan,\\nWho, in the Regent s court and sight,\\nWith ruffian dagger stabbed a knight;\\nYet this alone might from his part no\\nSever each true and loyal heart.\\nWrathful at such arraignment foul,\\nDark lowered the clansman s sable scowl,\\nA space he paused, then sternly said,\\n1 And heardst thou why he drew his blade\\nHeardst thou that shameful word and blow\\nBrought Roderick s vengeance on his foe\\nWhat recked the Chieftain if he stood\\nOn Highland heath or Holy- Rood\\nHe rights such wrong where it is given, 120\\nIf it were in the court of heaven.\\nStill was it outrage yet, t is true,\\nNot then claimed sovereignty his due;\\nWhile Albany with feeble hand\\nHeld borrowed truncheon of command,\\nThe young King, mewed in Stirling tower,\\nWas stranger to respect and power.\\nBut then, thy Chieftain s robber life\\nWinning mean prey by causeless strife,\\nWrenching from ruined Lowland swain 130\\nHis herds and harvest reared in vain,\\nMethinks a soul like thine should scorn\\nThe spoils from such foul foray borne.\\nVII\\nThe Gael beheld him grim the while,\\nAnd answered with disdainful smile:\\nSaxon, from yonder mountain high,\\nI marked thee send delighted eye\\nFar to the south and east, where lay,\\nExtended in succession gay,\\nDeep waving fields and pastures green, 140\\nWith gentle slopes and groves between:\\nThese fertile plains, that softened vale,\\nWere once the birthright of the Gael;\\nThe stranger came with iron hand,\\nAnd from our fathers reft the land.\\nWhere dwell we now See, rudely swell\\nCrag over crag, and fell o er fell.\\nAsk we this savage hill we tread\\nFor fattened steer or household bread,\\nAsk we for flocks these shingles dry, 150\\nAnd well the mountain might reply,\\nTo you, as to your sires of yore,\\nBelong the target and claymore\\nI give you shelter in my breast,\\nYour own good blade must win the rest.\\nPent in this fortress of the North,\\nThink st thou we will not sally forth,\\nTo spoil the spoiler as we may,\\nAnd from the robber rend the* prey\\nAy, by my soul While on yon plain 160\\nThe Saxon rears one shock of grain,\\nWhile of ten thousand herds there strays\\nBut one along yon river s maze,\\nThe Gael, of plain and river heir,\\nShall with strong hand redeem his share.\\nWhere live the mountain Chiefs who hold\\nThat plundering Lowland field and fold\\nIs aught but retribution true\\nSeek other cause gainst Roderick Dhu/\\nVIII\\nAnswered Fitz-James And, if I sought,\\nThink st thou no other could be brought\\nWhat deem ye of my path waylaid 172\\nMy life given o er to ambuscade", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0223.jp2"}, "222": {"fulltext": "192\\nTHE LADY OF THE LAKE\\nAs of a meed to rashness due:\\nHadst thou sent warning fair and true,\\nI seek my hound or falcon strayed,\\nI seek, good faith, a Highland maid,\\nFree hadst thou been to come and go;\\nBut secret path marks secret foe.\\nNor yet for this, even as a spy, 180\\nHadst thou, unheard, been doomed to die,\\nSave to fulfil an augury.\\nWell, let it pass nor will I now\\nFresh cause of enmity avow,\\nTo chafe thy mood and cloud thy brow.\\nEnough, I am by promise tied\\nTo match me with this man of pride:\\nTwice have I sought Clan- Alpine s glen\\nIn peace; but when I come again,\\nI come with banner, brand, and bow, 190\\nAs leader seeks his mortal foe.\\nFor love-lorn swain in lady s bower\\nNe er panted for the appointed hour,\\nAs I, until before me stand\\nThis rebel Chieftain and his band\\nIX\\nHave then thy wish He whistled\\nshrill,\\nAnd he was answered from the hill;\\nWild as the scream of the curlew,\\nFrom crag to crag the signal flew.\\nInstant, through copse and heath, arose 200\\nBonnets and spears and bended bows;\\nOn right, on left, above, below,\\nSprung up at once the lurking foe;\\nFrom shingles gray their lances start,\\nThe bracken bush sends forth the dart,\\nThe rushes and the willow-wand\\nAre bristling into axe and brand,\\nAnd every tuft of broom gives life\\nTo plaided warrior armed for strife.\\nThat whistle garrisoned the glen 210\\nAt once with full five hundred men,\\nAs if the yawning hill to heaven\\nA subterranean host had given.\\nWatching their leader s beck and will,\\nAll silent there they stood and still.\\nLike the loose crags whose threatening mass\\nLay tottering o er the hollow pass,\\nAs if an infant s touch could urge\\nTheir headlong passage down the verge,\\nWith step and weapon forward flung, 220\\nUpon the mountain-side they hung.\\nThe Mountaineer cast glance of pride\\nAlong Benledi s living side,\\nThen fixed his eye and sable brow\\nFull on Fitz- James: How say st thou now\\nThese are Clan- Alpine s warriors true;\\nAnd, Saxon, I am Roderick Dhu\\nFitz James was brave though to his\\nheart\\nThe life-blood thrilled with sudden start,\\nHe manned himself with dauntless air, 230\\nReturned the Chief his haughty stare,\\nHis back against a rock he bore,\\nAnd firmly placed his foot before\\n1 Come one, come all this rock shall fly\\nFrom its firm base as soon as I.\\nSir Roderick marked, and in his eyes\\nRespect was mingled with surprise,\\nAnd the stern joy which warriors feel\\nIn foeman worthy of their steel.\\nShort space he stood then waved his\\nhand 240\\nDown sunk the disappearing band;\\nEach warrior vanished where he stood,\\nIn broom or bracken, heath or wood;\\nSunk brand and spear and bended bow,\\nIn osiers pale and copses low;\\nIt seemed as if their mother Earth\\nHad swallowed up her warlike birth.\\nThe wind s last breath had tossed in air\\nPennon and plaid and plumage fair,\\nThe next but swept a lone hill-side, 250\\nWhere heath and fern were waving wide\\nThe sun s last glance was glinted back\\nFrom spear and glaive, from targe and\\njack;\\nThe next, all unreflected, shone\\nOn bracken green and cold gray stone.\\nFitz-James looked round, yet scarce be-\\nlieved\\nThe witness that his sight received;\\nSuch apparition well might seem\\nDelusion of a dreadful dream.\\nSir Roderick in suspense he eyed, 260\\nAnd to his look the Chief replied:\\nFear nought nay, that I need not say\\nBut doubt not aught from mine array.\\nThou art my guest; I pledged my word\\nAs far as Coilantogle ford:\\nNor would I call a clansman s brand\\nFor aid against one valiant hand,\\nThough on our strife lay every vale\\nRent by the Saxon from the Gael.\\nSo move we on I only meant 270\\nTo show the reed on which you leant,\\nDeeming this path you might pursue", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0224.jp2"}, "223": {"fulltext": "CANTO FIFTH: THE COMBAT\\n193\\nWithout a pass from Roderick Dim.\\nThey moved; I said Fitz- James was\\nbrave\\nAs ever knight that belted glaive,\\nYet dare not say that now his blood\\nKept on its wont and tempered flood,\\nAs, following Roderick s stride, he drew\\nThat seeming lonesome pathway through,\\nWhich yet by fearful proof was rife 280\\nWith lances, that, to take his life,\\nWaited but signal from a guide,\\nSo late dishonored and defied.\\nEver, by stealth, his eye sought round\\nThe vanished guardians of the ground,\\nAnd still from copse and heather deep\\nFancy saw spear and broadsword peep,\\nAnd in the plover s shrilly strain\\nThe signal whistle heard again.\\nNor breathed he free till far behind 290\\nThe pass was left; for then they wind\\nAlong a wide and level green,\\nWhere neither tree nor tuft was seen,\\nNor rush nor bush of broom was near,\\nTo hide a bonnet or a spear.\\nXII\\nThe Chief in silence strode before,\\nAnd reached that torrent s sounding shore,\\nWhich, daughter of three mighty lakes,\\nFrom Vennachar in silver breaks,\\nSweeps through the plain, and ceaseless\\nmines 3\u00c2\u00b0\u00c2\u00b0\\nOn Bochastle the mouldering lines,\\nWhere Rome, the Empress of the world,\\nOf yore her eagle wings unfurled.\\nAnd here his course the Chieftain stayed,\\nThrew down his target and his plaid,\\nAnd to the Lowland warrior said:\\nI Bold Saxon to his promise just,\\nVich-Alpine has discharged his trust.\\nThis murderous Chief, this ruthless man,\\nThis head of a rebellious clan, 310\\nHath led thee safe, through watch and\\nward,\\nFar past Clan- Alpine s outmost guard.\\nNow, man to man, and steel to steel,\\nA Chieftain s vengeance thou shalt feel.\\nSee, here all vantageless I stand,\\nArmed like thyself with single brand;\\nFor this is Coilantogle ford,\\nAnd thou must keep thee with thy sword.\\nXIII\\nThe Saxon paused I ne er delayed,\\nWhen foeman bade me draw my blade; 320\\nNay more, brave Chief, I vowed thy death\\nYet sure thy fair and generous faith,\\nAnd my deep debt for life preserved,\\nA better meed have well deserved\\nCan nought but blood our feud atone\\nAre there no means No, stranger,\\nnone\\nAnd hear, to fire thy flagging zeal,\\nThe Saxon cause rests on thy steel;\\nFor thus spoke Fate by prophet bred\\nBetween the living and the dead: 330\\nWho spills the foremost foeman s life,\\nHis party conquers in the strife.\\nThen, by my word, the Saxon said,\\nThe riddle is already read.\\nSeek yonder brake beneath the cliff,\\nThere lies Red Murdoch, stark and stiff.\\nThus Fate hath solved her prophecy;\\nThen yield to Fate, and not to me.\\nTo James at Stirling let us go,\\nWhen, if thou wilt be still his foe, 340\\nOr if the King shall not agree\\nTo grant thee grace and favor free,\\nI plight mine honor, oath, and word\\nThat, to thy native strengths restored,\\nWith each advantage shalt thou stand\\nThat aids thee now to guard thy land.\\nXIV\\nDark lightning flashed from Roderick s eye\\nSoars thy presumption, then, so high,\\nBecause a wretched kern ye slew,\\nHomage to name to Roderick Dhu 350\\nHe yields not, he, to man nor Fate\\nThou add st but fuel to my hate;\\nMy clansman s blood demands revenge.\\nNot yet prepared By heaven, I change\\nMy thought, and hold thy valor light\\nAs that of some vain carpet knight,\\nWho ill deserved my courteous care,\\nAnd whose best boast is but to wear\\nA braid of his fair lady s hair.\\nI thank thee, Roderick, for the word 360\\nIt nerves my heart, it steels my sword;\\nFor I have sworn this braid to stain\\nIn the best blood that warms thy vein.\\nNow, truce, farewell and, ruth, begone\\nYet think not that by thee alone,\\nProud Chief can courtesy be shown;\\nThough not from copse, or heath, or cairn,\\nStart at my whistle clansmen stern,\\nOf this small horn one feeble blast\\nWould fearful odds against thee cast. 370\\nBut fear not doubt not which thou\\nwilt", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0225.jp2"}, "224": {"fulltext": "94\\nTHE LADY OF THE LAKE\\nWe try this quarrel hilt to hilt/\\nThen each at once his falchion drew,\\nEach on the ground his scabbard threw,\\nEach looked to sun and stream and plain\\nAs what they ne er might see again;\\nThen foot and point and eye opposed,\\nIn dubious strife they darkly closed.\\nXV\\n111 fared it then with Roderick Dhu,\\nThat on the field his targe he threw, 380\\nWhose brazen studs and tough bull-hide\\nHad death so often dashed aside;\\nFor, trained abroad his arms to wield,\\nFitz-James s blade was sword and shield.\\nHe practised every pass and ward,\\nTo thrust, to strike, to feint, to guard;\\nWhile less expert, though stronger far,\\nThe Gael maintained unequal war.\\nThree times in closing strife they stood,\\nAnd thrice the Saxon blade drank blood; 390\\nNo stinted draught, no scanty tide,\\nThe gushing flood the tartans dyed.\\nFierce Roderick felt the fatal drain,\\nAnd showered his blows like wintry rain;\\nAud, as firm rock or castle-roof\\nAgainst the winter shower is proof,\\nThe foe, invulnerable still,\\nFoiled his wild rage by steady skill;\\nTill, at advantage ta en, his brand 399\\nForced Roderick s weapon from his hand,\\nAnd backward borne upon the lea,\\nBrought the proud Chieftain to his knee.\\nNow yield thee, or by Him who made\\nThe world, thy heart s blood dyes my\\nblade\\nThy threats, thy mercy, I defy\\nLet recreant yield, who fears to die.\\nLike adder darting from his coil,\\nLike wolf that dashes through the toil,\\nLike mountain-cat who guards her young,\\nFull at Fitz-James s throat he sprung; 410\\nReceived, but recked not of a wound,\\nAnd locked his arms his foeman round.\\nNow, gallant Saxon, hold thine own\\nNo maiden s hand is round thee thrown\\nThat desperate grasp thy frame might feel\\nThrough bars of brass and triple steel\\nThey tug, they strain down, down they go,\\nThe Gael above, Fitz-James below.\\nThe Chieftain s gripe his throat com-\\npressed,\\nHis knee was planted on his breast;\\nHis clotted locks he backward threw,\\nAcross his brow his hand he drew,\\nFrom blood and mist to clear his sight,\\nThen gleamed aloft his dagger bright\\nBut hate and fury ill supplied\\nThe stream of life s exhausted tide,\\nAud all too late the advantage came,\\nTo turn the odds of deadly game;\\nFor, while the dagger gleamed on high,\\nReeled soul and sense, reeled brain and\\neye. 4SO\\nDown came the blow but in the heath\\nThe erring blade found bloodless sheath.\\nThe struggling foe may now unclasp\\nThe fainting Chief s relaxing grasp;\\nUnwounded from the dreadful close,\\nBut breathless all, Fitz-James arose.\\nXVII\\nHe faltered thanks to Heaven for life,\\nRedeemed, unhoped, from desperate strife:\\nNext on his foe his look he cast,\\nWhose every gasp appeared his last; 440\\nIn Roderick s gore he dipped the braid,\\nPoor Blanche thy wrongs are dearly\\npaid;\\nYet with thy foe must die, or live,\\nThe praise that faith and valor give.\\nWith that he blew a bugle note,\\nUndid the collar from his throat,\\nUnbonneted, and by the wave\\nSat down his brow and hands to lave.\\nThen faint afar are heard the feet\\nOf rushing steeds in gallop fleet; 450\\nThe sounds increase, and now are seen\\nFour mounted squires in Lincoln green;\\nTwo who bear lance, and two who lead\\nBy loosened rein a saddled steed;\\nEach onward held his headlong course,\\nAnd by Fitz-James reined up his horse,\\nWith wonder viewed the bloody spot,\\nExclaim not, gallants question not.\\nYou, Herbert and Lnffness, alight,\\nAnd bind the wounds of yonder knight; 460\\nLet the gray palfrey bear his weight,\\nWe destined for a fairer freight,\\nAnd bring him on to Stirling straight;\\nI will before at better speed,\\nTo seek fresh horse and fitting weed.\\nThe sun rides high I must be boune\\nTo see the archer-game at noon;\\nBut lightly Bayard clears the lea.\\nDe Vaux and Herries, follow me.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0226.jp2"}, "225": {"fulltext": "CANTO FIFTH: THE COMBAT\\n95\\nXVIII\\n4 Stand, Bayard, stand! the steed\\nobeyed, 470\\nWith arching neck and bended head,\\nAnd glancing eye and quivering ear,\\nAs if he loved his lord to hear.\\nNo foot Fitz-Jaraes in stirrup stayed,\\nNo grasp upon the saddle laid,\\nBut wreathed his left hand in the mane,\\nAnd lightly bounded from the plain,\\nTurned on the horse his armed heel,\\nAnd stirred his courage with the steel.\\nBounded the fiery steed in air, 480\\nThe rider sat erect and fair,\\nThen like a bolt from steel crossbow\\nForth launched, along the plain they go.\\nThey dashed that rapid torrent through,\\nAnd up Carhonie s hill they flew;\\nStill at the gallop pricked the Knight,\\nHis merry men followed as they might.\\nAlong thy banks, swift Teith, they ride,\\nAnd in the race they mock thy tide;\\nTorry and Lendrick now are past, 490\\nAnd Deaustown lies behind them cast;\\nThey rise, the bannered towers of Doune,\\nThey sink in distant woodland soon;\\nBlair-Drummond sees the hoofs strike fire,\\nThey sweep like breeze through Ochter-\\nty re\\nThey mark just glance and disappear\\nThe lofty brow of ancient Kier;\\nThey bathe their coursers sweltering sides,\\nDark Forth amid thy sluggish tides,\\nAnd on the opposing shore take ground, 500\\nWith plash, with scramble, and with bound.\\nRight-hand they leave thy cliffs, Craig-\\nForth\\nAnd soon the bulwark of the North,\\nGray Stirling, with her towers and town,\\nUpon their fleet career look down.\\nAs up the flinty path they strained,\\nSudden his steed the leader reined;\\nA signal to his squire he flung,\\nWho instant to his stirrup sprung:\\nSeest thou, De Vaux, yon woodsman\\ngray, 510\\nWho townward holds the rocky way,\\nOf stature tall and poor array\\nMark st thou the firm yet active stride,\\nWith which he scales the mountain side\\nKnow st thou from whence he comes, or\\nwhom\\nNo, by my word a burly groom\\nHe seems, who in the field or chase\\nA baron s train would nobly grace\\n1 Out, out, De Vaux can fear supply,\\nAnd jealousy, no sharper eye 520\\nAfar, ere to the hill he drew,\\nThat stately form and step I knew;\\nLike form in Scotland is not seen,\\nTreads not such step on Scottish green.\\nT is James of Douglas, by Saint Serle\\nThe uncle of the banished Earl.\\nAway, away, to court, to show\\nThe near approach of dreaded foe:\\nThe King must stand upon his guard;\\nDouglas and he must meet prepared. 530\\nThen right-hand wheeled their steeds, and\\nstraight\\nThey won the Castle s postern gate.\\nxx\\nThe Douglas who had bent his way\\nFrom Cambus-kenneth s abbey gray,\\nNow, as he climbed the rocky shelf,\\nHeld sad communion with himself:\\nYes all is true my fears could frame;\\nA prisoner lies the noble Graeme,\\nAnd fiery Roderick soon will feel\\nThe vengeance of the royal steel. 540\\nI, only I, can ward their fate,\\nGod grant the ransom come not late\\nThe Abbess hath her promise given,\\nMy child shall be the bride of Heaven;\\nBe pardoned one repining tear\\nFor He who gave her knows how dear,\\nHow excellent but that is by,\\nAnd now my business is to die.\\nYe towers within whose circuit dread\\nA Douglas by his sovereign bled; 550\\nAnd thou, O sad and fatal mound\\nThat oft hast heard the death-axe sound,\\nAs on the noblest of the land\\nFell the stern headsman s bloody hand,\\nThe dungeon, block, and nameless tomb\\nPrepare for Douglas seeks his doom\\nBut hark what blithe and jolly peal\\nMakes the Franciscan steeple reel\\nAnd see upon the crowded street,\\nIn motley groups what masquers\\nmeet 560\\nBanner and pageant, pipe and drum,\\nAnd merry morrice-dancers come.\\nI guess, by all this quaint array,\\nThe burghers hold their sports to-day.\\nJames will be there; he loves such show,\\nWhere the good yeoman bends his bow,\\nAnd the tough wrestler foils his foe,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0227.jp2"}, "226": {"fulltext": "196\\nTHE LADY OF THE LAKE\\nAs well as where, in proud career,\\nThe high-born tilter shivers spear.\\nI 11 follow to the Castle-park, 570\\nAnd play my prize King James shall\\nmark\\nIf age has tamed these sinews stark,\\nWhose force so oft in happier days\\nHis boyish wonder loved to praise.\\nThe Castle gates were open flung,\\nThe quivering drawbridge rocked and\\nrung,\\nAnd echoed loud the flinty street\\nBeneath the courser s clattering feet,\\nAs slowly down the steep descent\\nFair Scotland s King and nobles went, 580\\nWhile all along the crowded way\\nWas jubilee and loud huzza.\\nAnd ever James was bending low\\nTo his white jennet s saddle-bow,\\nDoffing his cap to city dame,\\nWho smiled and blushed for pride and\\nshame.\\nAnd well the simperer might be vain,\\nHe chose the fairest of the train.\\nGravely he greets each city sire,\\nCommends each pageant s quaint attire, 590\\nGives to the dancers thanks aloud,\\nAnd smiles and nods upon the crowd,\\nWho rend the heavens with their ac-\\nclaims,\\nLong live the Commons King, King\\nJames\\nBehind the King thronged peer and knight,\\nAnd noble dame and damsel bright,\\nWhose fiery steeds ill brooked the stay\\nOf the steep street and crowded way.\\nBut in the train you might discern\\nDark lowering brow and visage stern; 600\\nThere nobles mourned their pride restrained,\\nAnd the mean burgher s joys disdained;\\nAnd chiefs, who, hostage for their clan,\\nWere each from home a banished man,\\nThere thought upon their own gray tower,\\nTheir waving woods, their feudal power,\\nAnd deemed themselves a shameful part\\nOf pageant which they cursed in heart.\\nNow, in the Castle-park, drew out\\nTheir checkered bands the joyous rout. 61\\nThere morricers, with bell at heel\\nAnd blade in hand, their mazes wheel;\\nBut chief, beside the butts, there stand\\nBold Robin Hood and all his band,\\nFriar Tuck with quarterstaff and cowl,\\nOld Scathelocke with his surly scowl,\\nMaid Marian, fair as ivory bone,\\nScarlet, and Mutch, and Little John;\\nTheir bugles challenge all that will,\\nIn archery to prove their skill. 6\\nThe Douglas bent a bow of might,\\nHis first shaft centred in the white,\\nAnd when in turn he shot again,\\nHis second split the first in twain.\\nFrom the King s hand must Douglas take\\nA silver dart, the archer s stake;\\nFondly he watched, with watery eye,\\nSome answering glance of sympathy,\\nNo kind emotion made reply\\nIndifferent as to archer wight, 630\\nThe monarch gave the arrow bright.\\nXXIII\\nNow, clear the ring for, hand to hand,\\nThe manly wrestlers take their stand.\\nTwo o er the rest superior rose,\\nAnd proud demanded mightier foes,\\nNor called in vain, for Douglas came.\\nFor life is Hugh of Larbert lame;\\nScarce better John of Alloa s fare,\\nWhom senseless home his comrades bare.\\nPrize of the wrestling match, the King 640\\nTo Douglas gave a golden ring,\\nWhile coldly glanced his eye of blue,\\nAs frozen drop of wintry dew.\\nDouglas would speak, but in his breast\\nHis struggling soul his words suppressed;\\nIndignant then he turned him where\\nTheir arms the brawny yeomen bare,\\nTo hurl the massive bar in air.\\nWhen each his utmost strength had shown,\\nThe Douglas rent an earth-fast stone 650\\nFrom its deep bed, then heaved it high,\\nAnd sent the fragment through the sky\\nA rood beyond the farthest mark;\\nAnd still in Stirling s royal park,\\nThe gray-haired sires, who know the past,\\nTo strangers point the Douglas cast,\\nAnd moralize on the decay\\nOf Scottish strength in modern day.\\nThe vale with loud applauses rang,\\nThe Ladies Rock sent back the clang. 660\\nThe King, with look unmoved, bestowed\\nA purse well filled with pieces broad.\\nIndignant smiled the Douglas proud\\nAnd threw the gold among the crowd,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0228.jp2"}, "227": {"fulltext": "CANTO FIFTH: THE COMBAT\\n197\\nWho now with anxious wonder scan,\\nAnd sharper glance, the dark gray man;\\nTill whispers rose among the throng,\\nThat heart so free, and hand so strong,\\nMust to the Douglas blood belong. 669\\nThe old men marked and shook the head,\\nTo see his hair with silver spread,\\nAnd winked aside, and told each son\\nOf feats upon the English done,\\nEre Douglas of the stalwart hand\\nWas exiled from his native land.\\nThe women praised his stately form,\\nThough wrecked by many a winter s storm\\nThe youth with awe and wonder saw\\nHis strength surpassing Nature s law.\\nThus judged, as is their wont, the crowd, 680\\nTill murmurs rose to clamors loud.\\nBut not a glance from that proud ring\\nOf peers who circled round the King\\nWith Douglas held communion kind,\\nOr called the banished man to mind;\\nNo, not from those who at the chase\\nOnce held his side the honored place,\\nBegirt his board, and in the field\\nFound safety underneath his shield;\\nFor he whom royal eyes disown, 690\\nWhen was his form to courtiers known\\nThe Monarch saw the gambols flag,\\nAnd bade let loose a gallant stag,\\nWhose pride, the holiday to crown,\\nTwo favorite greyhounds should pull down,\\nThat venison free and Bourdeaux wine\\nMight serve the archery to dine.\\nBut Luf ra, whom from Douglas side\\nNor bribe nor threat could e er divide,\\nThe fleetest hound in all the North, 700\\nBrave Lufra saw, and darted forth.\\nShe left the royal hounds midway,\\nAnd dashing on the antlered prey,\\nSunk her sharp muzzle in his flank,\\nAnd deep the flowing life-blood drank.\\nThe king s stout huntsman saw the sport\\nBy strange intruder broken short,\\nj Came up, and with his leash unbound\\nIn anger struck the noble hound.\\nThe Douglas had endured, that morn, 710\\nThe King s cold look, the nobles scorn,\\nAnd last, and worst to spirit proud,\\nHad borne the pity of the crowd;\\nBut Lufra had been fondly bred,\\nTo share his board, to watch his bed,\\nAnd oft would Ellen Lufra s neck\\nIn maiden glee with garlands deck;\\nThey were such playmates that with name\\nOf Lufra Ellen s image came.\\nHis stifled wrath is brimming high, 720\\nIn darkened brow and flashing eye;\\nAs waves before the bark divide,\\nThe crowd gave way before his stride;\\nNeeds but a buffet and no more,\\nThe groom lies senseless in his gore.\\nSuch blow no other hand could deal,\\nThough gauntleted in glove of steel.\\nThen clamored loud the royal train,\\nAnd brandished swords and staves amain,\\nBut stern the Baron s warning: Back 730\\nBack, on your lives, ye menial pack\\nBeware the Douglas. Yes behold,\\nKing James The Douglas, doomed of\\nold,\\nAnd vainly sought for near and far,\\nA victim to atone the war,\\nA willing victim, now attends,\\nNor craves thy grace but for his friends.\\nThus is my clemency repaid\\nPresumptuous Lord the Monarch said:\\nOf thy misproud ambitious clan, 74 o\\nThou, James of Bothwell, wert the man,\\nThe only man, in whom a foe\\nMy woman-mercy would not know;\\nBut shall a Monarch s presence brook\\nInjurious blow and haughty look\\nWhat ho the Captain of our Guard\\nGive the offender fitting ward.\\nBreak off the sports for tumult rose,\\nAnd yeomen gan to bend their bows,\\nBreak off the sports he said and\\nfrowned, 7SO\\nAnd bid our horsemen clear the ground.\\nXXVII\\nThen uproar wild and misarray\\nMarred the fair form of festal day.\\nThe horsemen pricked among the crowd,\\nRepelled by threats and insult loud;\\nTo earth are borne the old and weak,\\nThe timorous fly, the women shriek;\\nWith flint, with shaft, with staff, with bar,\\nThe hardier urge tumultuous war.\\nAt once round Douglas darkly sweep 760\\nThe royal spears in circle deep,\\nAnd slowly scale the pathway steep,\\nWhile on the rear in thunder pour\\nThe rabble with disordered roar.\\nWith grief the noble Douglas saw\\nThe Commons rise against the law,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0229.jp2"}, "228": {"fulltext": "198\\nTHE LADY OF THE LAKE\\nAnd to the leading soldier said:\\nSir John of Hyndford, t was my blade,\\nThat knighthood on thy shoulder laid;\\nFor that good deed permit me then 770\\nA word with these misguided men.\\nXXVIII\\nHear, gentle friends, ere yet for me\\nYe break the bands of fealty.\\nMy life, my honor, and my cause,\\nI tender free to Scotland s laws.\\nAre these so weak as must require\\nThe aid of your misguided ire\\nOr if I suffer causeless wrong,\\nIs then my selfish rage so strong,\\nMy sense of public weal so low, 780\\nThat, for mean vengeance on a foe,\\nThose cords of love I should unbind\\nWhich knit my country and my kind\\nO no Believe, in yonder tower\\nIt will not soothe my captive hour,\\nTo know those spears our foes should dread\\nFor me in kindred gore are red:\\nTo know, in fruitless brawl begun,\\nFor me that mother wails her son,\\nFor me that widow s mate expires, 790\\nFor me that orphans weep their sires,\\nThat patriots mourn insulted laws,\\nAnd curse the Douglas for the cause.\\nO let your patience ward such ill,\\nAnd keep your right to love me still\\nXXIX\\nThe crowd s wild fury sunk again\\nIn tears, as tempests melt in rain.\\nWith lifted hands and eyes, they prayed\\nFor blessings on his generous head\\nWho for his country felt alone, 800\\nAnd prized her blood beyond his own.\\nOld men upon the verge of life\\nBlessed him who stayed the civil strife;\\nAnd mothers held their babes on high,\\nThe self-devoted Chief to spy,\\nTriumphant over wrongs and ire,\\nTo whom the prattlers owed a sire.\\nEven the rough soldier s heart was moved;\\nAs if behind some bier beloved,\\nWith trailing arms and drooping head, 810\\nThe Douglas up the hill he led,\\nAnd at the Castle s battled verge,\\nWith sighs resigned Jris honored charge.\\nxxx\\nThe offended Monarch rode apart,\\nWith bitter thought and swelling heart,\\nAnd would not now vouchsafe again\\nThrough Stirling streets to lead his train.\\nO Lenox, who would wish to rule\\nThis changeling crowd, this common fool\\nHear st thou, he said, the loud acclaim 820\\nWith which they shout the Douglas name\\nWith like acclaim the vulgar throat\\nStrained for King James their morning\\nnote;\\nWith like acclaim they hailed the day\\nWhen first I broke the Douglas sway;\\nAnd like acclaim would Douglas greet\\nIf he could hurl me from my seat.\\nWho o er the herd would wish to reign,\\nFantastic, fickle, fierce, and vain\\nVain as the leaf upon the stream, 830\\nAnd fickle as a changeful dream;\\nFantastic as a woman s mood,\\nAnd fierce as Frenzy s fevered blood.\\nThou many-headed monster-thing,\\nwho would wish to be thy king\\nXXXI\\nBut soft what messenger of speed\\nSpurs hitherward his panting steed\\n1 guess his cognizance afar\\nWhat from our cousin, John of Mar\\n1 He prays, my liege, your sports keep\\nbound 840\\nWithin the safe and guarded ground;\\nFor some foul purpose yet unknown,\\nMost sure for evil to the throne,\\nThe outlawed Chieftain, Roderick Dhu,\\nHas summoned his rebellious crew;\\nT is said, in James of Bothwell s aid\\nThese loose banditti stand arrayed.\\nThe Earl of Mar this morn from Doune\\nTo break their muster marched, and soon\\nYour Grace will hear of battle fought; 850\\nBut earnestly the Earl besought,\\nTill for such danger he provide,\\nWith scanty train you will not ride.*\\nThou warn st me I have done amiss,\\nI should have earlier looked to this;\\n1 lost it in this bustling day.\\nRetrace with speed thy former way;\\nSpare not for spoiling of thy steed,\\nThe best of mine shall be thy meed.\\nSay to our faithful Lord of Mar,\\nWe do forbid the intended war;\\nRoderick this morn in single fight\\nWas made our prisoner by a knight,\\nAnd Douglas hath himself and cause", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0230.jp2"}, "229": {"fulltext": "CANTO SIXTH: THE GUARD-ROOM\\n199\\nSubmitted to our kingdom s laws.\\nThe tidings of their leaders lost\\nWill soon dissolve the mountain host,\\nNor would we that the vulgar feel,\\nFor their Chief s crimes, avenging steel.\\nBear Mar our message, Braco, fly 870\\nHe turned his steed, My liege, I hie,\\nYet ere I cross this lily lawn\\nI fear the broadswords will be drawn.\\nThe turf the flying courser spurned,\\nAnd to his towers the King returned.\\nIll with King James s mood that day\\nSuited gay feast and minstrel lay;\\nSoon were dismissed the courtly throng,\\nAnd soon cut short the festal song.\\nNor less upon the saddened town 8J\\nThe evening sunk in sorrow down.\\nThe burghers spoke of civil jar,\\nOf rumored feuds and mountain war,\\nOf Moray, Mar, and Roderick Dhu,\\nAll up in arms; the Douglas too,\\nThey mourned him pent within the hold,\\nWhere stout Earl William was of old.\\nAnd there his word the speaker stayed,\\nAnd finger on his lip he laid,\\nOr pointed to his dagger blade. 85\\nBut jaded horsemen from the west\\nAt evening to the Castle pressed,\\nAnd busy talkers said they bore\\nTidings of fight on Katrine s shore;\\nAt noon the deadly fray begun,\\nAnd lasted till the set of sun.\\nThus giddy rumor shook the town,\\nTill closed the Night her pennons brown.\\nCANTO SIXTH\\nTHE GUARD-ROOM\\nThe sun, awakening, through the smoky air\\nOf the dark city casts a sullen glance,\\nRousing each caitiff to his task of care,\\nOf sinful man the sad inheritance\\nSummoning revellers from the lagging\\ndance,\\nScaring the prowling robber to his den;\\nGilding on battled tower the warder s\\nlance,\\nAnd warning student pale to leave his\\npen,\\nAnd yield his drowsy eyes to the kind\\nnurse of men.\\nWhat various scenes, and O, what scenes\\nof woe, 10\\nAre witnessed by that red and strug-\\ngling beam\\nThe fevered patient, from his pallet low,\\nThrough crowded hospital beholds it\\nstream\\nThe ruined maiden trembles at its gleam,\\nThe debtor wakes to thought of gyve\\nand jail,\\nThe love-lorn wretch starts from torment-\\ning dream;\\nThe wakeful mother, by the glimmering\\npale,\\nTrims her sick infant s couch, and soothes\\nhis feeble wail.\\nAt dawn the towers of Stirling rang\\nWith soldier-step and weapon-clang, 20\\nWhile drums with rolling note foretell\\nRelief to weary sentinel.\\nThrough narrow loop and casement barred,\\nThe sunbeams sought the Court of Guard,\\nAnd, struggling with the smoky air,\\nDeadened the torches yellow glare.\\nIn comfortless alliance shone\\nThe lights through arch of blackened stone,\\nAnd showed wild shapes in garb of war,\\nFaces deformed with beard and scar, 30\\nAll haggard from the midnight watch,\\nAnd fevered with the stern debauch;\\nFor the oak table s massive board,\\nFlooded with wine, with fragments stored,\\nAnd beakers drained, and cups o erthrown,\\nShowed in what sport the night had flown.\\nSome, weary, snored on floor and bench;\\nSome labored still their thirst to quench;\\nSome, chilled with watching, spread their\\nhands\\nO er the huge chimney s dying brands, 40\\nWhile round them, or beside them flung,\\nAt every step their harness rung.\\nIll\\nThese drew not for their fields the sword,\\nLike tenants of a feudal lord,\\nNor owned the patriarchal claim\\nOf Chieftain in their leader s name;\\nAdventurers they, from far who roved,\\nTo live by battle which they loved.\\nThere the Italian s clouded face,\\nThe swarthy Spaniard s there you trace; 50\\nThe mountain-loving Switzer there\\nMore freely breathed in mountain-air;\\nThe Fleming there despised the soil", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0231.jp2"}, "230": {"fulltext": "200\\nTHE LADY OF THE LAKE\\nThat paid so ill the laborer s toil;\\nTheir rolls showed French and German\\nname;\\nAnd merry England s exiles came,\\nTo share, with ill-concealed disdain,\\nOf Scotland s pay the scanty gain.\\nAll brave in arms, well trained to wield\\nThe heavy halberd, brand, and shield; 60\\nIn camps licentious, wild, and bold;\\nIn pillage fierce and uncontrolled;\\nAnd now, by holytide and feast,\\nFrom rules of discipline released.\\nIV\\nThey held debate of bloody fray,\\nFought twixt Loch Katrine and Achray.\\nFierce was their speech, and mid their\\nwords\\nTheir hands oft grappled to their swords;\\nNor sunk their tone to spare the ear\\nOf wounded comrades groaning near, 70\\nWhose mangled limbs and bodies gored\\nBore token of the mountain sword,\\nThough, neighboring to the Court of\\nGuard,\\nTheir prayers and feverish wails were\\nheard,\\nSad burden to the ruffian joke,\\nAnd savage oath by fury spoke\\nAt length up started John of Brent,\\nA yeoman from the banks of Trent;\\nA stranger to respect or fear,\\nIn peace a chaser of the deer, 80\\nIn host a hardy mutineer,\\nBut still the boldest of the crew\\nWhen deed of danger was to do.\\nHe grieved that day their games cut\\nshort,\\nAnd marred the dicer s brawling sport,\\nAnd shouted loud, Renew the bowl\\nAnd, while a merry catch I troll,\\nLet each the buxom chorus bear,\\nLike brethren of the brand and spear.\\nsoldier s song\\nOur vicar still preaches that Peter and\\nPoule 90\\nLaid a swinging long curse on the bonny\\nbrown bowl,\\nThat tbere s wrath and despair in the\\njolly black-jack,\\nAnd the seven deadly sins in a flagon of\\nsack:\\nYet whoop, Barnaby off with thy liquor,\\nDrink upsees out, and a fig for the vicar\\nOur vicar he calls it damnation to sip\\nThe ripe ruddy dew of a woman s dear\\nlip,\\nSays that Beelzebub lurks in her kerchief\\nso sly,\\nAnd Apollyon shoots darts from her merry\\nblack eye; 99\\nYet whoop, Jack kiss Gillian the quicker,\\nTill she bloom like a rose, and a fig for the\\nvicar\\nOur vicar thus preaches, and why should\\nhe not\\nFor the dues of his cure are the placket\\nand pot;\\nAnd t is right of his office poor laymen to\\nlurch\\nWho infringe the domains of our good\\nMother Church.\\nYet whoop, bully-boys off with your\\nliquor,\\nSweet Marjorie s the word, and a fig for\\nthe vicar\\nVI\\nThe warder s challenge, heard without,\\nStayed in mid-roar the merry shout.\\nA soldier to the portal went, no\\nHere is old Bertram, sirs, of Ghent;\\nAnd beat for jubilee the drum\\nA maid and minstrel with him come.\\nBertram, a Fleming, gray and scarred,\\nWas entering now the Court of Guard,\\nA harper with him, and, in plaid\\nAll muffled close, a mountain maid,\\nWho backward shrunk to scape the view\\nOf the loose scene and boisterous crew.\\nWhat news? they roared: I only\\nknow, 120\\nFrom noon till eve we fought with foe,\\nAs wild and as untamable\\nAs the rude mountains where they dwell;\\nOn both sides store of blood is lost,\\nNor much success can either boast.\\nBut whence thy captives, friend such\\nspoil\\nAs theirs must needs reward thy toil.\\nOld dost thou wax, and wars grow sharp\\nThou now hast glee-maiden and harp\\nGet thee an ape, and trudge the land, 130\\nThe leader of a juggler band.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0232.jp2"}, "231": {"fulltext": "CANTO SIXTH: THE GUARD-ROOM\\nVII\\nNo, comrade no such fortune mine.\\nAfter the fight these sought our line,\\nThat aged harper and the girl,\\nAnd, having audience of the Earl,\\nMar bade I should purvey them steed,\\nAnd bring them hitherward with speed.\\nForbear your mirth and rude alarm,\\nFor none shall do them shame or harm.\\ni Hear ye his boast cried John of\\nBrent, 140\\nEver to strife and jangling bent;\\nShall he strike doe beside our lodge,\\nAnd yet the jealous niggard grudge\\nTo pay the forester his fee\\nI 11 have my share howe er it be,\\nDespite of Moray, Mar, or thee.\\nBertram his forward step withstood;\\nAnd, burning in his vengeful mood,\\nOld Allan, though unfit for strife,\\nLaid hand upon his dagger-knife 150\\nBut Ellen boldly stepped between,\\nAnd dropped at once the tartan screen:\\nSo, from his morning cloud, appears\\nThe sun of May through summer tears.\\nThe savage soldiery, amazed,\\nAs on descended angel gazed;\\nEven hardy Brent, abashed and tamed,\\nStood half admiring, half ashamed.\\nVIII\\nBoldly she spoke Soldiers, attend\\nMy father was the soldier s friend, 160\\nCheered him in camps, in marches led,\\nAnd with him in the battle bled.\\nNot from the valiant or the strong\\nShould exile s daughter suffer wrong.\\nAnswered De Brent, most forward still\\nIn every feat or good or ill:\\nI shame me of the part I played;\\nAnd thou an outlaw s child, poor maid\\nAn outlaw I by forest laws,\\nAnd merry Need wood knows the cause. 170\\nPoor Rose, if Rose be living now,\\nHe wiped his iron eye and brow,\\nMust bear such age, I think, as thou.\\nHear ye, my mates I go to call\\nThe Captain of our watch to hall:\\nThere lies my halberd on the floor;\\nAnd he that steps my halberd o er,\\nTo do the maid injurious part,\\nMy shaft shall quiver in his heart\\nBeware loose speech, or jesting rough; 180\\nYe all know John de Brent. Enough.\\nIX\\nTheir Captain came, a gallant young,\\nOf Tullibardine s house he sprung,\\nNor wore he yet the spurs of knight;\\nGay was his mien, his humor light,\\nAnd, though by courtesy controlled,\\nForward his speech, his bearing bold.\\nThe high-born maiden ill could brook\\nThe scanning of his curious look\\nAnd dauntless eye and yet, in sooth, 190\\nYoung Lewis was a generous youth;\\nBut Ellen s lovely face and mien,\\nIII suited to the garb and scene,\\nMight lightly bear construction strange,\\nAnd give loose fancy scope to range.\\nWelcome to Stirling towers, fair maid\\nCome ye to seek a champion s aid,\\nOn palfrey white, with harper hoar,\\nLike errant damosel of yore\\nDoes thy high quest a knight require, 200\\nOr may the venture suit a squire\\nHer dark eye flashed; she paused and\\nsighed\\nO what have I to do with pride\\nThrough scenes of sorrow, shame, and\\nstrife,\\nA suppliant for a father s life,\\nI crave an audience of the King.\\nBehold, to back my suit, a ring,\\nThe royal pledge of grateful claims,\\nGiven by the Monarch to Fitz-James.\\nThe signet-ring young Lewis took 210\\nWith deep respect and altered look,\\nAnd said: This ring our duties own;\\nAnd pardon, if to worth unknown,\\nIn semblance mean obscurely veiled,\\nLady, in aught my folly failed.\\nSoon as the day flings wide his gates,\\nThe King shall know what suitor waits.\\nPlease you meanwhile in fitting bower\\nRepose you till his waking hour;\\nFemale attendance shall obey 220\\nYour hest, for service or array.\\nPermit I marshal you the way.\\nBut, ere she followed, with the grace\\nAnd open bounty of her race,\\nShe bade her slender purse be shared\\nAmong the soldiers of the guard.\\nThe rest with thanks their guerdon took,\\nBut Brent, with shy and awkward look,\\nOn the reluctant maiden s hold 229\\nForced bluntly back the proffered gold:\\nForgive a haughty English heart,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0233.jp2"}, "232": {"fulltext": "THE LADY OF THE LAKE\\nAnd O, forget its ruder part\\nThe vacant purse shall be my share,\\nWhich in my barret-cap I 11 bear,\\nPerchance, in jeopardy of war,\\nWhere gayer crests may keep afar.\\nWith thanks t was all she could the\\nmaid\\nHis rugged courtesy repaid.\\nWhen Ellen forth with Lewis went,\\nAllan made suit to John of Brent: 240\\nMy lady safe, let your grace\\nGive me to see my master s face\\nHis minstrel I, to share his doom\\nBound from the cradle to the tomb.\\nTenth in descent, since first my sires\\nWaked for his noble house their lyres,\\nNor one of all the race was known\\nBut prized its weal above their own.\\nWith the Chief s birth begins our care;\\nOur harp must soothe the infant heir, 250\\nTeach the youth tales of fight, and grace\\nHis earliest feat of field or chase;\\nIn peace, in war, our rank we keep,\\nWe cheer his board, we soothe his sleep,\\nNor leave him till we pour our verse\\nA doleful tribute o er his hearse.\\nThen let me share his captive lot;\\nIt is my right, deny it not\\nLittle we reck, said John of Brent,\\nWe Southern men, of long descent; 260\\nNor wot we how a name a word\\nMakes clansmen vassals to a lord:\\nYet kind my noble landlord s part,\\nGod bless the house of Beaudesert\\nAnd, but I loved to drive the deer\\nMore than to guide the laboring steer,\\nI had not dwelt an outcast here.\\nCome, good old Minstrel, follow me;\\nThy Lord and Chieftain shalt thou see.\\nThen, from a rusted iron hook, 270\\nA bunch of ponderous keys he took,\\nLighted a torch, and Allan led\\nThrough grated arch and passage dread.\\nPortals they passed, where, deep within,\\nSpoke prisoner s moan and fetters din;\\nThrough rugged vaults, where, loosely\\nstored,\\nLay wheel, and axe, and headsman s\\nsword,\\nAnd many a hideous engine grim,\\nFor wrenching joint and crushing limb,\\nBy artists formed who deemed it shame 280\\nAnd sin to give their work a name.\\nThey halted at a low-browed porch,\\nAnd Brent to Allan gave the torch,\\nWhile bolt and chain he backward rolled,\\nAnd made the bar unhasp its hold.\\nThey entered: t was a prison-room\\nOf stern security and gloom,\\nYet not a dungeon; for the day\\nThrough lofty gratings found its way,\\nAnd rude and antique garniture 290\\nDecked the sad walls and oaken floor,\\nSuch as the rugged days of old\\nDeemed fit for captive noble s hold.\\nHere, said De Brent, thou mayst re-\\nmain\\nTill the Leech visit him again.\\nStrict is his charge, the warders tell,\\nTo tend the noble prisoner well.\\nRetiring then the bolt he drew,\\nAnd the lock s murmurs growled anew.\\nRoused at the sound, from lowly bed 300\\nA captive feebly raised his head;\\nThe wondering Minstrel looked, and\\nknew\\nNot his dear lord, but Roderick Dhu\\nFor, come from where Clan- Alpine fought,\\nThey, erring, deemed the Chief he sought.\\nXIII\\nAs the tall ship, whose lofty prore\\nShall never stem the billows more,\\nDeserted by her gallant band,\\nAmid the breakers lies astrand,\\nSo on his couch lay Roderick Dhu 310\\nAnd oft his fevered limbs he threw\\nIn toss abrupt, as when her sides\\nLie rocking in the advancing tides,\\nThat shake her frame with ceaseless beat,\\nYet cannot heave her from her seat;\\nO, how unlike her course at sea\\nOr his free step on hill and lea\\nSoon as the Minstrel he could scan,\\nWhat of thy lady of my clan 319\\nMy mother Douglas tell me all\\nHave they been ruined in my fall\\nAh, yes or wherefore art thou here\\nYet speak, speak boldly, do not fear/\\nFor Allan, who his mood well knew,\\nWas choked with grief and terror too.\\nWho fought who fled Old man,\\nbe brief;\\nSome might, for they had lost their\\nChief.\\nWho basely live who bravely died", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0234.jp2"}, "233": {"fulltext": "CANTO SIXTH: THE GUARD-ROOM\\n203\\nO, calm thee, Chief the Minstrel cried,\\nEllen is safe For that thank Heaven\\nAnd hopes are for the Douglas given;\\nThe Lady Margaret, too, is well; 332\\nAnd, for thy clan, on field or fell,\\nHas never harp of minstrel told\\nOf combat fought so true and bold.\\nThy stately Pine is yet unbent,\\nThough many a goodly bough is rent.\\nXIV\\nThe Chieftain reared his form on high,\\nAnd fever s fire was in his eye;\\nBut ghastly, pale, and livid streaks 340\\nCheckered his swarthy brow and cheeks.\\ni Hark, Minstrel I have heard thee play,\\nWith measure bold on festal day,\\nIn yon lone isle, again where ne er\\nShall harper play or warrior hear\\nThat stirring air that peals on high,\\nO er Dermid s race our victory.\\nStrike it and then, for well thou\\ncanst,\\nFree from thy minstrel-spirit glanced,\\nFling me the picture of the fight, 350\\nWhen met my clan the Saxon might.\\nI 11 listen, till my fancy hears\\nThe clang of swords, the crash of spears\\nThese grates, these walls, shall vanish then\\nFor the fair field of fighting men,\\nAnd my free spirit burst away,\\nAs if it soared from battle fray.\\nThe trembling Bard with awe obeyed,\\nSlow on the harp his hand he laid;\\nBut soon remembrance of the sight 360\\nHe witnessed from the mountain s height,\\nWith what old Bertram told at night,\\nAwakened the full power of song,\\nAnd bore him in career along;\\nAs shallop launched on river s tide,\\nThat slow and fearful leaves the side,\\nBut, when it feels the middle stream,\\nDrives downward swift as lightning s\\nbeam.\\nxv\\nBATTLE OF BEAL AN DUINE\\nThe Minstrel came once more to view\\nThe eastern ridge of Benvenue, 370\\nFor ere he parted he would say\\nFarewell to lovely Loch Achray\\nWhere shall he find, in foreign land,\\nSo lone a lake, so sweet a strand\\nThere is no breeze upon the fern,\\nNo ripple on the lake,\\nUpon her eyry nods the erne,\\nThe deer has sought the brake;\\nThe small birds will not sing aloud,\\nThe springing trout lies still, 380\\nSo darkly glooms yon thunder-cloud,\\nThat swathes, as with a purple shroud,\\nBenledi s distant hill.\\nIs it the thunder s solemn sound,\\nThat mutters deep and dread,\\nOr echoes from the groaning ground\\nThe warrior s measured tread\\nIs it the lightning s quivering glance\\nThat on the thicket streams,\\nOr do they flash on spear and lance 390\\nThe sun s retiring beams\\nI see the dagger-crest of Mar,\\nI see the Moray s silver star,\\nWave o er the cloud of Saxon war,\\nThat up the lake comes winding far\\nTo hero boune for battle-strife,\\nOr bard of martial lay,\\nT were worth ten years of peaceful\\nlife,\\nOne glance at their array\\nXVI\\nTheir light -armed archers far and\\nnear 400\\nSurveyed the tangled ground,\\nTheir centre ranks, with pike and spear,\\nA twilight forest frowned,\\nTheir barded horsemen in the rear\\nThe stern battalia crowned.\\nNo symbol clashed, no clarion rang,\\nStill were the pipe and drum\\nSave heavy tread, and armor s clang,\\nThe sullen march was dumb.\\nThere breathed no wind their crests to\\nshake, 4-10\\nOr wave their flags abroad;\\nScarce the frail aspen seemed to quake,\\nThat shadowed o er their road.\\nTheir vaward scouts no tidings bring,\\nCan rouse no lurking foe,\\nNor spy a trace of living thing,\\nSave when they stirred the roe;\\nThe host moves like a deep-sea wave,\\nWhere rise no rocks its pride to brave,\\nHigh-swelling, dark, and slow. 420\\nThe lake is passed, and now they gain\\nA narrow and a broken plain,\\nBefore the Trosachs rugged jaws;\\nAnd here the horse and spearmen pause,\\nWhile, to explore the dangerous glen,\\nDive through the pass the archer-men.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0235.jp2"}, "234": {"fulltext": "204\\nTHE LADY OF THE LAKE\\nXVII\\nAt once there rose so wild a yell\\nWithin that dark and narrow dell,\\nAs all the fiends from heaven that fell\\nHad pealed the banner-cry of hell 430\\nForth from the pass in tumult driven,\\nLike chaff before the wind of heaven,\\nThe archery appear:\\nFor life for life their flight they\\nply\\nAnd shriek, and shout, and battle-cry,\\nAnd plaids and bonnets waving high,\\nAnd broadswords flashing to the sky,\\nAre maddening in the rear.\\nOnward they drive in dreadful race,\\nPursuers and pursued; 44 o\\nBefore that tide of flight and chase,\\nHow shall it keep its rooted place,\\nThe spearmen s twilight wood\\nDown, down, cried Mar, your lances\\ndown\\nBear back both friend and foe\\nLike reeds before the tempest s frown,\\nThat serried grove of lances brown\\nAt once lay levelled low;\\nAnd closely shouldering side to side,\\nThe bristling ranks the onset bide. 450\\nWe 11 quell the savage mountaineer,\\nAs their Tinchel cows the game\\nThey come as fleet as forest deer,\\nWe 11 drive them back as tame.\\nXVIII\\nBearing before them in their course\\nThe relics of the archer force,\\nLike wave with crest of sparkling foam,\\nRight onward did Clan- Alpine come.\\nAbove the tide, each broadsword bright\\nWas brandishing like beam of light, 460\\nEach targe was dark below;\\nAnd with the ocean s mighty swing,\\nWhen heaving to the tempest s wing,\\nThey hurled them on the foe.\\nI heard the lance s shivering crash,\\nAs when the whirlwind rends the ash;\\nI heard the broadsword s deadly clang,\\nAs if a hundred anvils rang\\nBut Moray wheeled his rearward rank\\nOf horsemen on Clan- Alpine s flank, 47c\\nMy banner-men, advance\\nI see, he cried, their column shake.\\nNow, gallants for your ladies sake,\\nUpon them with the lance\\nThe horsemen dashed among the rout,\\nAs deer break through the broom;\\nTheir steeds are stout, their swords are\\nout,\\nThey soon make lightsome room.\\nClan- Alpine s best are backward borne\\nWhere, where was Roderick then 480\\nOne blast upon his bugle-horn\\nWere worth a thousand men.\\nAnd refluent through the pass of fear\\nThe battle s tide was poured;\\nVanished the Saxon s struggling spear,\\nVanished the mountain-sword.\\nAs Bracklinn s chasm, so black and steep,\\nReceives her roaring linn,\\nAs the dark caverns of the deep\\nSuck the wild whirlpool in, 49 o\\nSo did the deep and darksome pass\\nDevour the battle s mingled mass;\\nNone linger now upon the plain,\\nSave those who ne er shall fight again.\\nXIX\\nNow westward rolls the battle s din,\\nThat deep and doubling pass within.\\nMinstrel, away the work of fate\\nIs bearing on; its issue wait,\\nWhere the rude Trosachs dread defile\\nOpens on Katrine s lake and isle. 500\\nGray Benvenue I soon repassed,\\nLoch Katrine lay beneath me cast.\\nThe sun is set the clouds are met,\\nThe lowering scowl of heaven\\nAn inky hue of livid blue\\nTo the deep lake has given;\\nStrange gusts of wind from mountain glen\\nSwept o er the lake, then sunk again.\\nI heeded not the eddying surge,\\nMine eye but saw the Trosachs gorge, 510\\nMine ear but heard that sullen sound,\\nWhich like an earthquake shook the\\nground,\\nAnd spoke the stern and desperate strife\\nThat parts not but with parting life,\\nSeeming, to minstrel ear, to toll\\nThe dirge of many a passing soul.\\nNearer it comes the dim-wood glen\\nThe martial flood disgorged again,\\nBut not in mingled tide;\\nThe plaided warriors of the North 520\\nHigh on the mountain thunder forth\\nAnd overhang its side,\\nWhile by the lake below appears\\nThe darkening cloud of Saxon spears.\\nAt weary bay each shattered band,\\nEying their foemen, sternly stand;\\nTheir banners stream like tattered sail,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0236.jp2"}, "235": {"fulltext": "CANTO SIXTH: THE GUARD-ROOM\\n205\\nThat flings its fragments to the gale,\\nAnd broken arms and disarray\\nMarked the fell havoc of the day. 530\\nViewing the mountain s ridge askance,\\nThe Saxons stood in sullen trance,\\nTill Moray pointed with his lance,\\nAnd cried: Behold yon isle\\nSee none are left to guard its strand\\nBut women weak, that wring the hand:\\nT is there of yore the robber band\\nTheir booty wont to pile\\nMy purse, with bonnet-pieces store,\\nTo him will swim a bow-shot o er, 540\\nAnd loose a shallop from the shore.\\nLightly we 11 tame the war- wolf then,\\nLords of his mate, and brood, and den.\\nForth from the ranks a spearman sprung,\\nOn earth his casque and corselet rung,\\nHe plunged him in the wave\\nAll saw the deed, the purpose knew,\\nAnd to their clamors Benvenue\\nA mingled echo gave\\nThe Saxons shout, their mate to cheer, 550\\nThe helpless females scream for fear,\\nAnd yells for rage the mountaineer.\\nT was then, as by the outcry riven,\\nPoured down at once the lowering heaven:\\nA whirlwind swept Loch Katrine s breast,\\nHer billows reared their snowy crest.\\nWell for the swimmer swelled they high,\\nTo mar the Highland marksman s eye;\\nFor round him showered, mid rain and hail,\\nThe vengeful arrows of the Gael. 560\\nIn vain. He nears the isle and lo\\nHis hand is on a shallop s bow.\\nJust then a flash of lightning came,\\nIt tinged the waves and strand with flame;\\nI marked Duncraggan s widowed dame,\\nBehind an oak I saw her stand,\\nA naked dirk gleamed in her hand:\\nIt darkened, but amid the moan\\nOf waves I heard a dying groan\\nAnother flash the spearman floats 570\\nA weltering corse beside the boats,\\nAnd the stern matron o er him stood,\\nHer hand and dagger streaming blood.\\nRevenge revenge the Saxons cried,\\nThe Gaels exulting shout replied.\\nDespite the elemental rage,\\nAgain they hurried to engage;\\nBut, ere they closed in desperate fight,\\nBloody with spurring came a knight,\\nSprung from his horse, and from a crag 580\\nWaved twixt the hosts a milk-white flag.\\nClarion and trumpet by his side\\nRung forth a truce-note high and wide,\\nWhile, in the Monarch s name, afar\\nA herald s voice forbade the war,\\nFor Both well s lord and Roderick bold\\nWere both, he said, in captive hold.\\nBut here the lay made sudden stand,\\nThe harp escaped the Minstrel s hand\\nOft had he stolen a glance, to spy 590\\nHow Roderick brooked his minstrelsy:\\nAt first, the Chieftain, to the chime,\\nWith lifted hand kept feeble time;\\nThat motion ceased, yet feeling strong\\nVaried his look as changed the song;\\nAt length, no more his deafened ear\\nThe minstrel melody can hear;\\nHis face grows sharp, his hands are\\nclenched,\\nAs if some pang his heart-strings wrenched;\\nSet are his teeth, his fading eye 600\\nIs sternly fixed on vacancy;\\nThus, motionless and moanless drew,\\nHis parting breath stout Roderick Dhu\\nOld Allan-bane looked on aghast,\\nWhile grim and still his spirit passed;\\nBut when he saw that life was fled,\\nHe poured his wailing o er the dead.\\nXXII\\nAnd art thou cold and lowly laid,\\nThy foeman s dread, thy people s aid, 609\\nBreadalbane s boast, Clan-Alpine s shade\\nFor thee shall none a requiem say\\nFor thee, who loved the minstrel s lay,\\nFor thee, of Bothwell s house the stay,\\nThe shelter of her exiled line,\\nE en in this prison-house of thine,\\nI 11 wail for Alpine s honored Pine\\nWhat groans shall yonder valleys fill\\nWhat shrieks of grief shall rend yon hill\\nWhat tears of burning rage shall thrill,\\nWhen mourns thy tribe thy battles done,\\nThy fall before the race was won, 621\\nThy sword ungirt ere set of sun\\nThere breathes not clansman of thy line,\\nBut would have given his life for thine.\\nO, woe for Alpine s honored Pine\\nSad was thy lot on mortal stage\\nThe captive thrush may brook the cage,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0237.jp2"}, "236": {"fulltext": "206\\nTHE LADY OF THE LAKE\\nThe prisoned eagle dies for rage.\\nBrave spirit, do not scorn my strain\\nAnd, when its notes awake again, 630\\nEven she, so long beloved in vain,\\nShall with my harp her voice combine,\\nAnd mix her woe and tears with mine,\\nTo wail Clan-Alpine s honored Pine.\\nEllen the while, with bursting heart,\\nRemained in lordly bower apart,\\nWhere played, with many-colored gleams,\\nThrough storied pane the rising beams.\\nIn vain on gilded roof they fall,\\nAnd lightened up a tapestried wall, 640\\nAnd for her use a menial train\\nA rich collation spread in vain.\\nThe banquet proud, the chamber gay,\\nScarce drew one curious glance astray;\\nOr if she looked, t was but to say,\\nWith better omen dawned the day\\nIn that lone isle, where waved on high\\nThe dun-deer s hide for canopy;\\nWhere oft her noble father shared\\nThe simple meal her care prepared, 650\\nWhile Lufra, crouching by her side,\\nHer station claimed with jealous pride,\\nAnd Douglas, bent on woodland game,\\nSpoke of the chase to Malcolm Graeme,\\nWhose answer, oft at random made,\\nThe wandering of his thoughts betrayed.\\nThose who such simple joys have known\\nAre taught to prize them when they re\\ngone.\\nBut sudden, see, she lifts her head,\\nThe window seeks with cautious tread. 660\\nWhat distant music has the power\\nTo win her in this woful hour\\nT was from a turret that o erhung\\nHer latticed bower, the strain was sung.\\nXXIV\\nLAY OF THE IMPRISONED HUNTSMAN\\nMy hawk is tired of perch and hood,\\nMy idle greyhound loathes his food,\\nMy horse is weary of his stall,\\nAnd I am sick of captive thrall.\\nI wish I were as I have been,\\nHunting the hart in forest green, 670\\nWith bended bow and bloodhound free,\\nFor that s the life is meet for me.\\nI hate to learn the ebb of time\\nFrom yon dull steeple s drowsy chime,\\nOr mark it as the sunbeams crawl,\\nInch after inch, along the wall.\\nThe lark was wont my matins ring,\\nThe sable rook my vespers sing,\\nThese towers, although a king s they be,\\nHave not a hall of joy for me. 680\\nNo more at dawning morn I rise,\\nAnd sun myself in Ellen s eyes,\\nDrive the fleet deer the forest through,\\nAnd homeward wend with evening dew;\\nA blithesome welcome blithely meet,\\nAnd lay my trophies at her feet,\\nWhile fled the eve on wing of glee,\\nThat life is lost to love and me\\nxxv\\nThe heart-sick lay was hardly said,\\nThe listener had not turned her head, 690\\nIt trickled still, the starting tear,\\nWhen light a footstep struck her ear,\\nAnd Snowdoun s graceful Knight was near.\\nShe turned the hastier, lest again\\nThe prisoner should renew his strain.\\nO welcome, brave Fitz-James she said;\\nHow may an almost orphan maid\\nPay the deep debt O say not so\\nTo me no gratitude you owe.\\nNot mine, alas the boon to give, 700\\nAnd bid thy noble father live;\\nI can but be thy guide, sweet maid,\\nWith Scotland s King thy suit to aid.\\nNo tyrant he, though ire and pride\\nMay lay his better mood aside.\\nCome, Ellen, come t is more than time,\\nHe holds his court at morning prime.\\nWith beating heart, and bosom wrung,\\nAs to a brother s arm she clung.\\nGently he dried the falling tear, 710\\nAnd gently whispered hope and cheer;\\nHer faltering steps half led, half stayed,\\nThrough gallery fair and high arcade,\\nTill at his touch its wings of pride\\nA portal arch unfolded wide.\\nXXVI\\nWithin t was brilliant all and light,\\nA thronging scene of figures bright;\\nIt glowed on Ellen s dazzled sight,\\nAs when the setting sun has given\\nTen thousand hues to summer even, 720\\nAnd from their tissue fancy frames\\nAerial knights and fairy dames.\\nStill by Fitz-James her footing staid;\\nA few faint steps she forward made,\\nThen slow her drooping head she raised,\\nAnd fearful round the presence gazed;", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0238.jp2"}, "237": {"fulltext": "CANTO SIXTH: THE GUARD-ROOM\\n207\\nFor him she sought who owned this state,\\nThe dreaded Prince whose will was fate\\nShe gazed on many a princely port\\nMight well have ruled a royal court; 730\\nOn many a splendid garb she gazed,\\nThen turned bewildered and amazed,\\nFor all stood bare and in the room\\nFitz-James alone wore cap and plume.\\nTo hitn each lady s look was lent,\\nOn him each courtier s eye was bent;\\nMidst furs and silks and jewels sheen,\\nHe stood, in simple Lincoln green,\\nThe centre of the glittering ring,\\nAnd Snowdoun s Knight is Scotland s\\nKing\\nXXVII\\nAs wreath of snow on mountain-breast\\nSlides from the rock that gave it rest,\\nPoor Ellen glided from her stay,\\nAnd at the Mouarch s feet she lay;\\nNo word her choking voice commands,\\nShe showed the ring, she clasped her\\nhands.\\n0, not a moment could he brook,\\nThe generous Prince, that suppliant look\\nGently he raised her, and, the while,\\nChecked with a glance the circle s smile; 750\\nGraceful, but grave, her brow he kissed,\\nAnd bade her terrors be dismissed:\\nYes, fair; the wandering poor Fitz-James\\nThe fealty of Scotland claims.\\nTo him thy woes, thy wishes, bring;\\nHe will redeem his signet ring.\\nAsk nought for Douglas; yester even,\\nHis Prince and he have much forgiven;\\nWrong hath he had from slanderous\\ntongue,\\n1, from his rebel kinsmen, wrong. 760\\nWe would not, to the vulgar crowd,\\nYield what they craved with clamor loud;\\nCalmly we heard and judged his cause,\\nOur council aided and our laws.\\nI stanched thy father s death-feud stern\\nWith stout De Vaux and gray Glencairn;\\nAnd Both well s Lord henceforth we own\\nThe friend and bulwark of our throne.\\nBut, lovely infidel, how now\\nWhat clouds thy misbelieving brow 770\\nLord James of Douglas, lend thine aid;\\nThou must confirm this doubting maid.\\nXXVIII\\nThen forth the noble Douglas sprung,\\nAnd on his neck his daughter hung.\\nThe Monarch drank, that happy hour,\\nThe sweetest, holiest draught of Power,\\nWhen it can say with godlike voice,\\nArise, sad Virtue, and rejoice\\nYet would not James the general eye\\nOn nature s raptures long should pry; 780\\nHe stepped between Nay, Douglas,\\nnay,\\nSteal not my proselyte away\\nThe riddle t is my right to read,\\nThat brought this happy chance to speed.\\nYes, Ellen, when disguised I stray\\nIn life s more low but happier way,\\nT is under name which veils my power,\\nNor falsely veils, for Stirling s tower\\nOf yore the name of Snowdoun claims, 789\\nAnd Normans call me James Fitz-James.\\nThus watch I o er insulted laws,\\nThus learn to right the injured cause.\\nThen, in a tone apart and low,\\nAh, little traitress none must know\\nWhat idle dream, what lighter thought,\\nWhat vanity full dearly bought,\\nJoined to thine eye s dark witchcraft, drew\\nMy spell-bound steps to Benvenue\\nIn dangerous hour, and all but gave 799\\nThy Monarch s life to mountain glaive\\nAloud he spoke: Thou still dost hold\\nThat little talisman of gold,\\nPledge of my faith, Fitz-James s ring,\\nWhat seeks fair Ellen of the King\\nXXIX\\nFull well the conscious maiden guessed\\nHe probed the weakness of her breast;\\nBut with that consciousness there came\\nA lightening of her fears for Graeme,\\nAnd more she deemed the Monarch s ire\\nKindled gainst him who for her sire 810\\nRebellious broadsword boldly drew;\\nAnd, to her generous feeling true,\\nShe craved the grace of Roderick Dhu.\\nForbear thy suit; the King of kings\\nAlone can stay life s parting wings.\\nI know his heart, I know his hand,\\nHave shared his cheer, and proved his\\nbrand;\\nMy fairest earldom would I give\\nTo bid Clan- Alpine s Chieftain live\\nHast thou no other boon to crave 820\\nNo other captive friend to save\\nBlushing, she turned her from the King,\\nAnd to the Douglas gave the ring,\\nAs if she wished her sire to speak\\nThe suit that stained her glowing cheek.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0239.jp2"}, "238": {"fulltext": "208\\nTHE VISION OF DON RODERICK\\nNay, then, my pledge has lost its force,\\nAnd stubborn justice holds her course.\\nMalcolm, come forth and, at the\\nword,\\nDown kneeled the Graeme to Scotland s\\nLord. 829\\nFor thee, rash youth, no suppliant sues,\\nFrom thee may Vengeance claim her\\ndues,\\nWho, nurtured underneath our smile,\\nHast paid our care by treacherous wile,\\nAnd sought amid thy faithful clan\\nA refuge for an outlawed man,\\nDishonoring thus thy loyal name.\\nFetters and warder for the Graame\\nHis chain of gold the King unstrung,\\nThe links o er Malcolm s neck he flung,\\nThen gently drew the glittering band, 840\\nAnd laid the clasp on Ellen s hand.\\nHarp of the North, farewell The hills\\ngrow dark,\\nOn purple peaks a deeper shade de-\\nscending;\\nIn twilight copse the glow-worm lights her\\nspark,\\nThe deer, half-seen, are to the covert\\nwending.\\nResume thy wizard elm the fountain\\nlending,\\nAnd the wild breeze, thy wilder min-\\nstrelsy;\\nThy numbers sweet with nature s vespers\\nblending,\\nWith distant echo from the fold and lea,\\nAnd herd-boy s evening pipe, and hum\\nof housing bee. 850\\nYet, once again, farewell, thou Minstrel\\nHarp\\nYet, once again, forgive my feeble sway,\\nAnd little reck I of the censure sharp\\nMay idly cavil at an idle lay.\\nMuch have I owed thy strains on life s\\nlong way,\\nThrough secret woes the world has never\\nknown,\\nWhen on the weary night dawned wearier\\nday,\\nAnd bitterer was the grief devoured\\nalone.\\nThat I o erlive such woes, Enchantress is\\nthine own.\\nHark as my lingering footsteps slow\\nretire, 860\\nSome Spirit of the Air has waked thy\\nstring\\nT is now a seraph bold, with touch of fire,\\nT is now the brush of Fairy s frolic\\nwing.\\nReceding now, the dying numbers ring\\nFainter and fainter down the merged\\ndell; m\\nAnd now the mountain breezes scarcely\\nbring\\nA wandering witch-note of the distant\\nspell\\nAnd now, t is silent all Enchantress,\\nfare thee well\\nTHE VISION OF DON RODERICK\\nINTRODUCTORY NOTE\\nThe foundation of The Vision of Don\\nRoderick is given by Scott in the Preface\\nprinted below and referred to again in the\\nNotes, but there was no further Introduction\\nin 1830, and it is to the Dedication, Scott s\\nLetters, and to Lockhart s Life that we must\\nturn for an explanation of the occasion which\\nproduced the poem. In a letter to Lady Ab-\\nercorn, dated Ashestiel, 30th April, 1811, Scott\\nwrites\\nI promised I would not write any poetry\\nwithout letting you know, and I make all sort\\nof haste to tell you of my sudden determina-\\ntion to write a sort of rhapsody upon the af-\\nfairs of the Peninsula. It is to be called The\\nVision of Don Roderick, and is founded upon\\nthe apparition explanatory of the future events\\nin Spain, said to be seen by the last King of\\nthe Gothic race, in a vault beneath the great\\nchurch of Toledo. I believe your Ladyship\\nwill find something of the story in the Com-\\ntesse DAunois travels into Spain, but I find\\nit at most length in an old Spanish history of\\nthe aforesaid Don Roderick, professing to be\\ntranslated from the Arabic, but being in trutk\\na mere romance of the reign of Ferdinand ancL", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0240.jp2"}, "239": {"fulltext": "INTRODUCTORY NOTE\\n209\\nIsabella. It will serve my purpose, however,\\ntout de meme. The idea of forming a short\\nlyric piece upon this subject has often glided\\nthrough my mind, but I should never, I fear,\\nhave had the grace to turn it to practice if it\\nwere not that groping in my pockets to find\\nsome guineas for the suffering Portuguese,\\nand detecting very few to spare, I thought I\\ncould only have recourse to the apostolic\\nbenediction, Silver and gold have I none, but\\nthat which I have I will give unto you.\\nMy friends and booksellers, the Ballantynes\\nof Edinburgh, have very liberally promised\\nme a hundred guineas for this trifle, which I\\nintend to send to the fund for relieving the\\nsufferers in Portugal. I have come out to\\nthis wilderness to write my poem, and so soon\\nas it is finished I will send you, my dear Lady\\nMarchioness, a copy, not that it will be\\nworth your acceptance, but merely that you\\nmay be assured I am doing nothing that I\\nwould not you knew of sooner than any one.\\nI intend to write to the Chairman of the Com-\\nmittee by to-morrow s post. I would give\\nthem a hundred drops of my blood with the\\nsame pleasure, would it do them service, for\\nmy heart is a soldier s, and always has been,\\nthough my lameness rendered me unfit for the\\nprofession, which, old as I am, I would rather\\nfollow than any other. But these are waking\\ndreams, in which I seldom indulge even to my\\nkindest friends.\\nThe poem, which was published July 15,\\n1811, called out two criticisms, one for the\\nadoption of the Spenserian stanza, the other\\nfor the omission of any reference to Sir John\\nMoore, Scott s countryman who had just\\nfallen in battle in the cause which Scott was\\ncelebrating, and whose memory is kept alive\\nin many readers minds by Wolfe s martial\\nverses on his burial,\\nNot a drum was heard, not a funeral note,\\nAs his corse to the rampart we hurried.\\nScott meets both criticisms in a letter to Mor-\\nritt, September, 1811\\nThe Edinburgh Reviewers have been down\\non my poor Bon Roderick, hand to fist but\\ntruly, as they are too fastidious to approve of\\nthe campaign, I should be very unreasonable\\nif I expected them to like the celebration\\nthereof. I agree with you respecting the lum-\\nbering weight of the stanza, and I shrewdly\\nsuspect it would require a very great poet in-\\ndeed to prevent the tedium arising from the\\nfrequent recurrence of rhymes. Our language\\nis unable to support the expenditure of so\\nmany for each stanza even Spenser himself,\\nwith all the licenses of using obsolete words\\nand uncommon spelling, sometimes fatigues\\nthe ear. They are also very wroth with me\\nfor omitting the merits of Sir John Moore\\nbut as I never exactly discovered in what they\\nlay, unless in conducting his advance and re-\\ntreat upon a plan the most likely to verify\\nthe desponding speculations of the foresaid\\nreviewers, I must hold myself excused for not\\ngiving praise where I was unable to see that\\nmuch was due.\\nThe poem was both published in quarto form\\nand included in the Edinburgh Annual Register\\nfor 1809, which was not however published till\\n1811. It had the following\\nPREFACE\\nThe following Poem is founded upon a\\nSpanish Tradition, particularly detailed in the\\nNotes but bearing, in general, that Don Rod-\\nerick, the last Gothic King of Spain, when the\\nInvasion of the Moors was impending, had the\\ntemerity to descend into an ancient vault, near\\nToledo, the opening of which had been de-\\nnounced as fatal to the Spanish Monarchy.\\nThe legend adds, that his rash curiosity was\\nmortified by an emblematical representation of\\nthose Saracens who, in the year 714, defeated\\nhim in battle, and reduced Spain under their\\ndominion. I have presumed to prolong the\\nVision of the Revolutions of Spain down to\\nthe present eventful crisis of the Peninsula\\nand to divide it, by a supposed change of scene,\\ninto Three Periods. The First of these repre-\\nsents the Invasion of the Moors, the Defeat\\nand Death of Roderick, and closes with the\\npeaceful occupation of the country by the Vic-\\ntors. The Second Period embraces the state\\nof the Peninsula, when the conquests of the\\nSpaniards and Portuguese in the East and\\nWest Indies had raised to the highest pitch\\nthe renown of their arms sullied, however, by\\nsuperstition and cruelty. An allusion to the\\ninhumanities of the Inquisition terminates this\\npicture. The Last Part of the Poem opens\\nwith the state of Spain previous to the unpar-\\nalleled treachery of Bonaparte gives a sketch\\nof the usurpation attempted upon that unsus-\\npicious and friendly kingdom, and terminates\\nwith the arrival of the British succors. It may\\nbe further proper to mention that the object of\\nthe Poem is less to commemorate or detail\\nparticular incidents, than to exhibit a general\\nand impressive picture of the several periods\\nbrought upon the stage.\\nI am too sensible of the respect due to the\\nPublic, especially by one who has already ex-\\nperienced more than ordinary indulgence, to\\noffer any apology for the inferiority of the\\npoetry to the subject it is chiefly designed to\\ncommemorate. Yet I think it proper to men-\\ntion that while I was hastily executing a work,\\nwritten for a temporary purpose, and on pass-", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0241.jp2"}, "240": {"fulltext": "2IO\\nTHE VISION OF DON RODERICK\\ning events, the task was most cruelly inter-\\nrupted by the successive deaths of Lord Presi-\\ndent Blair and Lord Viscount Melville. In\\nthose distinguished characters I had not only\\nto regret persons whose lives were most im-\\nportant to Scotland, but also whose notice and\\npatronage honored my entrance upon active\\nlife and, I may add, with melancholy pride,\\nwho permitted my more advanced age to claim\\nno common share in their friendship. Under\\nsuch interruptions, the following verses, which\\nmy best and happiest efforts must have left\\nfar unworthy of their theme, have, I am my-\\nself sensible, an appearance of negligence and\\nincoherence, which, in other circumstances, I\\nmight have been able to remove.\\nEdutbubgh, June 24, 1811.\\nTHE VISION OF DON RODERICK\\nQuid dignum memorare tuis, Hispa.7iia, terris,\\nVox humana valet Claudian.\\nTO\\nJOHN WHITMORE, ESQ.,\\nAND TO THE\\nCOMMITTEE OF SUBSCRIBERS FOR RELIEF OF THE PORTUGUESE SUFFERERS\\nIN WHICH HE PRESIDES,\\nTHIS POEM,\\nCOMPOSED FOR THE BENEFIT OF THE FUND UNDER THEIR MANAGEMENT,\\nIS RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED BY\\nWALTER SCOTT.\\nINTRODUCTION\\nLives there a strain whose sounds of\\nmounting fire\\nMay rise distiuguished o er the din of\\nwar;\\nOr died it with yon Master of the Lyre,\\nWho sung beleaguered Ilion s evil\\nstar\\nSuch, Wellington, might reach thee\\nfrom afar,\\nWafting its descant wide o er Ocean s\\nrange\\nNor shouts, nor clashing arms, its mood\\ncould mar,\\nAll as it swelled twixt each loud trum-\\npet-change,\\nThat clangs to Britain victory, to Portugal\\nrevenge\\nII\\nYes such a strain, with all o erpower-\\ning measure, 10\\nMight melodize with each tumultuous\\nsound,\\nEach voice of fear or triumph, woe or\\npleasure,\\nThat rings Mond ego s ravaged shores\\naround\\nThe thundering cry of hosts with con-\\nquest crowned,\\nThe female shriek, the ruined peasant s\\nmoan,\\nThe shout of captives from their chains\\nunbound,\\nThe foiled oppressor s deep and sullen\\ngroan,\\nA Nation s choral hymn for tyranny o er-\\nthrown.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0242.jp2"}, "241": {"fulltext": "INTRODUCTION\\n211\\nIII\\nBut we, weak minstrels of a laggard\\nday, i9\\nSkilled but to imitate an elder page,\\nTimid and raptureless, can we repay\\nThe debt thou claim st in this ex-\\nhausted age\\nThou givest our lyres a theme, that\\nmight engage\\nThose that could send thy name o er\\nsea and land,\\nWhile sea and land shall last; for Ho-\\nmer s rage\\nA theme; a theme for Milton s mighty\\nhand\\nHow much unmeet for us, a faint degener-\\nate band\\nYe mountains stern within whose rug-\\nged breast\\nThe friends of Scottish freedom found\\nrepose;\\nYe torrents whose hoarse sounds have\\nsoothed their rest, 30\\nReturning from the field of vanquished\\nfoes;\\nSay, have ye lost each wild majestic\\nclose,\\nThat erst the choir of Bards or Druids\\nflung;\\nWhat time their hymn of victory arose,\\nAnd Cattraeth s glens with voice of\\ntriumph rung,\\nAnd mystic Merlin harped, and gray-haired\\nLlywarch sung\\nO, if your wilds such minstrelsy re-\\ntain,\\nAs sure your changeful gales seem oft\\nto say,\\nWhen sweeping wild and sinking soft\\nagain,\\nLike trumpet-jubilee or harp s wild\\nsway 40\\nIf ye can echo such triumphant lay,\\nThen lend the note to him has loved\\nyou long\\nWho pious gathered each tradition\\ngray,\\nThat floats your solitary wastes\\nalong,\\nAnd with affection vain gave them new\\nvoice in song.\\nVI\\nFor not till now, how oft soe er the task\\nOf truant verse hath lightened graver\\ncare,\\nFrom Muse or Sylvan was he wont to ask,\\nIn phrase poetic, inspiration fair; 49\\nCareless he gave his numbers to the air,\\nThey came unsought for, if applauses\\ncame;\\nNor for himself prefers he now the\\nprayer:\\nLet but his verse befit a hero s fame,\\nImmortal be the verse forgot the poet s\\nname\\nVII\\nHark, from yon misty cairn their answer\\ntost:\\nMinstrel the fame of whose roman-\\ntic lyre,\\nCapricious-swelling now, may soon be\\nlost,\\nLike the light flickering of a cottage fire;\\nIf to such task presumptuous thou aspire\\nSeek not from us the meed to warrior\\ndue: 60\\nAge after age has gathered son to sire,\\nSince our gray cliffs the din of conflict\\nknew,\\nOr, pealing through our vales, victorious\\nbugles blew.\\nVIII\\nDecayed our old traditionary lore,\\nSave where the lingering fays renew\\ntheir ring,\\nBy milkmaid seen beneath the hawthorn\\nhoar,\\nOr round the marge of Minchmore s\\nhaunted spring;\\nSave where their legends gray-haired\\nshepherds sing,\\nThat now scarce win a listening ear\\nbut thine, 69\\nOf feuds obscure and Border ravaging,\\nAnd rugged deeds recount in rugged\\nline\\nOf moonlight foray made on Teviot, Tweed,\\nor Tyne.\\nIX\\nNo search romantic lands, where the\\nnear Sun\\nGives with unstinted boon ethereal\\nflame,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0243.jp2"}, "242": {"fulltext": "212\\nTHE VISION OF DON RODERICK\\nWhere the rude villager, his labor done,\\nIn verse spontaneous chants some fa-\\nvored name,\\nWhether Olalia s charms his tribute\\nclaim\\nHer eye of diamond and her locks of\\njet,\\nOr whether, kindling at the deeds of\\nGraeme, 79\\nHe sing, to wild Morisco measure set,\\nOld Albin s red claymore, green Erin s\\nbayonet\\nExplore those regions, where the flinty\\ncrest\\nOf wild Nevada ever gleams with\\nsnows,\\nWhere in the proud Alhambra s ruined\\nbreast\\nBarbaric monuments of pomp repose\\nOr where the banners of more ruthless\\nfoes\\nThan the fierce Moor float o er Toledo s\\nfane,\\nFrom whose tall towers even now the\\npatriot throws\\nAn anxious glance, to spy upon the\\nplain\\nThe blended ranks of England, Portugal,\\nand Spain. 90\\nXI\\nThere, of Numantian fire a swarthy\\nspark\\nStill lightens in the sunburnt native s\\neye;\\nThe stately port, slow step, and visage\\ndark\\nStill mark enduring pride and con-\\nstancy.\\nAnd, if the glow of feudal chivalry\\nBeam not, as once, thy nobles dearest\\npride,\\nIberia oft thy crestless peasantry\\nHave seen the plumed Hidalgo quit\\ntheir side,\\nHave seen, yet dauntless stood gainst\\nfortune fought and died.\\nAnd cherished still by that unchanging\\nrace, 100\\nAre themes for minstrelsy more high\\nthan thine:\\nOf strange tradition many a mystic trace,\\nLegend and vision, prophecy and sign;\\nWhere wonders wild of Arabesque com-\\nbine\\nWith Gothic imagery of darker shade.\\nForming a model meet for minstrel line,\\nGo, seek such theme The Moun-\\ntain Spirit said:\\nWith filial awe I heard I heard, and I\\nobeyed.\\nTHE VISION OF DON RODERICK\\nRearing their crests amid the cloudless\\nskies,\\nAnd darkly clustering in the pale moon-\\nlight,\\nToledo s holy towers and spires arise,\\nAs from a trembling lake of silver\\nwhite.\\nTheir mingled shadows intercept the\\nsight\\nOf the broad burial ground out-\\nstretched below,\\nAnd nought disturbs the silence of the\\nnight;\\nAll sleeps in sullen shade, or silver\\nglow,\\nAll save the heavy swell of Teio s ceaseless\\nflow. 9\\nAll save the rushing swell of Teio s tide,\\nOr, distant heard, a courser s neigh or\\ntramp,\\nTheir changing rounds as watchful horse-\\nmen ride,\\nTo guard the limits of King Roderick s\\ncamp.\\nFor, through the river s night-fog rolling\\ndamp,\\nWas many a proud pavilion dimly seen,\\nWhich glimmered back, against the\\nmoon s fair lamp,\\nTissues of silk and silver twisted sheen,\\nAnd standards proudly pitched, and warders\\narmed between.\\nBut of their monarch s person keeping\\nward,\\nSince last the deep-mouthed bell of\\nvespers tolled, 20-", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0244.jp2"}, "243": {"fulltext": "THE VISION OF DON RODERICK\\n213\\nThe chosen soldiers of the royal guard\\nThe post beneath the proud cathedral\\nhold:\\nA band unlike their Gothic sires of old,\\nWho, for the cap of steel and iron mace,\\nBear slender darts and casques bedecked\\nwith gold,\\nWhile silver-studded belts their shoul-\\nders grace,\\nWhere ivory quivers ring in the broad fal-\\nchion s place.\\nIV\\nIn the light language of an idle court,\\nThey murmured at their master s long\\ndelay, 29\\nAnd held his lengthened orisons in sport:\\n1 What will Don Roderick here till\\nmorning stay,\\nTo wear in shrift and prayer the night\\naway?\\nAnd are his hours in such dull penance\\nFor fair Florinda s plundered charms to\\npay?\\nThen to the east their weary eyes they\\ncast,\\nAnd wished the lingering dawn would glim-\\nmer forth at last.\\nBut, far within, Toledo s prelate lent\\nAn ear of fearful wonder to the king;\\nThe silver lamp a fitful lustre sent, 39\\nSo long that sad confession witnessing:\\nFor Roderick told of many a hidden\\nthing,\\nSuch as are lothly uttered to the air,\\nWhen Fear, Remorse, and Shame the\\nbosom wring,\\nAnd Guilt his secret burden cannot\\nbear,\\nAnd Conscience seeks in speech a respite\\nfrom Despair.\\nVI\\nFull on the prelate s face and silver hair\\nThe stream of failing light was feebly\\nrolled\\nBut Roderick s visage, though his head\\nwas bare,\\nWas shadowed by his hand and mantle s\\nfold.\\nWhile of his hidden soul the sins he\\ntold, 50\\nProud Alaric s descendant could not\\nbrook\\nThat mortal man his bearing should\\nbehold,\\nOr boast that he had seen, when con-\\nscience shook,\\nFear tame a monarch s brow, remorse a\\nwarrior s look.\\nVII\\nThe old man s faded cheek waxed yefc\\nmore pale,\\nAs many a secret sad the king be-\\nwrayed\\nAs sign and glance eked out the unfin-\\nished tale,\\nWhen in the midst his faltering whisper\\nstaid.\\nThus royal Witiza was slain, he said;\\nYet, holy father, deem not it was I. 60\\nThus still Ambition strives her crimes\\nto shade.\\nO, rather deem t was stern necessity\\nSelf-preservation bade, and I must kill or\\ndie.\\nVIII\\nAnd if Florinda s shrieks alarmed the\\nair,\\nIf she invoked her absent sire in vain\\nAnd on her knees implored that I would\\nspare,\\nYet, reverend priest, thy sentence rash\\nrefrain\\nAll is not as it seems the female train\\nKnow by their bearing to disguise their\\nmood:\\nBut Conscience here, as if in high dis-\\ndain, 70\\nSent to the Monarch s cheek the burn-\\ning blood\\nHe stayed his speech abrupt and up the\\nprelate stood.\\nIX\\nO hardened offspring of an iron race\\nWhat of thy crimes, Don Roderick,\\nshall I say\\nWhat alms or prayers or penance can\\nefface\\nMurder s dark spot, wash treason s\\nstain away\\nFor the foul ravisher how shall I pray,\\nWho, scarce repentant, makes his\\ncrime his boast", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0245.jp2"}, "244": {"fulltext": "214\\nTHE VISION OF DON RODERICK\\nHow hope Almighty vengeance shall\\ndelay, 79\\nUnless, in mercy to yon Christian host,\\nHe spare the shepherd lest the guiltless\\nsheep be lost.\\nThen kindled the dark tyrant in his mood,\\nAnd to his brow returned its dauntless\\ngloom;\\nAnd welcome then, he cried, be blood\\nfor blood,\\nFor treason treachery, for dishonor\\ndoom\\nTet will I know whence come they or by\\nwhom.\\nShow, for thou canst give forth the\\nfated key,\\nAnd guide me, priest, to that mysterious\\nroom\\nWhere, if aught true in old tradition\\nbe,\\nHis nation s future fates a Spanish king\\nshall see. 90\\nIll-fated Prince recall the desperate\\nword,\\nOr pause ere yet the omen thou obey\\nBethink, yon spell-bound portal would\\nafford\\nNever to former monarch entrance-\\nway;\\nNor shall it ever ope, old records say,\\nSave to a king, the last of all his line,\\nWhat time his empire totters to decay,\\nAnd treason digs beneath her fatal\\nmine,\\nAnd high above impends avenging wrath\\ndivine.\\nXII\\nPrelate a monarch s fate brooks no\\ndelay; 100\\nLead on The ponderous key the\\nold man took,\\nAnd held the winking lamp, and led the\\nway,\\nBy winding stair, dark aisle, and secret\\nnook,\\nThen on an ancient gateway bent his look\\nAnd, as the key the desperate king\\nessayed,\\nLow muttered thunders the cathedral\\nshook,\\nAnd twice he stopped and twice new\\neffort made,\\nTill the huge bolts rolled back and the\\nloud hinges brayed.\\nLong, large, and lofty was that vaulted\\nhall;\\nRoof, walls, and floor were all of mar-\\nble stone, no\\nOf polished marble, black as funeral\\npall,\\nCarved o er with signs and characters\\nunknown.\\nA paly light, as of the dawning, shone\\nThrough the sad bounds, but whence\\nthey could not spy,\\nFor window to the upper air was\\nnone;\\nYet by that light Don Roderick could\\ndescry\\nWonders that ne er till then were seen by\\nmortal eye.\\nXIV\\nGrim sentinels, against the upper wall,\\nOf molten bronze, two Statues held\\ntheir place\\nMassive their naked limbs, their stature\\ntall, 120\\nTheir frowning foreheads golden\\ncircles grace.\\nMoulded they seemed for kings of giant\\nrace,\\nThat lived and sinned before the\\navenging flood;\\nThis grasped a scythe, that rested on a\\nmace;\\nThis spread his wings for flight, that\\npondering stood,\\nEach stubborn seemed and stern, immu-\\ntable of mood.\\nXV\\nFixed was the right-hand giant s brazen\\nlook\\nUpon his brother s glass of shifting\\nsand,\\nAs if its ebb he measured by a book,\\nWhose iron volume loaded his huge\\nhand; 130\\nIn which was wrote of many a fallen\\nland,\\nOf empires lost, and kings to exile\\ndriven:", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0246.jp2"}, "245": {"fulltext": "THE VISION OF DON RODERICK\\n215\\nAnd o er that pair their names in scroll\\nexpand\\n1 Lo, Destiny and Time to whom\\nby Heaven\\nThe guidance of the earth is for a season\\ngiven.\\nXVI\\nEven while they read, the sand-glass\\nwastes away;\\nAnd, as the last and lagging grains\\ndid creep,\\nThat right-hand giant gan his club up-\\nsway,\\nAs one that startles from a heavy\\nFull on the upper wall the mace s\\nsweep 140\\nAt once descended with the force of\\nthunder,\\nAnd, hurtling down at once in crumbled\\nheap,\\nThe marble boundary was rent asun-\\nder,\\nAnd gave to Roderick s view new sights of\\nfear and wonder.\\nFor they might spy beyond that mighty\\nbreach\\nRealms as of Spain in visioned pro-\\nspect laid,\\nCastles and towers, in due proportion\\neach,\\nAs by some skilful artist s hand por-\\ntrayed:\\nHere, crossed by many a wild Sierra s\\nshade\\nAnd boundless plains that tire the\\ntraveller s eye; 150\\nThere, rich with vineyard and with olive\\nglade,\\nOr deep-embrowned by forests huge\\nand high,\\nOr washed by mighty streams that slowly\\nmurmured by.\\nXVIII\\nAnd here, as erst upon the antique stage\\nPassed forth the band of masquers\\ntrimly led,\\nIn various forms and various equipage,\\nWhile fitting strains the hearer s fancy\\nfed;\\nSo, to sad Roderick s eye in order spread,\\nSuccessive pageants filled that mystic\\nscene,\\nShowing the fate of battles ere they\\nbled, 160\\nAnd issue of events that had not been\\nAnd ever and anon strange sounds were\\nheard between.\\nFirst shrilled an unrepeated female\\nshriek\\nIt seemed as if Don Roderick knew\\nthe call,\\nFor the bold blood was blanching in his\\ncheek.\\nThen answered kettle-drum and at-\\nabal,\\nGong-peal and cymbal-clank the ear ap-\\npall,\\nThe Tecbir war-cry and the Lelie s\\nyell\\nRing wildly dissonant along the hall.\\nNeeds not to Roderick their dread im-\\nport tell 17a\\nThe Moor he cried, the Moor ring\\nout the tocsin bell\\nThey come they come I see the\\ngroaning lands\\nWhite with the turbans of each Arab\\nhorde;\\nSwart Zaarah joins her misbelieving\\nbands,\\nAlia and Mahomet their battle-word,\\nThe choice they yield, the Koran or the\\nsword.\\nSee how the Christians rush to arms\\namain\\nIn yonder shout the voice of conflict\\nroared,\\nThe shadowy hosts are closing on the\\nplain\\nNow, God and Saint Iago strike for the\\ngood cause of Spain 180\\nXXI\\nBy Heaven, the Moors prevail the\\nChristians yield\\nTheir coward leader gives for flight\\nthe sign\\nThe sceptred craven mounts to quit the\\nfield\\nIs not yon steed Orelia Yes, t is\\nmine", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0247.jp2"}, "246": {"fulltext": "2l6\\nTHE VISION OF DON RODERICK\\nBut never was she turned from battle-\\nline:\\nLo where the recreant spurs o er\\nstock and stone\\nCurses pursue the slave, and wrath di-\\nvine\\nRivers ingulf him! Hush, in\\nshuddering tone,\\nThe prelate said; rash prince, yon vis-\\nioned form s thine own.\\nXXII\\nJust then, a torrent crossed the flier s\\ncourse 190\\nThe dangerous ford the kingly likeness\\ntried;\\nBut the deep eddies whelmed both man\\nand horse,\\nSwept like benighted peasant down\\nthe tide;\\nAnd the proud Moslemah spread far and\\nwide,\\nAs numerous as their native locust\\nband;\\nBerber and Ismael s sons the spoils di-\\nvide,\\nWith naked scimitars mete out the\\nland,\\nAnd for the bondsmen base the free-born\\nnatives brand.\\nXXIII\\nThen rose the grated Harem, to enclose\\nThe loveliest maidens of the Christian\\nline 200\\nThen, menials, to their misbelieving\\nfoes\\nCastile s young nobles held forbidden\\nwine;\\nThen, too, the holy Cross, salvation s\\nsign,\\nBy impious hands was from the altar\\nthrown,\\nAnd the deep aisles of the polluted shrine\\nEchoed, for holy hymn and organ-tone,\\nThe Santon s frantic dance, the Fakir s\\ngibbering moan.\\nXXIV\\nHow fares Don Roderick E en as\\none who spies\\nFlames dart their glare o er midnight s\\nsable woof,\\nAnd hears around his children s piercing\\nAnd sees the pale assistants stand\\naloof;\\nWhile cruel Conscience brings him bitter\\nproof\\nHis folly or his crime have caused his\\ngrief;\\nAnd while above him nods the crumbling\\nroof,\\nHe curses earth and Heaven him-\\nself in chief\\nDesperate of earthly aid, despairing Hea-\\nven s relief\\nXXV\\nThat scythe-armed Giant turned his fatal\\nglass\\nAnd twilight on the landscape closed\\nher wings;\\nFar to Asturian hills the war-sounds pass,\\nAnd in their stead rebeck or timbrel\\nrings 220\\nAnd to the sound the bell-decked dancer\\nsprings,\\nBazars resound as when their marts\\nare met,\\nIn tourney light the Moor his jerrid\\nflings,\\nAnd on the land as evening seemed to\\nset,\\nThe Imaum s chant was heard from mosque\\nor minaret.\\nSo passed that pageant. Ere another\\ncame,\\nThe visionary scene was wrapped in\\nsmoke,\\nWhose sulphurous wreaths were crossed\\nby sheets of flame;\\nWith every flash a bolt explosive\\nbroke,\\nTill Roderick deemed the fiends had\\nburst their yoke 230\\nAnd waved gainst heaven the infer-\\nnal gonfalone\\nFor War a new and dreadful language\\nspoke,\\nNever by ancient warrior heard or\\nknown\\nLightning and smoke her breath, and\\nthunder was her tone.\\nXXVII\\nFrom the dim landscape roll the clouds\\naway", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0248.jp2"}, "247": {"fulltext": "THE VISION OF DON RODERICK\\n217\\nThe Christians have regained their\\nheritage\\nBefore the Cross has waned the Cres-\\ncent s ray,\\nAnd many a monastery decks the\\nstage,\\nAnd lofty church and low-browed- her-\\nmitage.\\nThe land obeys a Hermit and a\\nKnight, 240\\nThe Genii these of Spain for many an\\nage;\\nThis clad in sackcloth, that in armor\\nbright,\\nAnd that was Valor named, this Bigotry\\nwas hight.\\nXXVIII\\nt Valor was harnessed like a chief of\\nold,\\nArmed at all points, and prompt for\\nknightly gest;\\nHis sword was tempered in the Ebro\\ncold,\\nMorena s eagle plume adorned his\\ncrest,\\nThe spoils of Afric s lion bound his\\nbreast.\\nFierce he stepped forward and flung\\ndown his gage; 249\\nAs if of mortal kind to brave the best.\\nHim followed his companion, dark and\\nsage\\nAs he my Master sung, the dangerous\\nArchimage.\\nXXIX\\nHaughty of heart and brow the warrior\\ncame,\\nIn look and language proud as proud\\nmight be,\\nI Vaunting his lordship, lineage, fights,\\nand fame:\\nYet was that barefoot monk more\\nproud than he\\nAnd as the ivy climbs the tallest tree,\\nSo round the loftiest soul his toils he\\nwound,\\nAnd with his spells subdued the fierce\\nand free,\\nTill ermined Age and Youth in arms\\nrenowned, 260\\nHonoring his scourge and haircloth, meekly\\nkissed the ground.\\nAnd thus it chanced that Valor, peer-\\nless knight,\\nWho ne er to King or Kaiser veiled his\\ncrest,\\nVictorious still in bull-feast or in fight,\\nSince first his limbs with mail he did\\ninvest,\\nStooped ever to that anchoret s behest;\\nNor reasoned of the right nor of the\\nwrong,\\nBut at his bidding laid the lance in\\nrest,\\nAnd wrought fell deeds the troubled\\nworld along,\\nFor he was fierce as brave and pitiless as\\nstrong. 270\\nXXXI\\nOft his proud galleys sought some new-\\nfound world,\\nThat latest sees the sun or first the\\nmorn;\\nStill at that wizard s feet their spoils he\\nhurled,\\nIngots of ore from rich Potosi borne,\\nCrowns by Caciques, aigrettes by Om-\\nrahs worn,\\nWrought of rare gems, but broken,\\nrent, and foul;\\nIdols of gold from heathen temples torn,\\nBedabbled all with blood. With\\ngrisly scowl\\nThe hermit marked the stains and smiled\\nbeneath his cowl.\\nXXXII\\nThen did he bless the offering, and bade\\nmake 280\\nTribute to Heaven of gratitude and\\npraise\\nAnd at his word the choral hymns awake,\\nAnd many a hand the silver censer\\nsways,\\nBut with the incense-breath these censers\\nraise\\nMix steams from corpses smouldering\\nin the fire;\\nThe groans of prisoned victims mar the\\nlays,\\nAnd shrieks of agony confound the\\nquire\\nWhile, mid the mingled sounds, the dark-\\nened scenes expire.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0249.jp2"}, "248": {"fulltext": "2l8\\nTHE VISION OF DON RODERICK\\nXXXIII\\nPreluding light, were strains of music\\nheard,\\nAs once again revolved that measured\\nsand 290\\nSuch sounds as when, for sylvan dance\\nprepared,\\nGay Xeres summons forth her vintage\\nband\\nWhen for the light bolero ready stand\\nThe mozo blithe, with gay muchacha\\nmet,\\nHe conscious of his broidered cap and\\nband,\\nShe of her netted locks and light cor-\\nsette,\\nEach tiptoe perched to spring and shake\\nthe castauet.\\nxxxiv\\nAnd well such strains the opening scene\\nbecame;\\nFor Valor had relaxed his ardent\\nlook,\\nAnd at a lady s feet, like lion tame, 300\\nLay stretched, full loath the weight\\nof arms to brook;\\nAnd softened Bigotry upon his book\\nPattered a task of little good or\\nill:\\nBut the blithe peasant plied his pruning-\\nhook,\\nWhistled the muleteer o er vale and\\nhill,\\nAnd rung from village-green the merry\\nseguidille.\\nxxxv\\nGray Royalty, grown impotent of toil,\\nLet the grave sceptre slip his lazy\\nhold;\\nAnd careless saw his rule become the\\nspoil\\nOf a loose female and her minion\\nbold. 310\\nBut peace was on the cottage and the\\nfold,\\nFrom court intrigue, from bickering\\nfaction far;\\nBeneath the chestnut-tree love s tale was\\ntold,\\nAnd to the tinkling of the light gui-\\ntar\\nSweet stooped the western sun, sweet rose\\nthe evening star.\\nxxxvi\\nAs that sea-cloud, in size like human\\nhand\\nWhen first from Carmel by the Tishbite\\nseen,\\nCame slowly overshadowing Israel s land,\\nAwhile perchance bedecked with colors\\nsheen,\\nWhile yet the sunbeams on its skirts had\\nbeen, 320\\nLimning with purple and with gold its\\nshroud,\\nTill darker folds obscured the blue serene\\nAnd blotted heaven with one broad sa-\\nble cloud,\\nThen sheeted rain burst down and whirl-\\nwinds howled aloud:\\nXXXVII\\nEven so, upon that peaceful scene was\\npoured,\\nLike gathering clouds, full many a for-\\neign band,\\nAnd He, their leader, wore in sheath his\\nsword,\\nAnd offered peaceful front and open\\nhand,\\nVeiling the perjured treachery he\\nplanned,\\nBy friendship s zeal and honor s spe-\\ncious guise, 330\\nUntil he won the passes of the land;\\nThen burst were honor s oath and\\nfriendship s ties\\nHe clutched his vulture grasp and called\\nfair Spain his prize.\\nXXXVIII\\nAn iron crown his anxious forehead bore\\nAnd well such diadem his heart be-\\ncame\\nWho ne er his purpose for remorse gave\\no er,\\nOr checked his course for piety or\\nshame;\\nWho, trained a soldier, deemed a soldier s\\nfame\\nMight flourish in the wreath of battles\\nwon,\\nThough neither truth nor honor decked\\nhis name; 340\\nWho, placed by fortune on a monarch s\\nthrone,\\nRecked not of monarch s faith or mercy s\\nkingly tone.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0250.jp2"}, "249": {"fulltext": "THE VISION OF DON RODERICK\\n219\\nXXXIX\\nFrom a rude isle his ruder lineage came:\\nThe spark that, from a suburb-hovel s\\nhearth\\nAscending, wraps some capital in flame,\\nHath not a meaner or more sordid\\nbirth.\\nAnd for the soul that bade him waste the\\nearth\\nThe sable land-flood from some swamp\\nobscure,\\nThat poisons the glad husband-field with\\ndearth,\\nAnd by destruction bids its fame en-\\ndure, 350\\nHath not a source more sullen, stagnant,\\nand impure.\\nXL\\nBefore that leader strode a shadowy\\nform;\\nHer limbs like mist, her torch like\\nmeteor showed,\\nWith which she beckoned him through\\nfight and storm,\\nAnd all he crushed that crossed his\\ndesperate road,\\nNor thought, nor feared, nor looked on\\nwhat he trode.\\nRealms could not glut his pride, blood\\ncould not slake,\\nSo oft as e er she shook her torch abroad:\\nIt was Ambition bade his terrors\\nwake,\\nNor deigned she, as of yore, a milder form\\nto take. 360\\nXLI\\nNo longer now she spurned at mean re-\\nvenge,\\nOr staid her hand for conquered foe-\\nman s moan,\\nAs when, the fates of aged Rome to\\nchange,\\nBy Caesar s side she crossed the Ru-\\nbicon.\\nNor joyed she to bestow the spoils she\\nwon,\\nAs when the banded powers of Greece\\nwere tasked\\nTo war beneath the Youth of Macedon:\\nNo seemly veil her modern minion\\nasked,\\nHe saw her hideous face and loved the fiend\\nunmasked.\\nXLII\\nThat prelate marked his march on ban-\\nners blazed 370\\nWith battles won in many a distant\\nland,\\nOn eagle-standards and on arms he gazed\\nAnd hopest thou, then, he said, thy\\npower shall stand\\nO, thou hast builded on the shifting sand\\nAnd thou hast tempered it with slaugh-\\nter s flood;\\nAnd know, fell scourge in the Almighty s\\nhand,\\nGore-moistened trees shall perish in\\nthe bud,\\nAnd by a bloody death shall die the Man of\\nBlood\\nXLIII\\nThe ruthless leader beckoned from his\\ntrain\\nA wan fraternal shade, and bade him\\nkneel, 380\\nAnd paled his temples with the crown of\\nSpain,\\nWhile trumpets rang and heralds cried\\nCastile\\nNot that he loved him No In no\\nman s weal,\\nScarce in his own, e er joyed that sullen\\nheart;\\nYet round that throne he bade his war-\\nriors wheel,\\nThat the poor puppet might perform\\nhis part\\nAnd be a sceptred slave, at his stern beck\\nto start.\\nXLIV\\nBut on the natives of that land misused\\nNot long the silence of amazement\\nhung,\\nNor brooked they long their friendly faith\\nabused 390\\nFor with a common shriek the general\\ntongue\\nExclaimed, To arms and fast to arms\\nthey sprung.\\nAnd Valor woke, that Genius of the\\nland!\\nPleasure and ease and sloth aside he flung,\\nAs burst the awakening Nazarite his\\nband\\nWhen gainst his treacherous foes he\\nclenched his dreadful hand.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0251.jp2"}, "250": {"fulltext": "220\\nTHE VISION OF DON RODERICK\\n_\\nifor\\nXLV\\nThat mimic monarch now cast anxious\\neye\\nUpon the satraps that begirt him\\nround,\\nNow doffed his royal robe in act to fly,\\nAnd from his brow the diadem un-\\nbound. 400\\nSo oft, so near, the Patriot bugle wound,\\nFrom Tarik s walls to Bilboa s moun-\\ntains blown,\\nThese martial satellites hard labor found,\\nTo guard awhile his substituted throne\\nLight recking of his cause, but battling for\\ntheir own.\\nXLVI\\nFrom Alpuhara s peak that bugle rung,\\nAnd it was echoed from Corunna s\\nwall;\\nStately Seville responsive war-shout\\nflung,\\nGrenada caught it in her Moorish hall;\\nGalicia bade her children fight or fall, 410\\nWild Biscay shook his mountain-coro-\\nnet,\\nValencia roused her at the battle-call,\\nAnd, foremost still where Valor s sons\\nare met,\\nFast started to his gun each fiery Miquelet.\\nXLVII\\nBut unappalled and burning for the fight,\\nThe invaders march, of victory secure,\\nSkilful their force to sever or unite,\\nAnd trained alike to vanquish or\\nendure.\\nNor skilful less, cheap conquest to insure,\\nDiscord to breathe and jealousy to sow,\\nTo quell by boasting and by bribes to\\nlure; 421\\nWhile nought against them bring the\\nunpractised foe,\\nSave hearts for freedom s cause and hands\\nfor freedom s blow.\\nXLVIII\\nProudly they march but, O, they march\\nnot forth\\nBy one hot field to crown a brief cam-\\npaign,\\nAs when their eagles, sweeping through\\nthe North,\\nDestroyed at every stoop an ancient\\nreign\\nFar other fate had Heaven decreed for\\nSpain;\\nIn vain the steel, in vain the torch was\\nplied,\\nNew Patriot armies started from the\\nslain, 430\\nHigh blazed the war, and long, and far,\\nand wide,\\nAnd oft the God of Battles blest the right-\\neous side.\\nXLIX\\nNor unatoned, where Freedom s foes\\nprevail,\\nRemained their savage waste. With\\nblade and brand\\nBy day the invaders ravaged hill and\\ndale,\\nBut with the darkness the Guerilla\\nband\\nCame like night s tempest and avenged\\nthe land,\\nAnd claimed for blood the retribution\\ndue,\\nProbed the hard heart and lopped the\\nmurd rous hand;\\nAnd Dawn, when o er the scene her\\nbeams she threw, 440\\nMidst ruins they had made the spoilers\\ncorpses knew.\\nWhat minstrel verse may sing or tongue\\nmay tell,\\nAmid the visioned strife from sea to\\nsea,\\nHow oft the Patriot banners rose or\\nfell,\\nStill honored in defeat as victory\\nFor that sad pageant of events to be\\nShowed every form of fight by field\\nand flood;\\nSlaughter and Ruin, shouting forth their\\ngle\u00c2\u00a9,\\nBeheld, while riding on the tempest\\nscud,\\nThe waters choked with slain, the earth\\nbedrenched with blood 450\\nLI\\nThen Zaragoza blighted be the tongue\\nThat names thy name without the\\nhonor due\\nFor never hath the harp of minstrel rung\\nOf faith so felly proved, so firmly true", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0252.jp2"}, "251": {"fulltext": "THE VISION OF DON RODERICK\\nMine, sap, and bomb thy shattered ruins\\nknew,\\nEach art of war s extremity had room,\\nTwice from thy half-sacked streets the\\nfoe withdrew,\\nAnd when at length stern Fate de-\\ncreed thy doom,\\nThey won not Zaragoza but her children s\\nbloody tomb.\\nLII\\nYet raise thy head, sad city Though\\nin chains, 460\\nEnthralled thou canst not be Arise,\\nand claim\\nReverence from every heart where Free-\\nIdom reigns,\\nFor what thou worshippest thy\\nsainted dame,\\nShe of the Column, honored be her name\\nBy all, whate er their creed, who\\nhonor love\\nAnd like the sacred relics of the flame\\nThat gave some martyr to the blessed\\nabove,\\nTo every loyal heart may thy sad embers\\nprove\\nNor thine alone such wreck. Gerona\\nfair\\nFaithful to death thy heroes should be\\nsung, 470\\nManning the towers, while o er their\\nheads the air\\nSwart as the smoke from raging fur-\\nnace hung;\\nNow thicker darkening where the mine\\nwas sprung,\\nNow briefly lightened by the cannon s\\nflare,\\nNow arched with fire-sparks as the bomb\\nwas flung,\\nAnd reddening now with conflagra-\\ntion s glare,\\nWhile by the fatal light the foes for storm\\nprepare.\\nLIV\\nWhile all around was danger, strife, and\\nfear,\\nWhile the earth shook and darkened\\nwas the sky,\\nAnd wide destruction stunned the listen-\\ning ear, 480\\nAppalled the heart, and stupefied the\\neye,\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nAfar was heard that thrice-repeated cry,\\nIn which old Albion s heart and tongue\\nunite,\\nWhene er her soul is up and pulse beats\\nhigh,\\nWhether it hail the wine-cup or thefight,\\nAnd bid each arm be strong or bid each\\nheart be light.\\nLV\\nDon Roderick turned him as the shout\\ngrew loud\\nA varied scene the changeful vision\\nshowed,\\nFor, where the ocean mingled with the\\ncloud,\\nA gallant navy stemmed the billows\\nbroad. 490\\nFrom mast and stern Saint George s\\nsymbol flowed,\\nBlent with the silver cross to Scotland\\ndear;\\nMottling the sea their landward barges\\nrowed,\\nAnd flashed the sun on bayonet, brand,\\nand spear,\\nAnd the wild beach returned the seamen s\\njovial cheer.\\nLVI\\nIt was a dread yet spirit-stirring sight\\nThe billows foamed beneath a thou-\\nsand oars,\\nFast as they land the red-cross ranks\\nunite,\\nLegions on legions brightening all the\\nshores.\\nThen banners rise and cannon signal\\nroars, 500\\nThen peals the warlike thunder of the\\ndrum,\\nThrills the loud fife, the trumpet-flourish\\npours,\\nAnd patriot hopes awake and doubts\\nare dumb,\\nFor, bold in Freedom s cause, the bands of\\nOcean come\\nLVII\\nA various host they came whose ranks\\ndisplay\\nEach mode in which the warrior meets\\nthe fight:", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0253.jp2"}, "252": {"fulltext": "222\\nTHE VISION OF DON RODERICK\\nThe deep battalion locks its firm ar-\\nray*\\nAnd meditates his aim the marksman\\nlight;\\nFar glance the lines of sabres flashing\\nbright,\\nWhere mounted squadrons shake the\\nechoing mead; 510\\nLacks not artillery breathing flame and\\nnight,\\nNor the fleet ordnance whirled by\\nrapid steed,\\nThat rivals lightning s flash in ruin and in\\nspeed.\\nLVIII\\nA various host from kindred realms\\nthey came,\\nBrethren in arms but rivals in re-\\nnown\\nFor yon fair bands shall merry England\\nclaim,\\nAnd with their deeds of valor deck\\nher crown.\\nHers their bold port, and hers their\\nmartial frown,\\nAnd hers their scorn of death in free-\\ndom s cause,\\nTheir eyes of azure, and their locks of\\nbrown, 520\\nAnd the blunt speech that bursts with-\\nout a pause,\\nAnd freeborn thoughts which league the\\nsoldier with the laws.\\nLIX\\nAnd, O loved warriors of the minstrel s\\nland\\nYonder your bonnets nod, your tartans\\nwave\\nThe rugged form may mark the moun-\\ntain band,\\nAnd harsher features, and a mien\\nmore grave;\\nBut ne er in battle-field throbbed heart\\nso brave\\nAs that which beats beneath the Scot-\\ntish plaid;\\nAnd when the pibroch bids the battle\\nrave,\\nAnd level for the charge your arms\\nare laid, 530\\nWhere lives the desperate foe that for such\\nonset staid\\nHark from yon stately ranks what\\nlaughter rings,\\nMingling wild mirth with war s stern\\nminstrelsy,\\nHis jest while each blithe comrade round\\nhim flings\\nAnd moves to death with military glee\\nBoast, Erin, boast them tameless, frank,\\nand free,\\nIn kindness warm and fierce in danger\\nknown,\\nRough nature s children, humorous as\\nshe:\\nAnd He, yon Chieftain strike the\\nproudest tone\\nOf thy bold harp, green Isle the hero\\nis thine own. 540\\nLXI\\nNow on the scene Vimeira should be\\nshown,\\nOn Talavera s fight should Roderick\\ngaze,\\nAnd hear Corunna wail her battle won,\\nAnd see Busaco s crest with lightning\\nblaze\\nBut shall fond fable mix with heroes\\npraise\\nHath Fiction s stage for Truth s long\\ntriumphs room\\nAnd dare her wild-flowers mingle with\\nthe bays\\nThat claim a long eternity to bloom\\nAround the warrior s crest and o er the\\nwarrior s tomb 549\\nOr may I give adventurous Fancy scope,\\nAnd stretch a bold hand to the awful\\nveil\\nThat hides futurity from anxious hope,\\nBidding beyond it scenes of glory\\nhail.\\nAnd painting Europe rousing at the\\ntale\\nOf Spain s invaders from her confines\\nhurled,\\nWhile kindling nations buckle on their\\nmail,\\nAnd Fame, with clarion blast and\\nwings unfurled,\\nTo freedom and revenge awakes an injured\\nworld", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0254.jp2"}, "253": {"fulltext": "CONCLUSION\\n223\\nLXIII\\nBefore them it was rich with vine and\\nvain, though anxious, is the glance I\\nflock,\\ncast,\\nAnd smiled like Eden in her summer\\nSince Fate has marked futurity her\\ndress\\nown 560\\nBehind their wasteful march a reeking wil-\\nYet Fate resigns to worth the glorious\\nderness.\\npast,\\nThe deeds recorded and the laurels\\nHI\\nwon.\\nAnd shall the boastful chief maintain his\\nThen, though the Vault of Destiny be\\nword,\\ngone,\\nThough Heaven hath heard the wail-\\nKing, prelate, all the phantasms of my\\nings of the land, 2a\\nbrain,\\nThough Lusitania whet her vengeful\\nMelted away like mist-wreaths in the\\nsword,\\nsun,\\nThough Britons arm and Welling-\\nYet grant for faith, for valor, and for\\nton command\\nSpain,\\nNo grim Busacos iron ridge shall\\nOne note of pride and fire, a patriot s part-\\nstand\\ning strain\\nAn adamantine barrier to his force;\\nAnd from its base shall wheel his shat-\\ntered band,\\nCONCLUSION\\nAs from the unshaken rock the torrent\\nhoarse\\n1\\nBears off its broken waves and seeks a\\nWho shall command Estrella s moun-\\ndevious course.\\ntain-tide\\nBack to the source, when tempest-\\nIV\\nchafed, to hie\\nYet not because Alcoba s mountain-hawk\\nWho, when Gascogne s vexed gulf is\\nHath on his best and bravest made\\nraging wide,\\nher food,\\nShall hush it as a nurse her infant s\\nIn numbers confident, yon chief shall\\ncry?\\nbalk 30\\nHis magic power let such vain boaster\\nHis lord s imperial thirst for spoil and\\ntry?\\nblood\\nAnd when the torrent shall his voice\\nFor full in view the promised conquest\\nobey,\\nstood,\\nAnd Biscay s whirlwinds list his lullaby,\\nAnd Lisbon s matrons from their walls\\nLet him stand forth and bar mine\\nmight sum\\neagles way,\\nThe myriads that had half the world sub-\\nAnd they shall heed his voice and at his\\ndued,\\nbidding stay.\\nAnd hear the distant thunders of the\\ndrum\\nThat bids the bands of France to storm\\nII\\nElse ne er to stoop till high on Lisbon s\\ntowers IO\\nThey close their wings, the symbol of\\nand havoc come.\\nV\\nour yoke,\\nFour moons have heard these thunders\\nAnd their own sea hath whelmed yon\\nidly rolled,\\nred -cross powers\\nHave seen these wistful myriads eye\\nThus, on the summit of Alverca s\\ntheir prey,\\nrock,\\nAs famished wolves survey a guarded\\nTo marshal, duke, and peer Gaul s leader\\nfold\\nspoke.\\nBut in the middle path a Lion lay 40\\nWhile downward on the land his le-\\nAt length they move but not to battle-\\ngions press,\\nfray,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0255.jp2"}, "254": {"fulltext": "224 THE VISION OF\\nDON RODERICK\\nNor blaze yon fires where meets the\\nFrom thy dishonored name and arms\\nmanly fight;\\nto clear\\nBeacons of infamy, they light the way\\nFallen child of Fortune, turn, redeem her\\nWhere cowardice and cruelty unite\\nfavor here\\nTo damn with double shame their ignomini-\\nous flight\\nIX\\nVI\\nYet, ere thou turn st, collect each distant\\naid;\\nThose chief that never heard the lion\\nO triumph for the fiends of lust and\\nwrath\\nroar\\nNe er to be told, yet ne er to be forgot,\\nWithin whose souls lives not a trace por-\\nWhat wanton horrors marked their\\ntrayed\\nwrackful path\\nOf Talavera or Mondego s shore\\nThe peasant butchered in his ruined\\nMarshal each band thou hast and sum-\\ncot,\\nmon more;\\nThe hoary priest even at the altar shot, 50\\nOf war s fell stratagems exhaust the\\nChildhood and age given o er to sword\\nwhole\\nand flame,\\nRank upon rank, squadron on squadron\\nWoman to infamy; no crime forgot,\\npour,\\nBy which inventive demons might pro-\\nLegion on legion on thy foeman\\nclaim\\nroll, 8o\\nImmortal hate to man and scorn of God s\\nAnd weary out his arm thou canst not\\ngreat name\\nquell his soul.\\nf vn\\nX\\nThe rudest sentinel in Britain born\\nvainly gleams with steel Agueda s\\nWith horror paused to view the havoc\\nshore,\\ndone,\\nVainly thy squadrons hide Assuava s\\nGave his poor crust to feed some wretch\\nplain,\\nforlorn,\\nAnd front the flying thunders as they\\nWiped his stern eye, then fiercer\\nroar,\\ngrasped his gun.\\nWith frantic charge and tenfold odds,\\nNor with less zeal shall Britain s peace-\\nin vain\\nful son\\nAnd what avails thee that for Cameron\\nExult the debt of sympathy to pay; 60\\nslain\\nHiches nor poverty the tax shall shun,\\nWild from his plaided ranks the yell\\nNor prince nor peer, the wealthy nor\\nwas given\\nthe gay,\\nVengeance and grief gave mountain-rage\\nNor the poor peasant s mite, nor bard s\\nthe rein,\\nmore worthless lay.\\nAnd, at the bloody spear-point head-\\nlong driven,\\nVIII\\nThy despot s giant guards fled like the rack\\nBut thou unf oughten wilt thou yield to\\nof heaven. 9 o\\nFate,\\nMinion of Fortune, now miscalled in\\nXI\\nvain\\nGo, baffled boaster teach thy haughty\\nCan vantage-ground no confidence cre-\\nmood\\nate,\\nTo plead at thine imperious master s\\nMarcella s pass, nor Guarda s moun-\\nthrone\\ntain-chain\\nSay, thou hast left his legions in their\\nVainglorious fugitive, yet turn again\\nblood,\\nBehold, where, named by some pro-\\nDeceived his hopes and frustrated\\nphetic seer,\\nthine own;\\nFlows Honor s Fountain, as foredoomed\\nSay, that thine utmost skill and valor\\nthe stain 70\\nshown", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0256.jp2"}, "255": {"fulltext": "CONCLUSION\\n225\\nBy British skill and valor were out-\\nvied\\nLast say, thy conqueror was Welling-\\nton\\nAnd if he chafe, be his own fortune\\ntried\\nGod and our cause to friend, the venture\\nwe 11 abide.\\nXII\\nBut you, the heroes of that well-fought\\nday, 100\\nHow shall a bard unknowing and un-\\nknown\\nHis meed to each victorious leader pay,\\nOr bind on every brow the laurels\\nwon?\\nYet fain my harp would wake its boldest\\ntone,\\nO er the wide sea to hail Cadogan\\nbrave;\\nAnd he perchance the minstrel-note\\nmight own,\\nMindful of meeting brief that Fortune\\ngave\\nMid yon far western isles that hear the\\nAtlantic rave.\\nYes hard the task, when Britons wield\\nthe sword\\nTo give each chief and every field its\\nfame: no\\nHark Albuera thunders Beresford,\\nAnd red Barosa shouts for dauntless\\nGraeme\\nO for a verse of tumult and of flame,\\nBold as the bursting of their cannon\\nsound,\\nTo bid the world re-echo to their fame\\nFor never upon gory battle-ground\\nWith conquest s well-bought wreath were\\nbraver victors crowned\\nO who shall grudge him Albuera s bays\\nWho brought a race regenerate to the\\nfield,\\nHoused them to emulate their fathers\\npraise, 120\\nTempered their headlong rage, their\\ncourage steeled,\\nAnd raised fair Lusitania s fallen shield,\\nAnd gave new edge to Lusitania s\\nsword,\\nAnd taught her sons forgotten arms to\\nwield\\nShivered my harp and burst its every\\nchord,\\nIf it forget thy worth, victorious Beres-\\nford\\nNot on that bloody field of battle\\nwon,\\nThough Gaul s proud legions rolled\\nlike mist away,\\nWas half his self-devoted valor shown,\\nHe gaged but life on that illustrious\\nday; I30\\nBut when he toiled those squadrons to\\narray\\nWho fought like Britons in the bloody\\ngame,\\nSharper than Polish pike or assagay,\\nHe braved the shafts of censure and\\nof shame,\\nAnd, dearer far than life, he pledged a\\nsoldier s fame.\\nNor be his praise o erpast who strove to\\nhicle\\nBeneath the warrior s vest affection s\\nwound,\\nWhose wish Heaven for his country s\\nweal denied;\\nDanger and fate he sought, but glory\\nfound.\\nFrom clime to clime, where er war s\\ntrumpets sound, 140\\nThe wanderer went; yet, Caledonia\\nstill\\nThine was his thought in march and\\ntented ground;\\nHe dreamed mid Alpine cliffs of Ath-\\nole s hill,\\nAnd heard in Ebro s roar Lis Lyndoch s\\nlovely rill.\\nXVII\\nO hero of a race renowned of old,\\nWhose war-cry oft has waked the\\nbattle-swell,\\nSince first distinguished in the onset\\nbold,\\nWild sounding when the Roman ram-\\npart fell\\nBy Wallace side it rung the Southron s\\nknell,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0257.jp2"}, "256": {"fulltext": "226\\nROKEBY\\nAlderne, Kilsythe, and Tibber owned\\nits fame, 150\\nTurn m ell s rude pass can of its terrors\\ntell,\\nBut ne er from prouder field arose the\\nname\\nThan when wild Ronda learned the con-\\nquering shout of Graeme\\nBut all too long, through seas unknown\\nand dark,\\nWith Spenser s parable I close my\\ntale,\\nBy shoal and rock hath steered my ven-\\nturous bark,\\nAnd landward now I drive before the\\ngale.\\nAnd now the blue and distant shore I\\nhail,\\nAnd nearer now I see the port ex-\\npand,\\nAnd now I gladly furl my weary\\nsail, X 6o\\nAnd as the prow light touches on the\\nstrand,\\nI strike my red- cross flag and bind my\\nskiff to land.\\nROKEBY\\nINTRODUCTORY NOTE\\nMr. Morritt, to whom Scott dedicates\\nRokeby, and in whose beautiful estate the\\nscene of the poem is laid, was introduced to\\nthe poet in the early summer of 1808, and an\\nintimacy began which was one of the most\\nagreeable elements in Scott s life. Twenty\\nyears later when paying him a visit, Scott re-\\ncorded in his Journal (ii. 195): He is now\\none of my oldest, and, I believe, one of my\\nmost sincere friends, a man unequalled in the\\nmixture of sound good sense, high literary cul-\\ntivation, and the kindest and sweetest temper\\nthat ever graced a human bosom. The in-\\ntimacy led to a long correspondence and to\\nfrequent interchange of visits. Mr. Morritt s\\nown recollections of Scott form a delightful\\ncontribution in Lockhart s Life. He visited\\nScott in Edinburgh when he first made his ac-\\nquaintance, and Scott returned the visit a year\\nlater. The beauty of Rokeby made a great\\nimpression upon him, as may be seen by his\\nletter to Gsorge Ellis, July 8, 1809, and it is\\nmost probable that in taking the step which\\nled to the purchase of Abbotsford, and re-\\nmoval from Ashestiel, Scott was influenced by\\nhis admiration for his friend s estate. At any\\nrate, Scott palpably connected the writing of\\nthe poem Rokeby with the enlargement of his\\ndomain, and asked eagerly Morritt to aid him\\nin his poetical venture.\\nI have a grand project to tell you of, he\\nwrites December 20, 1811. Nothing- less than\\na fourth romance, in verse the theme, during\\nthe English civil wars of Charles I., and the\\nscene, your own domain of Rokeby. I want\\nto build my cottage a little better than my\\nlimited finances will permit out of my ordinary\\nincome and although it is very true that an\\nauthor should not hazard his reputation, yet,\\nas Bob Acres says, I really think Reputation\\nshould take some care of the gentleman in re-\\nturn. Now, I have all your scenery deeply\\nimprinted in my memory, and moreover, be it\\nknown to you, I intend to refresh its traces\\nthis ensuing summer, and to go as far as the\\nborders of Lancashire, and the caves of York-\\nshire, and so perhaps on to Derbyshire. I\\nhave sketched a story which pleases me, and I\\nam only anxious to keep my theme quiet, for\\nits being piddled upon by some of your Ready-\\nto-catch literati, as John Bunyan calls them,\\nwould be a serious misfortune to me. I am\\nnot without hope of seducing you to be my\\nguide a little way on my tour. Is there not\\nsome book (sense or nonsense I care not) on\\nthe beauties of Teesdale I mean a descrip-\\ntive work If you can point it out or lend it\\nme, you will do me a great favour, and no less\\nif you can tell me any traditions of the period.\\nBy which party was Barnard castle occupied\\nIt strikes me that it should be held for the\\nParliament. Pray help me in this, by truth,\\nor fiction, or tradition, I care not which if\\nit be picturesque. What the deuce is the\\nname of that wild glen, where we had such\\na clamber on horseback up a stone staircase\\nCat s Cradle, or Cat s Castle, I think it\\nwas. I wish also to have the true edition of\\nthe traditionary tragedy of yonr old house at\\nMortham, and the ghost thereunto appertain-\\ning, and you will do me yeoman s service in\\ncompiling the relics of so valuable a legend.\\nItem Do you know anything of a striking\\nancient castle, belonging, I think, to the Duke", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0258.jp2"}, "257": {"fulltext": "INTRODUCTORY NOTE\\n227\\nof Leeds, called Coningsburgh Grose no-\\ntices it, but in a very flimsy manner. I once\\nflew past it on the mail-coach, when its round\\ntower and flying buttresses had a most roman-\\ntic effect in the morning dawn.\\nWhereupon Mr. Morritt girded himself and\\naddressed himself thoroughly to the task of\\nsupplying Scott with the needed material, and\\nof making suggestions for the construction of\\nthe poem which were clearly heeded by the\\npoet. The correspondence between the two\\nfriends continued during the winter and spring\\nof 1812, and Morritt furnished further mem-\\norabilia in answer to questions, and Scott\\ndivided his time between his poem and the\\nestate which it was to help pay for. My\\nwork Rokeby does and must go forward, he\\nwrites March 2, 1812, or my trees and enclos-\\nures might, perchance, stand still. But I de-\\nstroyed the first canto after I had written it\\nfair out, because it did not quite please me.\\nI shall keep off people s kibes if I can, for\\nmy plan, though laid during the civil wars,\\nhas little to do with the politics of either\\nparty, being very much confined to the adven-\\ntures and distresses of a particular family.\\nIn the same letter he says that he must\\ncertainly refresh his memory with the scenery,\\nin spite of the serviceable memoranda of Mr.\\nMorritt, and in the autumn of 1812 he went\\nwith Mrs. Scott, Walter, and Sophia to Rokeby,\\nremaining there about a week. It was while\\nhe was on this ^isit that Mr. Morritt made\\nthat interesting note on Scott s habits of ob-\\nservation which has often been quoted for the\\nlight it throws on the poet s attitude toward\\nhis work.\\nI observed him, says Morritt, noting\\ndown even the peculiar little wild flowers and\\nherbs that accidentally grew round and on the\\nside of a bold crag near his intended cave of\\nGuy Denzil and could not help saying, that\\nas he was not to be on oath in his work,\\ndaisies, violets, and primroses would be as\\npoetical as any of the humble plants he was\\nexamining. I laughed, in short, at his scrupu-\\nlousness but I understood him when he re-\\nplied, that in nature herself no two scenes\\nwere exactly alike, and that whoever copied\\ntruly what was before his eyes, would possess\\nthe same variety in his descriptions, and ex-\\nhibit apparently an imagination as boundless\\nas the range of nature in the scenes he re-\\ncorded whereas whoever trusted to imagi-\\nnation, would soon find his own mind circum-\\nscribed, and contracted to a few favorite\\nimages, and the repetition of these would\\nsooner or later produce that very monotony\\nand barrenness which had always haunted\\ndescriptive poetry in the hands of any but the\\npatient worshippers of truth. Besides which,\\nhe said, local names and peculiarities make\\na fictitious story book look so much better in\\nthe face.\\nThe poem gave its author a good deal of\\ntrouble, since he was unwontedly anxious to\\ndo it well, and he destroyed his work and re-\\nattacked it, finally pushing it to a conclusion\\nin the three months at the close of 1812. As\\nusual, during the process of composition and\\nwhen it was completed he sought the criticism\\nof his friends. There are two or three\\nsongs, he wrote Morritt, and particularly one\\nin praise of Brignal Banks, which I trust\\nyou will like because, entre nous, I like them\\nmyself. One of them is a little dashing ban-\\nditti song, called and entitled Allen-a-Dale.\\nScott, indeed, gives Joanna Baillie a curious\\ncoincidence in the discovery, on reading her\\nPassion of Fear, that she had an outlaw s\\nsong of which the chorus was almost verbatim\\nthat which he had written for his outlaw s\\nsong in Rokeby, so that he was forced to re-\\nwrite that song. Miss Baillie herself repaid\\nhim with an enthusiastic letter after reading\\nRokeby. I wish you could have seen me,\\nshe writes, when it arrived. My sister was\\nfrom home, so I stirred my fire, swept the\\nhearth, chased the cat out of the room, lighted\\nmy candles, and began upon it immediately.\\nIt is written with wonderful power both as to\\nnatural objects and human character and\\nyour magnificent bandit, Bertram, is well en-\\ntitled to your partiality for it is a masterly\\npicture, and true to nature in all its parts,\\naccording to my conceptions of nature. Your\\nLady and both her lovers are very pleasing\\nand beautifully drawn, her conduct and be-\\nhavior to them both is so natural and delicate\\nand so is theirs to each other. How many\\nstriking passages there are which take a hold\\nof the imagination that can never be unloosed\\nThe burning of the castle in all its progress is\\nvery sublime the final scene, also, when Ber-\\ntram rides into the church, is grand and terri-\\nfic; the scene between him and Edmund, when\\nhe weeps to find that there is any human being\\nthat will shed a tear for him, is very touching\\nand finely imagined. I say nothing of what\\nstruck me so much in the three first cantos.\\nAnd besides those higher beauties, there are\\nthose of a softer kind that are wonderfully\\nattractive for instance, the account of the\\npoor Irishman s death, after he had delivered\\nthe child to the Lord of Rokeby, which made\\nme weep freely, and the stealing of Edmund\\nback to the cave by night with all the indica-\\ntions of his silent path, the owlet ceasing its\\ncry, the otter leaping into the stream, etc.,\\nis delightful. Your images and similes too,\\nwith which the work is not overloaded (like a\\nlady with a few jewels, but of the best water),", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0259.jp2"}, "258": {"fulltext": "228\\nROKEBY\\nare excellent. Your songs are good, particu-\\nlarly those of Wilfrid but they have struck\\nme less, somehow or other, than the rest of\\nthe poem. As to the invention of your story,\\nI praise that more sparingly, for tho the lead-\\ning circumstances are well imagined, the con-\\nducting of it seems to me too dramatic for a\\nlyrical narrative, and there are too many com-\\nplex contrivances to the bringing about the\\ncatastrophe.\\nMiss Baillie proceeded, with some sagacity,\\nto predict that Scott s mind was working to-\\nward dramatic composition. Her criticism of\\nRokeby indeed implies that the story would\\nhave lent itself better to a form which per-\\nmitted a greater elaboration of character and\\nplot. Only the next year, Scott was to per-\\nfect his Waverley. In truth, in Rokeby, Scott s\\ninterest, though largely in the presentation of\\nhis friend s domain, was specifically in char-\\nacter, and the heroine especially was the\\nreflection, in imaginative form, of that early\\nlove, whose influence had already been felt in\\nThe Lay of the Last Minstrel. Writing to\\nMiss Edgeworth, five years after the appear-\\nance of Rokeby, he says This much of Ma-\\ntilda I recollect (for that is not so easily\\nforgotten) that she was attempted for the\\nexisting person of a lady who is now no more,\\nso that I am particularly flattered with your\\ndistinguishing it from the others, which are in\\ngeneral mere shadows. And Lockhart, quot-\\ning this, adds I can have no doubt that the\\nlady he here alludes to, was the object of his\\nown unfortunate first love and as little, that\\nin the romantic generosity, both of the youth-\\nful poet who fails to win her higher favor, and\\nof his chivalrous competitor, we have before\\nus something more than a mere shadow.\\nRokeby was published the first week in Jan-\\nuary, 1813, and bore the dedication to Mr.\\nMorritt. When the poem was issued in the\\ncollective edition of 1830, it was preceded by\\nthe following Introduction.\\nINTRODUCTION\\nBetween the publication of The Lady of\\nthe Lake, which was so eminently successful,\\nand that of Rokeby, in 1813, three years had\\nintervened. I shall not, I believe, be accused\\nof ever having attempted to usurp a superior-\\nity over many men of genius, my contempora-\\nries but, in point of popularity, not of actual\\ntalent, the caprice of the public had certainly\\ngiven me such a temporary superiority over\\nmen, of whom, in regard to poetical fancy and\\nfeeling, I scarcely thought myself worthy to\\nloose the shoe-latch. On the other hand, it\\nwould be absurd affectation in me to deny,\\nthat I conceived myself to understand, more\\nperfectly than many of my contemporaries,\\nthe manner most likely to interest the great\\nmass of mankind. Yet, even with this belief,\\nI must truly and fairly say that I always con-\\nsidered myself rather as one who held the bets\\nin time to be paid over to the winner, than as\\nhaving any pretence to keep them in my own\\nright.\\nIn the mean time years crept on, and not\\nwithout their usual depredations on the passing\\ngeneration. My sons had arrived at the age\\nwhen the paternal home was no longer their\\nbest abode, as both were destined to active\\nlife. The field-sports, to which I was pecul-\\niarly attached, had now less interest, and were\\nreplaced by other amusements of a more quiet\\ncharacter and the means and opportunity of\\npursuing these were to be sought for. I had,\\nindeed, for some years attended to farming, a\\nknowledge of which is, or at least was then,\\nindispensable to the comfort of a family re-\\nsiding in a solitary country-house but al-\\nthough this was the favorite amusement of\\nmany of my friends, I have never been able to\\nconsider it as a source of pleasure. I never\\ncould think it a matter of passing importance,\\nthat my cattle or crops were better or more\\nplentiful than those of my neighbors, and nev-\\nertheless I began to feel the necessity of some\\nmore quiet out-door occupation, different from\\nthose I had hitherto pursued. I purchased a\\nsmall farm of about one hundred acres, with\\nthe purpose of planting and improving it, to\\nwhich property circumstances afterwards en-\\nabled me to make considerable additions and\\nthus an era took place in my life, almost equal\\nto the important one mentioned by the Vicar of\\nWakefield, when he removed from the Blue-\\nroom to the Brown. In point of neighborhood,\\nat least, the change of residence made little\\nmore difference. Abbotsf ord, to which we re-\\nmoved, was only six or seven miles down the\\nTweed, and lay on the same beautiful stream.\\nIt did not possess the romantic character of\\nAshestiel, my former residence but it had a\\nstretch of meadow-land along the river, and\\npossessed, in the phrase of the landscape-gar-\\ndener, considerable capabilities. Above all,\\nthe land was my own, like Uncle Toby s Bowl-\\ning-green, to do what I would with. It had\\nbeen, though the gratification was long post-\\nponed, an early wish of mine to connect my-\\nself with my mother earth, and prosecute those\\nexperiments by which a species of creative", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0260.jp2"}, "259": {"fulltext": "AUTHOR S INTRODUCTION\\npower is exercised over the face of nature. I\\ncan trace, even to childhood, a pleasure derived\\nfrom Dodsley s account of Shenstone s Lea-\\nsowes, and I envied the poet much more for\\nthe pleasure of accomplishing the objects de-\\ntailed in his friend s sketch of his grounds,\\nthan for the possession of pipe, crook, flock,\\nand Phillis to boot. My memory, also, tena-\\ncious of quaint expressions, still retained a\\nphrase which it had gathered from an old\\nalmanac of Charles the Second s time (when\\neverything down to almanacs affected to be\\nsmart), in which the reader, in the month of\\nJune, is advised for health s sake to walk a\\nmile or two every day before breakfast, and,\\nif he can possibly so manage, to let his exer-\\ncise be taken upon his own land.\\nWith the satisfaction of having attained the\\nfulfilment of an early and long-cherished hope,\\nI commenced my improvements, as delight-\\nful in their progress as those of the child who\\nfirst makes a dress for a new doll. The naked-\\nness of the land was in time hidden by wood-\\nlands of considerable extent the smallest of\\npossible cottages was progressively expanded\\ninto a sort of dream of a mansion-house, whim-\\nsical in the exterior, but convenient within.\\nNor did I forget what is the natural pleasure\\nof every man who has been a reader I mean\\nthe filling the shelves of a tolerably large\\nlibrary. All these objects I kept in view, to\\nbe executed as convenience should serve and\\nalthough I knew many years must elapse be-\\nfore they could be attained, I was of a dispo-\\nsition to comfort myself with the Spanish\\nproverb, Time and I against any two.\\nThe difficult and indispensable point of\\nfinding a permanent subject of occupation was\\nnow at length attained but there was an-\\nnexed to it the necessity of becoming again\\na candidate for public favor; for as I was\\nturned improver on the earth of the every-day\\nworld it was under condition that the small\\ntenement of Parnassus, which might be access-\\nible to my labors, should not remain unculti-\\nvated.\\nI meditated, at first, a poem on the subject\\nof Bruce, in which I made some progress, but\\nafterwards judged it advisable to lay it aside,\\nsupposing that an English story might have\\nmore novelty in consequence, the precedence\\nwas given to Eokeby.\\nIf subject and scenery could have influ-\\nenced the fate of a poem, that of Eokeby\\nshould have been eminently distinguished for\\nthe grounds belonged to a dear friend, with\\nwhom I had lived in habits of intimacy for\\nmany years, and the place itself united the\\nromantic beauties of the wilds of Scotland with\\nthe rich and smiling aspect of the southern\\nportion of the island. But the Cavaliers and\\nRoundheads, whom I attempted to summon\\nup to tenant this beautiful region, had for the\\npublic neither the novelty nor the peculiar\\ninterest of the primitive Highlanders. This,\\nperhaps, was scarcely to be expected, consider-\\ning that the general mind sympathizes read-\\nily and at once with the stamp which nature\\nherself has affixed upon the manners of a peo-\\nple living in a simple and patriarchal state\\nwhereas it has more difficulty in understand-\\ning or interesting itself in manners founded\\nupon those peculiar habits of thinking or act-\\ning which are produced by the progress of so-\\nciety. We could read with pleasure the tale\\nof the adventures of a Cossack or a Mongol\\nTartar, while we only wonder and stare over\\nthose of the lovers in the Pleasing Chinese His-\\ntory, where the embarrassments turn upon\\ndifficulties arising out of unintelligible deli-\\ncacies peculiar to the customs and manners of\\nthat affected people.\\nThe cause of my failure had, however, a\\nfar deeper root. The manner, or style, which,\\nby its novelty, attracted the public in an un-\\nusual degree, had now, after having been three\\ntimes before them, exhausted the patience of\\nthe reader, and began in the fourth to lose its\\ncharms. The reviewers may be said to have\\napostrophized the author in the language of\\nParnell s Edwin\\nAnd here reverse the charm, he cries,\\nAnd let it fairly now suffice,\\nThe gambol has been shown.\\nThe licentious combination of rhymes, in a\\nmanner perhaps not very congenial to our lan-\\nguage, had not been confined to the author.\\nIndeed, in most similar cases, the inventors of\\nsuch novelties have their reputation destroyed\\nby their own imitators, as Actseon fell under\\nthe fury of his own dogs. The present author,\\nlike Bobadil, had taught his trick of fence to\\na hundred gentlemen (and ladies), who could\\nfence very nearly or quite as well as himself.\\nFor this there was no remedy the harmony\\nbecame tiresome and ordinary, and both the\\noriginal inventor and his invention must have\\nfallen into contempt if he had not found out\\nanother road to public favor. What has been\\nsaid of the metre only, must be considered to\\napply equally to the structure of the Poem and\\nof the style. The very best passages of any\\npopular style are not, perhaps, susceptible of\\nimitation, but they may be approached by men\\nof talent and those who are less able to copy\\nthem, at least lay hold of their peculiar fea-\\ntures, so as to produce a strong burlesque. In\\neither way, the effect of the manner is rendered\\ncheap and common and, in the latter case,\\nridiculous to boot. The evil consequences to\\nan author s reputation are at least as fatal as", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0261.jp2"}, "260": {"fulltext": "230\\nROKEBY\\nthose which come upon the musical composer\\n\u00e2\u0096\u00a0when his melody falls into the hands of the\\nstreet ballad-singer.\\nOf the unfavorable species of imitation, the\\nauthor s style gave room to a very large num-\\nber, owing to an appearance of facility to which\\nsome of those who xised the measure unques-\\ntionably leaned too far. The effect of the more\\nfavorable imitations, composed by persons of\\ntalent, was almost equally unfortunate to the\\noriginal minstrel, by showing that they could\\novershoot him with his own bow. In short, the\\npopularity which once attended the School, as\\nit was called, was now fast decaying.\\nBesides all this, to have kept his ground at\\nthe crisis when Rokeby appeared, its author\\nought to have put forth his utmost strength, and\\nto have possessed at least all his original advan-\\ntages, for a mighty and unexpected rival was\\nadvancing on the stage, a rival not in poetical\\npowers only, but in that art of attracting popu-\\nlarity, in which the present writer had hitherto\\npreceded better men than himself. The reader\\nwill easily see that Byron is here meant, who,\\nafter a little velitation of no great promise, now\\nappeared as a serious candidate, in the first two\\ncantos of Childe Harold. I was astonished at\\nthe power evinced by that work, which neither\\nthe Hours of Idleness, nor the English Bards\\nand Scotch Reviewers, had prepared me to ex-\\npect from its author. There was a depth in his\\nthought, an eager abundance in his diction,\\nwhich argued full confidence in the inexhaust-\\nible resources of which he felt himself pos-\\nsessed, and there was some appearance of that\\nlabor of the file, which indicates that the author\\nis conscious of the necessity of doing every\\njustice to his work, that it may pass warrant.\\nLord Byron was also a traveller, a man whose\\nideas were fired by having seen, in distant\\nscenes of difficulty and danger, the places whose\\nvery names are recorded in our bosoms as the\\nshrines of ancient poetry. For his own misfor-\\ntune, perhaps, but certainly to the high increase\\nof his poetical character, nature had mixed\\nin Lord Byron s system those passions which\\nagitate the human heart with most violence,\\nand which may be said to have hurried his\\nbright career to an early close. There would\\nhave been little wisdom in measuring my force\\nwith so formidable an antagonist and I was\\nas likely to tire of playing the second fiddle\\nin the concert, as my audience of hearing me.\\nAge also was advancing. I was growing in-\\nsensible to those subjects of excitation by which\\nyouth is agitated. I had around me the most\\npleasant but least exciting of all society, that\\nof kind friends and an affectionate family. My\\ncircle of employments was a narrow one it\\noccupied me constantly, and it became daily\\nmore difficult for me to interest myself in poeti-\\ncal composition\\n1 How happily the days of Thalaba went by\\nYet, though conscious that I must be, in the\\nopinion of good judges, inferior to the place I\\nhad for four or five years held in letters, and\\nfeeling alike that the latter was one to which I\\nhad only a temporary right, I could not brook\\nthe idea of relinquishing literary occupation,\\nwhich had been so long my chief diversion.\\nNeither was I disposed to choose the alternative\\nof sinking into a mere editor and commentator,\\nthough that was a species of labor which I had\\npractised, and to which I was attached. But I\\ncould not endure to think that I might not,\\nwhether known or concealed, do something of\\nmore importance. My inmost thoughts were\\nthose of the Trojan Captain in the galley race\\n4 Non jam, prima peto, Mnestheus, neque vincere certo,\\nQuanquam O sed superent, quibus hoc, Neptune,\\ndedisti;\\nExtremos pudeat rediisae hoc vincite, cives,\\nEt prohibete nefas.\\nMn. lib. v. 194.\\nI had, indeed, some private reasons for my\\nQuanquam which were not worse than\\nthose of Mnestheus. I have already hinted\\nthat the materials were collected for a poem on\\nthe subject of Bruce, and fragments of it had\\nbeen shown to some of my friends, and received\\nwith applause. Notwithstanding, therefore, the\\neminent success of Byron, and the great chance\\nof his taking the wind out of my sails, there\\nwas, I judged, a species of cowardice in desist-\\ning from the task which I had undertaken, and\\nit was time enough to retreat when the battle\\nshould be more decidedly lost. The sale of\\nRokeby, excepting as compared with that of\\nThe Lady of the Lake, was in the highest degree\\nrespectable and as it included fifteen hundred\\nquartos, in those quarto-reading days, the trade\\nhad no reason to be dissatisfied.\\nAbbotsford, April, 1830.\\n1 I seek not now the foremost palm to gain;\\nThough yet but ah that haughty wish is vain\\nLet those enjoy it whom the gods ordain.\\nBut to be last, the lags of all the race\\nRedeem yourselves and me from that disgrace.\\nDryden.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0262.jp2"}, "261": {"fulltext": "ROKEBY\\nA POEM IN SIX CANTOS\\nJOHN B. S. MORRITT, ESQ.,\\nTHIS POEM\\nTHE SCENE OF WHICH IS LAID IN HIS BEAUTIFUL DEMESNE OF ROKEBY,\\nIS INSCRIBED, IN TOKEN OF SINCERE FRIENDSHIP, BY\\nWALTER SCOTT.\\nADVERTISEMENT\\nThe Scene of this Poem is laid at Rokeby, near Greta Bridge, in Yorkshire, and shifts to the adjacent fortress of\\nBarnard Castle, and to other places in that Vicinity.\\nThe Time occupied by the Action is a space of Five Days, Three of which are supposed to elapse between the end\\nof the Fifth and the beginning of the Sixth Canto.\\nThe date of the supposed events is immediately subsequent to the great Battle of Marston Moor, 3d July, 1644.\\nThis period of public confusion has been chosen without any purpose of combining the Fable with the Military or\\nPolitical Events of the Civil War, but only as affording a degree of probability to the fictitious Narrative now pre-\\nsented to the Public.\\nCANTO FIRST\\nThe moon is in her summer glow,\\nBut hoarse and high the breezes blow,\\nAnd, racking o er her face, the cloud\\nVaries the tincture of her shroud\\nOn Barnard s towers and Tees s stream,\\nShe changes as a guilty dream,\\nWhen Conscience with remorse and fear\\nGoads sleeping Fancy s wild career.\\nHer light seems now the blush of shame,\\nSeems now fierce anger s darker flame, 1\\nShifting that shade to come and go,\\nLike apprehension s hurried glow;\\nThen sorrow s livery dims the air,\\nAnd dies in darkness, like despair.\\nSuch varied hues the warder sees\\nReflected from the Woodland Tees,\\nThen from old BalioFs tower looks forth,\\nSees the clouds mustering in the north,\\nHears upon turret-roof and wall\\nBy fits the plashing rain-drop fall, 2\\nLists to the breeze s boding sound,\\nAnd wraps his shaggy mantle round.\\nThose towers, which in the changeful\\ngleam\\nThrow murky shadows on the stream,\\nThose towers of Barnard hold a guest,\\nThe emotions of whose troubled breast,\\nIn wild and strange confusion driven,\\nRival the flitting rack of heaven.\\nEre sleep stern Oswald s senses tied,\\nOft had he changed his weary side, 30\\nComposed his limbs, and vainly sought\\nBy effort strong to banish thought.\\nSleep came at length, but with a train\\nOf feelings true and fancies vain,\\nMingling, in wild disorder cast,\\nThe expected future with the past.\\nConscience, anticipating time,\\nAlready rues the enacted crime,\\nAnd calls her furies forth to shake\\nThe sounding scourge and hissing snake; 40\\nWhile her poor victim s outward throes\\nBear witness to his mental woes,\\nAnd show what lesson may be read\\nBeside a sinner s restless bed.\\n231", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0263.jp2"}, "262": {"fulltext": "232\\nROKEBY\\nThus Oswald s laboring feelings trace\\nStrange changes in his sleeping face,\\nRapid and ominous as these\\nWith which the moonbeams tinge the Tees.\\nThere might be seen of shame the blush,\\nThere anger s dark and fiercer flush, 50\\nWhile the perturbed sleeper s hand\\nSeemed grasping dagger-knife or brand.\\nRelaxed that grasp, the heavy sigh,\\nThe tear in the half-opening eye,\\nThe pallid cheek and brow, confessed\\nThat grief was busy in his breast:\\nNor paused that mood a sudden start\\nImpelled the life-blood from the heart;\\nFeatures convulsed and mutterings dread\\nShow terror reigns in sorrow s stead. 60\\nThat pang the painful slumber broke,\\nAnd Oswald with a start awoke.\\nIV\\nHe woke, and feared again to close\\nHis eyelids in such dire repose;\\nHe woke, to watch the lamp, and tell\\nFrom hour to hour the castle-bell,\\nOr listen to the owlet s cry,\\nOr the sad breeze that whistles by,\\nOr catch by fits the tuneless rhyme\\nWith which the warder cheats the time, 70\\nAnd envying think how, when the sun\\nBids the poor soldier s watch be done,\\nCouched on his straw and fancy-free,\\nHe sleeps like careless infancy.\\nFar townward sounds a distant tread,\\nAnd Oswald, starting from his bed,\\nHath caught it, though no human ear,\\nUnsharpened by revenge and fear,\\nCould e er distinguish horse s clank,\\nUntil it reached the castle bank. 80\\nNow nigh and plain the sound appears,\\nThe warder s challenge now he hears,\\nThen clanking chains and levers tell\\nThat o er the moat the drawbridge fell,\\nAnd, in the castle court below,\\nVoices are heard, and torches glow,\\nAs marshalling the stranger s way\\nStraight for the room where Oswald lay;\\nThe cry was, Tidings from the host,\\nOf weight a messenger comes post. 90\\nStifling the tumult of his breast,\\nHis answer Oswald thus expressed,\\nBring food and wine, and trim the fire\\nAdmit the stranger and retire.\\nVI\\nThe stranger came with heavy stride;\\nThe morion s plumes his visage hide,\\nAnd the buff-coat in ample fold\\nMantles his form s gigantic mould.\\nFull slender answer deigned he\\nTo Oswald s anxious courtesy, 100\\nBut marked by a disdainful smile\\nHe saw and scorned the petty wile,\\nWhen Oswald changed the torch s place,\\nAnxious that on the soldier s face\\nIts partial lustre might be thrown,\\nTo show his looks yet hide his own.\\nHis guest the while laid slow aside\\nThe ponderous cloak of tough bull s hide,\\nAnd to the torch glanced broad and clear\\nThe corselet of a cuirassier; no\\nThen from his brows the casque he drew\\nAnd from the dank plume dashed the dew,\\nFrom gloves of mail relieved his hands\\nAnd spread them to the kindling brands,\\nAnd, turning to the genial board,\\nWithout a health or pledge or word\\nOf meet and social reverence said,\\nDeeply he drank and fiercely fed,\\nAs free from ceremony s sway\\nAs famished wolf that tears his prey. 120\\nWith deep impatience, tinged with fear,\\nHis host beheld him gorge his cheer,\\nAnd quaff the full carouse that lent\\nHis brow a fiercer hardiment.\\nNow Oswald stood a space aside,\\nNow paced the room with hasty stride,\\nIn feverish agony to learn\\nTidings of deep and dread concern,\\nCursing each moment that his guest\\nProtracted o er his ruffian feast, 130\\nYet, viewing with alarm at last\\nThe end of that uncouth repast,\\nAlmost he seemed their haste to rue\\nAs at his sign his train withdrew,\\nAnd left him with the stranger, free\\nTo question of his mystery.\\nThen did his silence long proclaim\\nA struggle between fear and shame.\\nVIII\\nMuch in the stranger s mien appears\\nTo justify suspicious fears. 140\\nOn his dark face a scorching clime\\nAnd toil had done the work of time,\\nRoughened the brow, the temples bared,\\nAnd sable hairs with silver shared,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0264.jp2"}, "263": {"fulltext": "CANTO FIRST\\n233\\nYet left what age alone could tame\\nThe lip of pride, the eye of flame;\\nThe full-drawn lip that upward curled,\\nThe eye that seemed to scorn the world.\\nThat lip had terror never blanched; 149\\nNe er in that eye had tear-drop quenched\\nThe flash severe of swarthy glow\\nThat mocked at pain and knew not woe.\\nInured to danger s direst form,\\nTornado and earthquake, flood and storm,\\nDeath had he seen by sudden blow,\\nBy wasting plague, by tortures slow,\\nBy mine or breach, by steel or ball,\\nKnew all his shapes and scorned them all.\\nBut yet, though Bertram s hardened look\\nUnmoved could blood and danger brook,\\nStill worse than apathy had place 161\\nOn his swart brow and callous face;\\nFor evil passions cherished long\\nHad ploughed them with impressions\\nstrong.\\nAll that gives gloss to sin, all gay\\nLight folly, past with youth away,\\nBut rooted stood in manhood s hour\\nThe weeds of vice without their flower.\\nAnd yet the soil in which they grew,\\nHad it been tamed when life was new, 170\\nHad depth and vigor to bring forth\\nThe hardier fruits of virtuous worth.\\nNot that e en then his heart had known\\nThe gentler feelings kindly tone;\\nBut lavish waste had been refined\\nTo bounty in his chastened mind,\\nAnd lust of gold, that waste to feed,\\nBeen lost in love of glory s meed,\\nAnd, frantic then no more, his pride\\nHad ta en fair virtue for its guide. 180\\nEven now, by conscience unrestrained,\\nClogged by gross vice, by slaughter stained,\\nStill knew his daring soul to soar,\\nAnd mastery o er the mind he bore;\\nFor meaner guilt or heart less hard\\nQuailed beneath Bertram s bold regard.\\nAnd this felt Oswald, while in vain\\nHe strove by many a winding train\\nTo lure his sullen guest to show\\nUnasked the news he longed to know, 190\\nWhile on far other subject hung\\nHis heart than faltered from his tongue.\\nYet nought for that his guest did deign\\nTo note or spare his secret pain,\\nBut still in stern and stubborn sort\\nReturned him answer dark and short,\\nOr started from the theme to range\\nIn loose digression wild and strange,\\nAnd forced the embarrassed host to buy\\nBy query close direct reply. 200\\nXI\\nAwhile he glozed upon the cause\\nOf Commons, Covenant, and Laws,\\nAnd Church reformed but felt rebuke\\nBeneath grim Bertram s sneering look,\\nThen stammered Has a field been\\nfought\\nHas Bertram news of battle brought\\nFor sure a soldier, famed so far\\nIn foreign fields for feats of war,\\nOn eve of fight ne er left the host\\nUntil the field were won and lost. 210\\nHere, in your towers by circling Tees,\\nYou, Oswald Wycliffe, rest at ease;\\nWhy deem it strange that others come\\nTo share such safe and easy home,\\nFrom fields where danger, death, and\\ntoil\\nAre the reward of civil broil\\nNay, mock not, friend since well we\\nknow\\nThe near advances of the foe,\\nTo mar our northern army s work,\\nEncamped before beleaguered York 220\\nThy horse with valiant Fairfax lay,\\nAnd must have fought how went the\\nday?\\nXII\\nWouldst hear the tale On Marston\\nheath\\nMet front to front the ranks of death;\\nFlourished the trumpets fierce, and now\\nFired was each eye and flushed each brow;\\nOn either side loud clamors ring,\\nGod and the Cause God and the\\nKing\\nRight English all, they rushed to blows,\\nWith nought to win and all to lose. 230\\nI could have laughed but lacked the\\ntime\\nTo see, in phrenesy sublime,\\nHow the fierce zealots fought and bled\\nFor king or state, as humor led;\\nSome for a dream of public good,\\nSome for church-tippet, gown, and hood,\\nDraining their veins, in death to claim\\nA patriot s or a martyr s name.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0265.jp2"}, "264": {"fulltext": "234\\nROKEBY\\nLed Bertram Risingham the hearts\\nThat countered there on adverse parts, 240\\nNo superstitious fool had I\\nSought El Dorados iu the sky\\nChili had heard ine through her states,\\nAnd Lima oped her silver gates,\\nRich Mexico I had marched through,\\nAnd sacked the splendors of Peru,\\nTill sunk Pizarro s daring name,\\nAnd, Cortez, thine, in Bertram s fame/\\nStill from the purpose wilt thou stray\\nGood gentle friend, how went the day 250\\nXIII\\nGood am I deemed at trumpet sound,\\nAnd good where goblets dance the round,\\nThough gentle ne er was joined till now\\nWith rugged Bertram s breast and brow.\\nBut I resume. The battle s rage\\nWas like the strife which currents wage\\nWhere Orinoco in his pride\\nRolls to the main no tribute tide,\\nBut gainst broad ocean urges far\\nA rival sea of roaring war; 260\\nWhile, in ten thousand eddies driven,\\nThe billows fling their foam to heaven,\\nAnd the pale pilot seeks in vain\\nWhere rolls the river, where the main\\nEven thus upon the bloody field\\nThe eddying tides of conflict wheeled\\nAmbiguous, till that heart of flame,\\nHot Rupert, on our squadrons came,\\nHurling against our spears a line\\nOf gallants fiery as their wine 270\\nThen ours, though stubborn in their zeal,\\nIn zeal s despite began to reel.\\nWhat wouldst thou more in tumult\\ntost,\\nOur leaders fell, our ranks were lost.\\nA thousand men who drew the sword\\nFor both the Houses and the Word,\\nPreached forth from hamlet, grange, and\\ndown,\\nTo curb the crosier and the crown,\\nNow, stark and stiff, lie stretched in gore,\\nAnd ne er shall rail at mitre more. 280\\nThus fared it when I left the fight\\nWith the good Cause and Commons\\nright.\\nXIV\\nDisastrous news dark Wy cliff e said;\\nAssumed despondence bent his head,\\nWhile troubled joy was in his eye,\\nThe well-feigned sorrow to belie.\\nDisastrous news when needed most,\\nTold ye not that your chiefs were lost\\nComplete the woful tale and say\\nWho fell upon that fatal day, 290\\nWhat leaders of repute and name\\nBought by their death a deathless fame.\\nIf such my direst foeman s doom,\\nMy tears shall dew his honored tomb.\\nNo answer Friend, of all our host,\\nThou know st whom I should hate the\\nmost,\\nWhom thou too once wert wont to hate,\\nYet leavest me doubtful of his fate.\\nWith look unmoved Of friend or foe,\\nAught, answered Bertram, wouldst thou\\nknow, 300\\nDemand in simple terms and plain,\\nA soldier s answer shalt thou gain;\\nFor question dark or riddle high\\nI have nor judgment nor reply.\\nxv\\nThe wrath his art and fear suppressed\\nNow blazed at once in Wycliffe s breast,\\nAnd brave from man so meanly born\\nRoused his hereditary scorn.\\nWretch hast thou paid thy bloody debt\\nPhilip of Mortham, lives he yet 310\\nFalse to thy patron or thine oath,\\nTraitorous or perjured, one or both.\\nSlave hast thou kept thy promise plight,\\nTo slay thy leader in the fight\\nThen from his seat the soldier sprung,\\nAnd Wycliffe s hand he strongly wrung;\\nHis grasp, as hard as glove of mail,\\nForced the red blood-drop from the nail\\nA health he cried; and ere he quaffed\\nFlung from him Wycliffe s hand and\\nlaughed 320\\nNow, Oswald Wy cliff e, speaks thy heart\\nNow play st thou well thy genuine part\\nWorthy, but for thy craven fear,\\nLike me to roam a buccaneer.\\nWhat reck st thou of the Cause divine,\\nIf Mortham s wealth and lands be thine\\nWhat carest thou for beleaguered York,\\nIf this good hand have done its work\\nOr what though Fairfax and his best\\nAre reddening Marston s swarthy breast, 330\\nIf Philip Mortham with them lie,\\nLending his life-blood to the dye\\nSit, then and as mid comrades free\\nCarousing after victory,\\nWhen tales are told of blood and fear\\nThat boys and women shrink to hear,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0266.jp2"}, "265": {"fulltext": "CANTO FIRST\\n235\\nFrom point to point I frankly tell\\nThe deed of death as it befell.\\nXVI\\nWhen purposed vengeance I forego,\\nTerm me a wretch, nor deem me foe; 340\\nAnd when an insult I forgive,\\nThen brand me as a slave and live\\nPhilip of Mortham is with those\\nWhom Bertram Risingham calls foes;\\nOr whom more sure revenge attends,\\nIf numbered with ungrateful friends.\\nAs was his wont, ere battle glowed,\\nAlong the marshalled ranks he rode,\\nAnd wore his visor up the while.\\nI saw his melancholy smile 350\\nWhen, full opposed in front, he knew\\nWhere Rokeby s kindred banner flew.\\nAnd thus, he said, will friends di-\\nvide!\\nI heard, and thought how side by side\\nWe two had turned the battle s tide\\nIn many a well-debated field\\nWhere Bertram s breast was Philip s\\nshield.\\nI thought on Darien s deserts pale\\nWhere death bestrides the evening gale;\\nHow o er my friend my cloak I threw, 360\\nAnd fenceless faced the deadly dew;\\nI thought on Quariana s cliff\\nWhere, rescued from our foundering skiff,\\nThrough the white breakers wrath I bore\\nExhausted Mortham to the shore;\\nAnd, when his side an arrow found,\\nI sucked the Indian s venomed wound.\\nThese thoughts like torrents rushed along,\\nTo sweep away my purpose strong.\\nXVII\\nJ Hearts are not flint, and flints are rent; 370\\nHearts are not steel, and steel is bent.\\nWhen Mortham bade me, as of yore,\\nBe near him in the battle s roar,\\nI scarcely saw the spears laid low,\\nI scarcely heard the trumpets blow;\\nLost was the war in inward strife,\\nDebating Mortham s death or life.\\nT was then I thought how, lured to come\\nAs partner of his wealth and home,\\nYears of piratic wandering o er, 380\\nWith him I sought our native shore.\\nBut Mortham s lord grew far estranged\\nFrom the bold heart with whom he ranged;\\nDoubts, horrors, superstitious fears,\\nSaddened and dimmed descending years;\\nThe wily priests their victim sought,\\nAnd damned each free-born deed and\\nthought.\\nThen must I seek another home,\\nMy license shook his sober dome;\\nIf gold he gave, in one wild day 390\\nI revelled thrice the sura away.\\nAn idle outcast then I strayed,\\nUnfit for tillage or for trade.\\nDeemed, like the steel of rusted lance,\\nUseless and dangerous at once.\\nThe women feared my hardy look,\\nAt my approach the peaceful shook;\\nThe merchant saw my glance of flame,\\nAnd locked his hoards when Bertram, came;\\nEach child of coward peace kept far 400\\nFrom the neglected son of war.\\nXVIII\\nBut civil discord gave the call,\\nAnd made my trade the trade of all.\\nBy Mortham urged, I came again\\nHis vassals to the fight to train.\\nWhat guerdon waited on my care\\nI could not cant of creed or prayer;\\nSour fanatics each trust obtained,\\nAnd I, dishonored and disdained,\\nGained but the high and happy lot 410\\nIn these poor arms to front the shot\\nAll this thou know st, thy gestures tell;\\nYet hear it o er and mark it well.\\nT is honor bids me now relate\\nEach circumstance of Mortham s fate.\\nXIX\\nThoughts, from the tongue that slowly\\npart,\\nGlance quick as lightning through the heart.\\nAs my spur pressed my courser s side,\\nPhilip of Mortham s cause was tried,\\nAnd ere the charging squadrons mixed 420\\nHis plea was cast, his doom was fixed.\\nI watched him through the doubtful fray,\\nThat changed as March s moody day,\\nTill, like a stream that bursts its bank,\\nFierce Rupert thundered on our flank.\\nT was then, midst tumult, smoke, and\\nstrife,\\nWhere each man fought for death or life,\\nT was then I fired my petronel,\\nAnd Mortham, steed and rider, fell.\\nOne dying look he upward cast, 430\\nOf wrath and anguish t was his last.\\nThink not that there I stopped, to view\\nWhat of the battle should ensue;", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0267.jp2"}, "266": {"fulltext": "236\\nROKEBY\\nBut ere I cleared that bloody press,\\nOur northern horse ran masterless\\nMonckton and Mitton told the news\\nHow troops of Roundheads choked the\\nOuse,\\nAnd many a bonny Scot aghast,\\nSpurring his palfrey northward, past,\\nCursing the day when zeal or meed 440\\nFirst lured their Lesley o er the Tweed.\\nYet when I reached the banks of Swale,\\nHad rumor learned another tale\\nWith his barbed horse, fresh tidings say,\\nStout Cromwell has redeemed the day:\\nBut whether false the news or true,\\nOswald, I reck as light as you.\\nNot then by Wycliffe might be shown\\nHow his pride startled at the tone\\nIn which his complice, fierce and free, 450\\nAsserted guilt s equality.\\nIn smoothest terms his speech he wove\\nOf endless friendship, faith, and love;\\nPromised and vowed in courteous sort,\\nBut Bertram broke professions short.\\nWycliffe, be sure not here I stay,\\nNo, scarcely till the rising day;\\nWarned by the legends of my youth,\\nI trust not an associate s truth.\\nDo not my native dales prolong 460\\nOf Percy Rede the tragic song,\\nTrained forward to his bloody fall,\\nBy G-irsonneld, that treacherous Hall\\nOft by the Pringle s haunted side\\nThe shepherd sees his spectre glide.\\nAnd near the spot that gave me name,\\nThe moated mound of Risingham,\\nWhere Reed upon her margin sees\\nSweet Woodburne s cottages and trees,\\nSome ancient sculptor s art has shown 470\\nAn outlaw s image on the stone;\\nUnmatched in strength, a giant he,\\nWith quivered back and kirtled knee.\\nAsk how he died, that hunter bold,\\nThe tameless monarch of the wold,\\nAnd age and infancy can tell\\nBy brother s treachery he fell.\\nThus warned by legends of my youth,\\nI trust to no associate s truth.\\nWhen last we reasoned of this deed, 480\\nNought, I bethink me, was agreed,\\nOr by what rule, or when, or where,\\nThe wealth of Mortham we should share\\nThen list while I the portion name\\nOur differing laws give each to claim.\\nThou, vassal sworn to England s throne,\\nHer rules of heritage must own;\\nThey deal thee, as to nearest heir,\\nThy kinsman s lands and livings fair,\\nAnd these I yield do thou revere 490\\nThe statutes of the buccaneer.\\nFriend to the sea, and foeman sworn\\nTo all that on her waves are borne,\\nWhen falls a mate in battle broil\\nHis comrade heirs his portioned spoil;\\nWhen dies in fight a daring foe\\nHe claims his wealth who struck th\\nblow;\\nAnd either rule to me assigns\\nThose spoils of Indian seas and mines\\nHoarded in Mortham s caverns dark;\\nIngot of gold and diamond spark,\\nChalice and plate from churches borne\\nAnd gems from shrieking beauty torn,\\nEach string of pearl, each silver bar,\\nAnd all the wealth of western war.\\nI go to search where, dark and deep,\\nThose trans-Atlantic treasures sleep.\\nThou must along for, lacking thee,\\nThe heir will scarce find entrance free\\nAnd then farewell. I haste to try\\nEach varied pleasure wealth can buy;\\nWhen cloyed each wish, these wars afford\\nFresh work for Bertram s restless sword.\\nXXII\\nAn undecided answer hung\\nOn Oswald s hesitating tongue.\\nDespite his craft, he heard with awe\\nThis ruffian stabber fix the law;\\nWhile his own troubled passions veer\\nThrough hatred, joy, regret, and fear:\\nJoyed at the soul that Bertram flies, 520\\nHe grudged the murderer s mighty prize,\\nHated his pride s presumptuous tone,\\nAnd feared to wend with him alone.\\nAt length, that middle course to steer\\nTo cowardice and craft so dear,\\nHis charge, he said, would ill allow\\nHis absence from the fortress now;\\nWilfrid on Bertram should attend,\\nHis son should journey with his friend.\\n510\\nContempt kept Bertram s anger down, 530\\nAnd wreathed to savage smile his frown.\\nWilfrid, or thou t is one to me,\\nWhichever bears the golden key.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0268.jp2"}, "267": {"fulltext": "CANTO FIRST\\n2 37\\nYet think not but I mark, and smile\\nTo mark, thy poor and selfish wile\\nIf injury from me you fear,\\nWhat, Oswald Wycliffe, shields thee here\\nI ve sprung from walls more high than\\nthese,\\nI Ve swam through deeper streams than\\nTees.\\nMight I not stab thee ere one yell 540\\nCould rouse the distant sentinel\\nStart not it is not my design,\\nBut, if it were, weak fence were thine;\\nAnd, trust me that in time of need\\nThis hand hath done more desperate\\ndeed.\\nGo, haste and rouse thy slumbering son;\\nTime calls, and I must needs be gone.\\nXXIV\\nNought of his sire s ungenerous part\\nPolluted Wilfrid s gentle heart,\\nA heart too soft from early life 550\\nTo hold with fortune needful strife.\\nHis sire, while yet a hardier race\\nOf numerous sons were Wycliffe s grace,\\nOn Wilfrid set contemptuous brand\\nFor feeble heart and forceless hand;\\nBut a fond mother s care and joy\\nWere centred in her sickly boy.\\nNo touch of childhood s frolic mood\\nShowed the elastic spring of blood;\\nHour after hour he loved to pore 560\\nOn Shakespeare s rich and varied lore,\\nBut turned from martial scenes and light,\\nFrom Falstaff s feast and Percy s fight,\\nTo ponder Jaques moral strain,\\nAnd muse with Hamlet, wise in vain,\\nAnd weep himself to soft repose\\nO er gentle Desdemona s woes.\\nXXV\\nIn youth he sought not pleasures found\\nBy youth in horse and hawk and hound,\\nBut loved the quiet joys that wake 570\\nBy lonely stream and silent lake;\\nIn Deepdale s solitude to lie,\\nWhere all is cliff and copse and sky;\\nTo climb Catcastle s dizzy peak,\\nOr lone Pendragon s mound to seek.\\nSuch was his wont; and there his dream\\nSoared on some wild fantastic theme\\nOf faithful love or ceaseless spring,\\nTill Contemplation s wearied wing\\nThe enthusiast could no more sustain, 580\\nAnd sad he sunk to earth again.\\nHe loved as many a lay can tell,\\nPreserved in Stanmore s lonely dell;\\nFor his was minstrel s skill, he caught\\nThe art unteachable, untaught;\\nHe loved his soul did nature frame\\nFor love, and fancy nursed the flame;\\nVainly he loved for seldom swain\\nOf such soft mould is loved again;\\nSilent he loved in every gaze 590\\nWas passion, friendship in his phrase;\\nSo mused his life away till died\\nHis brethren all, their father s pride.\\nWilfrid is now the only heir\\nOf all his stratagems and care,\\nAnd destined darkling to pursue\\nAmbition s maze by Oswald s clue.\\nWilfrid must love and woo the bright\\nMatilda, heir of Rokeby s knight.\\nTo love her was an easy hest, 600\\nThe secret empress of his breast;\\nTo woo her was a harder task\\nTo one that durst not hope or ask.\\nYet all Matilda could she gave\\nIn pity to her gentle slave\\nFriendship, esteem, and fair regard,\\nAnd praise, the poet s best reward\\nShe read the tales his taste approved,\\nAnd sung the lays he framed or loved;\\nYet, loath to nurse the fatal flame 610\\nOf hopeless love in friendship s name,\\nIn kind caprice she oft withdrew\\nThe favoring glance to friendship due,\\nThen grieved to see her victim s pain,\\nAnd gave the dangerous smiles again.\\nXXVIII\\nSo did the suit of Wilfrid stand\\nWhen war s loud summons waked the\\nland.\\nThree banners, floating o er the Tees,\\nThe woe-foreboding peasant sees;\\nIn concert oft they braved of old 620\\nThe bordering Scot s incursion bold:\\nFrowning defiance in their pride,\\nTheir vassals now and lords divide.\\nFrom his fair hall on Greta banks,\\nThe Knight of Rokeby led his ranks,\\nTo aid the valiant northern earls\\nWho drew the sword for royal Charles.\\nMortham, by marriage near allied,\\nHis sister had been Rokeby s bride,\\nThough long before the civil fray 630", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0269.jp2"}, "268": {"fulltext": "2 3 8\\nROKEBY\\nIn peaceful grave the lady lay,\\nPhilip of Mortham raised his band,\\nAnd marched at Fairfax s command;\\nWhile Wycliffe, bound by many a train\\nOf kindred art with wily Vane,\\nLess prompt to brave the bloody field,\\nMade Barnard s battlements his shield,\\nSecured them with his Lunedale powers,\\nAnd for the Commons held the towers.\\nXXIX\\nThe lovely heir of Rokeby s Knight 640\\nWaits in his halls the event of fight;\\nFor England s war revered the claim\\nOf every unprotected name,\\nAnd spared amid its fiercest rage\\nChildhood and womanhood and age.\\nBut Wilfrid, son to Rokeby s foe,\\nMust the dear privilege forego,\\nBy Greta s side in evening gray,\\nTo steal upon Matilda s way,\\nStriving with fond hypocrisy 650\\nFor careless step and vacant eye;\\nCalming each anxious look and glance,\\nTo give the meeting all to chance,\\nOr framing as a fair excuse\\nThe book, the pencil, or the muse;\\nSomethiug to give, to sing, to say,\\nSome modern tale, some ancient lay.\\nThen, while the longed-for minutes last,\\nAh minutes quickly over-past\\nRecording each expression free 660\\nOf kind or careless courtesy,\\nEach friendly look, each softer tone,\\nAs food for fancy when alone.\\nAll this is o er but still unseen\\nWilfrid may lurk in Eastwood green,\\nTo watch Matilda s wonted round,\\nWhile springs his heart at every sound.\\nShe comes t is but a passing sight,\\nYet serves to cheat his weary night;\\nShe comes not he will wait the hour 670\\nWhen her lamp lightens in the tower;\\nT is something yet if, as she past,\\nHer shade is o er the lattice cast.\\nWhat is my life, my hope he said;\\nAlas a trausitory shade.\\nXXX\\nThus wore his life, though reason strove\\nFor mastery in vain with love,\\nForcing upon his thoughts the sum\\nOf present woe and ills to come,\\nWhile still he turned impatient ear 680\\nFrom Truth s intrusive voice severe.\\nGentle, indifferent, and subdued,\\nIn all but this unmoved he viewed\\nEach outward change of ill and good:\\nBut Wilfrid, docile, soft, and mild,\\nWas Fancy s spoiled and wayward child;\\nIn her bright car she bade him ride,\\nWith one fair form to grace his side,\\nOr, in some wild and lone retreat,\\nFlung her high spells around his seat, 690\\nBathed in her dews his languid head,\\nHer fairy mantle o er him spread,\\nFor him her opiates gave to flow,\\nWhich he who tastes can ne er forego,\\nAnd placed him in her circle, free\\nFrom every stern reality,\\nTill to the Visionary seem\\nHer day-dreams truth, and truth a dream.\\nXXXI\\nWoe to the youth whom Fancy gains,\\nWinning from Reason s hand the reins, 700\\nPity and woe for such a mind\\nIs soft, contemplative, and kind;\\nAnd woe to those who train such youth,\\nAnd spare to press the rights of truth,\\nThe mind to strengthen and anneal\\nWhile on the stithy glows the steel\\nO teach him while your lessons last\\nTo judge the present by the past;\\nRemind him of each wish pursued,\\nHow rich it glowed with promised good; 710\\nRemind him of each wish enjoyed,\\nHow soon his hopes possession cloyed\\nTell him we play unequal game\\nWhene er we shoot by Fancy s aim;\\nAnd, ere he strip him for her race,\\nShow the conditions of the chase:\\nTwo sisters by the goal are set,\\nCold Disappointment and Regret;\\nOne disenchants the winner s eyes,\\nAnd strips of all its worth the prize. 720\\nWhile one augments its gaudy show,\\nMore to enhance the loser s woe.\\nThe victor sees his fairy gold\\nTransformed when won to drossy mould,\\nBut still the vanquished mourns his loss,\\nAnd rues as gold that glittering dross.\\nXXXII\\nMore wouldst thou know yon tower sur-\\nvey,\\nYon couch mi pressed since parting day,\\nYon untrimmed lamp, whose yellow gleam\\nIs mingling with the cold moonbeam, 730\\nAnd yon thin form the hectic red", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0270.jp2"}, "269": {"fulltext": "CANTO SECOND\\n239\\nOn his pale cheek unequal spread;\\nThe head reclined, the loosened hair,\\nThe limbs relaxed, the mournful air.\\nSee, he looks up; a woful smile\\nLightens his woe-worn cheek a while,\\nT is Fancy wakes some idle thought,\\nTo gild the ruin she has wrought;\\nFor, like the bat of Indian brakes,\\nHer pinions fan the wound she makes, 740\\nAnd, soothing thus the dreamer s pain,\\nShe drinks his life-blood from the vein.\\nNow to the lattice turn his eyes,\\nVain hope to see the sun arise.\\nThe moon with clouds is still o ercast,\\nStill howls by fits the stormy blast;\\nAnother hour must wear away\\nEre the east kindle into day,\\nAnd hark to waste that weary hour,\\nHe tries the minstrel s magic power. 750\\nXXXIII\\nSONG\\nTO THE MOON\\nHail to thy cold and clouded beam,\\nPale pilgrim of the troubled sky\\nHail, though the mists that o er thee stream\\nLend to thy brow their sullen dye I\\nHow should thy pure and peaceful eye\\nUntroubled view our scenes below,\\nOr how a tearless beam supply\\nTo light a world of war and woe\\nFair Queen I will not blame thee now,\\nAs once by Greta s fairy side; 760\\nEach little cloud that dimmed thy brow\\nDid then an angel s beauty hide.\\nAnd of the shades I then could chide,\\nStill are the thoughts to memory dear,\\nFor, while a softer strain I tried,\\nThey hid my blush and calmed my fear.\\nThen did I swear thy ray serene\\nWas formed to light some lonely dell,\\nBy two fond lovers only seen,\\nReflected from the crystal well; 770\\nOr sleeping on their mossy cell,\\nOr quivering on the lattice bright,\\nOr glancing on their couch, to tell\\nHow swiftly wanes the summer night\\nXXXIV\\nHe starts a step at this lone hour\\nA voice his father seeks the tower,\\nWith haggard look and troubled sense,\\nFresh from his dreadful conference.\\nWilfrid what, not to sleep addressed\\nThou hast no cares to chase thy rest. 780\\nMortham has fallen on Mars ton-moor;\\nBertram brings warrant to secure\\nHis treasures, bought by spoil and blood,\\nFor the state s use and public good.\\nThe menials will thy voice obey;\\nLet his commission have its way,\\nIn every point, in every word.\\nThen, in a whisper, Take thy sword\\nBertram is what I must not tell.\\nI hear his hasty step farewell 790\\nCANTO SECOND\\nFar in the chambers of the west,\\nThe gale had sighed itself to rest;\\nThe moon was cloudless now and clear,\\nBut pale and soon to disappear.\\nThe thin gray clouds waxed dimly light\\nOn Brusleton and Houghton height;\\nAnd the rich dale that eastward lay\\nWaited the wakening touch of day,\\nTo give its woods and cultured plain,\\nAnd towers and spires, to light again. 10\\nBut, westward, Stanmore s shapeless swell,\\nAnd Lunedale wild, and Kelton-fell,\\nAnd rock-begirdled Gilmanscar,\\nAnd Arkingarth, lay dark afar;\\nWhile as a livelier twilight falls,\\nEmerge proud Barnard s bannered walls.\\nHigh crowned he sits in dawning pale,\\nThe sovereign of the lovely vale.\\nWhat prospects from his watch-tower high\\nGleam gradual on the warder s eye 20\\nFar sweeping to the east, he sees\\nDown his deep woods the course of Tees,\\nAnd tracks his wanderings by the steam\\nOf summer vapors from the stream;\\nAnd ere he pace his destined hour\\nBy Brackenbury s dungeon-tower,\\nThese silver mists shall melt away\\nAnd dew the woods with glittering spray.\\nThen in broad lustre shall be shown\\nThat mighty trench of living stone, 30\\nAnd each huge trunk that from the side\\nReclines him o er the darksome tide\\nWhere Tees, full many a fathom low,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0271.jp2"}, "270": {"fulltext": "240\\nROKEBY\\nWears with his rage no common foe;\\nFor pebbly bank, nor sand-bed here,\\nNor clay-mound, checks his fierce career,\\nCondemned to mine a channelled way\\nO er solid sheets of marble gray.\\nNor Tees alone in dawning bright\\nShall rush upon the ravished sight; 40\\nBut many a tributary stream\\nEach from its own dark cell shall gleam\\nStaindrop, who from her sylvan bowers\\nSalutes proud Baby s battled towers;\\nThe rural brook of Egliston,\\nAnd Balder, named from Odin s son;\\nAnd Greta, to whose banks ere long\\nWe lead the lovers of the song;\\nAnd silver Lune from Stanmore wild,\\nAnd fairy Thorsgill s murmuring child, 50\\nAnd last and least, but loveliest still,\\nBomantic Deepdale s slender rill.\\nWho in that dim-wood glen hath strayed,\\nYet longed for Boslin s magic glade\\nWho, wandering there, hath sought to\\nchange\\nEven for that vale so stern and strange\\nWhere Cartland s crags, fantastic rent,\\nThrough her green copse like spires are\\nsent?\\nYet, Albin, yet the praise be thine,\\nThy scenes and story to combine 60\\nThou bid st him who by Boslin strays\\nList to the deeds of other days;\\nMid Cartland s crags thou show st the\\ncave,\\nThe refuge of thy champion brave;\\nGiving each rock its storied tale,\\nPouring a lay for every dale,\\nKnitting, as with a moral band,\\nThy native legends with thy land,\\nTo lend each scene the interest high\\nWhich genius beams from Beauty s eye. 70\\nIV\\nBertram awaited not the sight\\nWhich sunrise shows from Barnard s\\nheight,\\nBut from the towers, preventing day,\\nWith Wilfrid took his early way,\\nWhile misty dawn and moonbeam pale\\nStill mingled in the silent dale.\\nBy Barnard s bridge of stately stone\\nThe southern bank of Tees they won;\\nTheir winding path then eastward cast,\\nAnd Egliston s gray ruins passed; 80\\nEach on his own deep visions bent,\\nSilent and sad they onward went.\\nWell may you think that Bertram s mood\\nTo Wilfrid savage seemed and rude;\\nWell may you think bo^d Risingham\\nHeld Wilfrid trivial, poor, and tame;\\nAnd small the intercourse, I ween,\\nSuch uncongenial souls between.\\nStern Bertram shunned the nearer way\\nThrough Rokeby s park and chase that\\nlay, _ 9 o\\nAnd, skirting high the valley s ridge,\\nThey crossed by Greta s ancient bridge,\\nDescending where her waters wind\\nFree for a space and unconfined\\nAs, scaped from Brignall s dark-wood glen,\\nShe seeks wild Mortham s deeper den.\\nThere, as his eye glanced o er the mound\\nRaised by that Legion long renowned\\nWhose votive shrine asserts their claim\\nOf pious, faithful, conquering fame, 10a\\nStern sons of war sad Wilfrid sighed,\\nBehold the boast of Roman pride\\nWhat now of all your toils are known\\nA grassy trench, a broken stone\\nThis to himself; for moral strain\\nTo Bertram were addressed in vain.\\nVI\\nOf different mood a deeper sigh\\nAwoke when Rokeby s turrets high\\nWere northward in the dawning seen\\nTo rear them o er the thicket green. no\\nO then, though Spenser s self had strayed\\nBeside him through the lovely glade,\\nLending his rich luxuriant glow\\nOf fancy all its charms to show,\\nPointing the stream rejoicing free\\nAs captive set at liberty,\\nFlashing her sparkling waves abroad,\\nAnd clamoring joyful on her road;\\nPointing where, up the sunny banks,\\nThe trees retire in scattered ranks, 120\\nSave where, advanced before the rest,\\nOn knoll or hillock rears his crest,\\nLonely and huge, the giant Oak,\\nAs champions when their band is broke\\nStand forth to guard the rearward post,\\nThe bulwark of the scattered host\\nAll this and more might Spenser say,\\nYet waste in vain his magic lay,\\nWhile Wilfrid eyed the distant tower\\nWhose lattice lights Matilda s bower. 13a", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0272.jp2"}, "271": {"fulltext": "CANTO SECOND\\n241\\nThe open vale is soon passed o er,\\nRokeby, though nigh, is seen no more;\\nSinking mid Greta s thickets deep,\\nA wild and darker course they keep,\\nA stern and lone yet lovely road\\nAs e er the foot of minstrel trode\\nBroad shadows o er their passage fell,\\nDeeper and narrower grew the dell;\\nIt seemed some mountain, rent and riven,\\nA channel for the stream had given, 140\\nSo high the cliffs of limestone gray\\nHung beetling o er the torrent s way,\\nYielding along their rugged base\\nA flinty footpath s niggard space,\\nWhere he who winds twixt rock and\\nwave\\nMay hear the headlong torrent rave,\\nAnd like a steed in frantic fit,\\nThat flings the froth from curb and bit,\\nMay view her chafe her waves to spray\\nO er every rock that bars her way, 150\\nTill foam-globes on her eddies ride,\\nThick as the schemes of human pride\\nThat down life s current drive amain,\\nAs frail, as frothy, and as vain\\nThe cliffs that rear their haughty head\\nHigh o er the river s darksome bed\\nWere now all naked, wild, and gray,\\nNow waving all with greenwood spray;\\nHere trees to every crevice clung\\nAnd o er the dell their branches hung; 160\\nAnd there, all splintered and uneven,\\nThe shivered rocks ascend to heaven;\\nOft, too, the ivy swathed their breast\\nAnd wreathed its garland round their\\ncrest,\\nOr from the spires bade loosely flare\\nIts tendrils in the middle air.\\nAs pennons wont to wave of old\\nO er the high feast of baron bold,\\nWhen revelled loud the feudal rout 169\\nAnd the arched halls returned their shout,\\nSuch and more wild is Greta s roar,\\nAnd such the echoes from her shore,\\nAnd so the ivied banners gleam,\\nWaved wildly o er the brawling stream.\\nNow from the stream the rocks recede,\\nBut leave between no sunny mead,\\nNo, nor the spot of pebbly sand\\nOft found by such a mountain strand.\\nForming such warm and dry retreat\\nAs fancy deems the lonely seat 180\\nWhere hermit, wandering from his cell,\\nHis rosary might love to tell.\\nBut here twixt rock and river grew\\nA dismal grove of sable yew,\\nWith whose sad tints were mingled seen\\nThe blighted fir s sepulchral green.\\nSeemed that the trees their shadows cast\\nThe earth that nourished them to blast;\\nFor never knew that swarthy grove\\nThe verdant hue that fairies love, 190\\nNor wilding green nor woodland flower\\nArose within its baleful bower:\\nThe dank and sable earth receives\\nIts only carpet from the leaves\\nThat, from the withering branches cast,\\nBestrewed the ground with every blast.\\nThough now the sun was o er the hill,\\nIn this dark spot t was twilight still,\\nSave that on Greta s farther side\\nSome straggling beams through copsewood\\nglide; 200\\nAnd wild and savage contrast made\\nThat dingle s deep and funeral shade\\nWith the bright tints of early day,\\nWhich, glimmering through the ivy spray,.\\nOn the opposing summit lay.\\nThe lated peasant shunned the dell;\\nFor Superstition wont to tell\\nOf many a grisly sound and sight,\\nScaring its path at dead of night. 209\\nWhen Christmas logs blaze high and wide\\nSuch wonders speed the festal tide,\\nWhile Curiosity and Fear,\\nPleasure and Pain, sit crouching near,\\nTill childhood s cheek no longer glows,\\nAnd village maidens lose the rose.\\nThe thrilling interest rises higher,\\nThe circle closes nigh and nigher,\\nAnd shuddering glance is cast behind,\\nAs louder moans the wintry wind.\\nBelieve that fitting scene was laid 220\\nFor such wild tales in Mortham glade;\\nFor who had seen on Greta s side\\nBy that dim light fierce Bertram stride,\\nIn such a spot, at such an hour,\\nIf touched by Superstition s power,\\nMight well have deemed that Hell had\\ngiven\\nA murderer s ghost to upper heaven,\\nWhile Wilfrid s form had seemed to glide\\nLike his pale victim by his side.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0273.jp2"}, "272": {"fulltext": "242\\nROKEBY\\nXI\\nNor think to village swains alone 230\\nAre these unearthly terrors known,\\nFor not to rank nor sex confined\\nIs this vain ague of the mind;\\nHearts firm as steel, as marble hard,\\nGainst faith and love and pity barred,\\nHave quaked, like aspen leaves in May,\\nBeneath its universal sway.\\nBertram had listed many a tale\\nOf wonder in his native dale,\\nThat in his secret soul retained 240\\nThe credence they in childhood gained:\\nNor less his wild adventurous youth\\nBelieved in every legend s truth;\\nLearned when beneath the tropic gale\\nFull swelled the vessel s steady sail,\\nAnd the broad Indian moon her light\\nPoured on the watch of middle night,\\nWhen seamen love to hear and tell\\nOf portent, prodigy, and spell: 249\\nWhat gales are sold on Lapland s shore,\\nHow whistle rash bids tempests roar,\\nOf witch, of mermaid, and of sprite,\\nOf Erick s cap and Elmo s light;\\nOr of that Phantom Ship whose form\\nShoots like a meteor through the storm\\nWhen the dark scud comes driving hard,\\nAnd lowered is every top-sail yard,\\nAnd canvas wove in earthly looms\\nNo more to brave the storm presumes\\nThen mid the war of sea and sky, 260\\nTop and top-gallant hoisted high,\\nFull spread and crowded every sail,\\nThe Demon Frigate braves the gale,\\nAnd well the doomed spectators know\\nThe harbinger of wreck and woe.\\nThen, too, were told in stifled tone\\nMarvels and omens all their own;\\nHow, by some desert isle or key,\\nWhere Spaniards wrought their cruelty,\\nOr where the savage pirate s mood 270\\nRepaid it home in deeds of blood,\\nStrange nightly sounds of woe and fear\\nAppalled the listening buccaneer,\\nWhose light-armed shallop anchored lay\\nIn ambush by the lonely bay.\\nThe groan of grief, the shriek of pain,\\nRing from the moonlight groves of cane;\\nThe fierce adventurer s heart they scare,\\nWho wearies memory for a prayer,\\nCurses the roadstead, and with gale 280\\nOf early morning lifts the sail,\\n290\\nTo give, in thirst of blood and prey,\\nA legend for another bay.\\nXIII\\nThus, as a man, a youth, a child,\\nTrained in the mystic and the wild,\\nWith this on Bertram s soul at times\\nRushed a dark feeling of his crimes;\\nSuch to his troubled soul their form\\nAs the pale Death-ship to the storm,\\nAnd such their omen dim and dread\\nAs shrieks and voices of the dead.\\nThat pang, whose transitory force\\nHovered twixt horror and remorse\\nThat pang, perchance, his bosom pressed\\nAs Wilfrid sudden he addressed:\\nWilfrid, this glen is never trod\\nUntil the sun rides high abroad,\\nYet twice have I beheld to-day\\nA form that seemed to dog our way;\\nTwice from my glance it seemed to flee 300\\nAnd shroud itself by cliff or tree.\\nHow think st thou Is our path way-\\nlaid\\nOr hath thy sire my trust betrayed\\nIf so Ere, starting from his dream\\nThat turned upon a gentler theme,\\nWilfrid had roused him to reply,\\nBertram sprung forward, shouting high,\\nWhate er thou art, thou now shalt stand\\nAnd forth he darted, sword in hand.\\nXIV\\nAs bursts the levin in its wrath, 310\\nHe shot him down the sounding path;\\nRock, wood, and stream rang wildly out\\nTo his loud step and savage shout.\\nSeems that the object of his race\\nHath scaled the cliffs; his frantic chase\\nSidelong he turns, and now t is bent\\nRight up the rock s tall battlement;\\nStraining each sinew to ascend,\\nFoot, hand, and knee their aid must lend.\\nWilfrid, all dizzy with dismay, 320\\nViews from beneath his dreadful way:\\nNow to the oak s warped roots be clings,\\nNow trusts his weight to ivy strings;\\nNow, like the wild-goat, must he dare\\nAn unsupported leap in air;\\nHid in the shrubby rain-course now,\\nYou mark him by the crashing bough,\\nAnd by his corselet s sullen clank,\\nAnd by the stones spurned from the bank,\\nAnd by the hawk scared from her nest, 330\\nAnd raven s croaking o er their guest,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0274.jp2"}, "273": {"fulltext": "CANTO SECOND\\n243\\nWho deem his forfeit limbs shall pay\\nThe tribute of his bold essay.\\nXV\\nSee, he emerges desperate now\\nAll farther course yon beetling brow,\\nIn craggy nakedness sublime,\\nWhat heart or foot shall dare to climb\\nIt bears no tendril for his clasp,\\nPresents no angle to his grasp:\\nSole stay his foot may rest upon 340\\nIs yon earth-bedded jetting stone.\\nBalanced on such precarious prop,\\nHe strains his grasp to reach the top.\\nJust as the dangerous stretch he makes,\\nBy heaven, his faithless footstool shakes\\nBeneath his tottering bulk it bends,\\nIt sways, it loosens, it descends,\\nAnd downward holds its headlong way,\\nCrashing o er rock and copsewood spray\\nLoud thunders shake the echoing dell 350\\nFell it alone alone it fell.\\nJust on the very verge of fate,\\nThe hardy Bertram s falling weight\\nHe trusted to his sinewy hands,\\nAnd on the top unharmed, he stands\\nWilfrid a safer path pursued,\\nAt intervals where, roughly hewed,\\nRude steps ascending from the dell\\nRendered the cliffs accessible.\\nBy circuit slow he thus attained 360\\nThe height that Risingham had gained,\\nAnd when he issued from the wood\\nBefore the gate of Mortham stood.\\nT was a fair scene the sunbeam lay\\nOn battled tower and portal gray;\\nAnd from the grassy slope he sees\\nThe Greta flow to meet the Tees\\nWhere, issuing from her darksome bed,\\nShe caught the morning s eastern red,\\nAnd through the softening vale below 370\\nRolled her bright waves in rosy glow,\\nAll blushing to her bridal bed,\\nLike some shy maid in convent bred,\\nWhile linnet, lark, and blackbird gay\\nSing forth her nuptial roundelay.\\nXVII\\nT was sweetly sung that roundelay,\\nThat summer morn shone blithe and gay;\\nBut morning beam and wild-bird s call\\nAwaked not Mortham s silent hall.\\nNo porter by the low-browed gate 380\\nTook in the wonted niche his seat;\\nTo the paved court no peasant drew;\\nWaked to their toil no menial crew;\\nThe maiden s carol was not heard,\\nAs to her morning task she fared:\\nIn the void offices around\\nRung not a hoof nor bayed a hound;\\nNor eager steed with shrilling neigh\\nAccused the lagging groom s delay;\\nUntrimmed, undressed, neglected now, 390\\nWas alleyed walk and orchard bough;\\nAll spoke the master s absent care,\\nAll spoke neglect and disrepair.\\nSouth of the gate an arrow flight,\\nTwo mighty elms their limbs unite,\\nAs if a canopy to spread\\nO er the lone dwelling of the dead;\\nFor their huge boughs in arches bent\\nAbove a massive monument,\\nCarved o er in ancient Gothic wise 400\\nWith many a scutcheon and device:\\nThere, spent with toil and sunk in gloom,\\nBertram stood pondering by the tomb.\\nXVIII\\nIt vanished like a flitting ghost\\nBehind this tomb, he said, t was lost\\nThis tomb where oft I deemed lies stored\\nOf Mortham s Indian wealth the hoard.\\nT is true, the aged servants said\\nHere his lamented wife is laid;\\nBut weightier reasons may be guessed 410\\nFor their lord s strict and stern behest\\nThat none should on his steps intrude\\nWhene er he sought this solitude.\\nAn ancient mariner I knew,\\nWhat time I sailed with Morgan s crew,\\nWho oft mid our carousals spake\\nOf Raleigh, Frobisher, and Drake;\\nAdventurous hearts who bartered, bold,\\nTheir English steel for Spanish gold.\\nTrust not, would his experience say, 420\\nCaptain or comrade with your prey,\\nBut seek some charnel, when, at full,\\nThe moon gilds skeleton and skull:\\nThere dig and tomb your precious heap,\\nAnd bid the dead your treasure keep;\\nSure stewards they, if fitting spell\\nTheir service to the task compel.\\nLacks there such charnel kill a slave\\nOr prisoner on the treasure-grave,\\nAnd bid his discontented ghost 43 o\\nStalk nightly on his lonely post.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0275.jp2"}, "274": {"fulltext": "244 ROKEBY\\nSuch was his tale. Its truth, I ween,\\nIs in my morning vision seen.\\nXIX\\nWilfrid, who scorned the legend wild,\\nIn mingled mirth and pity smiled,\\nMuch marvelling that a breast so bold\\nIn such fond tale belief should hold,\\nBut yet of Bertram sought to know\\nThe apparition s form and show.\\nThe power within the guilty breast, 440\\nOft vanquished, never quite suppressed,\\nThat unsubdued and lurking lies\\nTo take the felon by surprise\\nAnd force him, as by magic spell,\\nIn his despite his guilt to tell\\nThat power in Bertram s breast awoke;\\nScarce conscious he was heard, he spoke;\\nT was Mortham s form, from foot to\\nhead\\nHis morion with the plume of red,\\nHis shape, his mien t was Mortham,\\nright _ 450\\nAs when I slew him in the fight.\\n1 Thou slay him thou With con-\\nscious start\\nHe heard, them manned his haughty\\nheart\\nI slew him I I had forgot\\nThou, stripling, knew st not of the plot.\\nBut it is spoken nor will I\\nDeed done or spoken word deny.\\nI slew him; I for thankless pride;\\nT was by this hand that Mortham died.\\nWilfrid, of gentle hand and heart, 460\\nAverse to every active part,\\nBut most adverse to martial broil,\\nFrom danger shrunk and turned from\\ntoil;\\nYet the meek lover of the lyre\\nNursed one brave spark of noble fire\\nAgainst injustice, fraud, or wrong\\nHis blood beat high, his hand waxed strong.\\nNot his the nerves that could sustain,\\nUnshaken, danger, toil, and pain; 469\\nBut, when that spark blazed forth to flame,\\nHe rose superior to his frame.\\nAnd now it came, that generous mood;\\nAnd, in full current of his blood,\\nOn Bertram he laid desperate hand,\\nPlaced firm his foot, and drew his brand.\\nShould every fiend to whom thou rt sold\\nRise in thine aid, I keep my hold.\\nArouse there, ho take spear and sword\\nAttach the murderer of your lord\\nXXI\\nA moment, fixed as by a spell,\\nStood Bertram it seemed miracle,\\nThat one so feeble, soft, and tame\\nSet grasp on warlike Risingham.\\nBut when he felt a feeble stroke\\nThe fiend within the ruffian woke\\nTo wrench the sword from Wilfrid s hand,\\nTo dash him headlong on the sand,\\nWas but one moment s work, one more\\nHad drenched the blade in Wilfrid s gore.\\nBut in the instant it arose 49 o\\nTo end his life, his love, his woes,\\nA warlike form that marked the scene\\nPresents his rapier sheathed between,\\nParries the fast-descending blow,\\nAnd steps twixt Wilfrid and his foe;\\nNor then unscabbarded his brand,\\nBut, sternly pointing with his hand,\\nWith monarch s voice forbade the fight,\\nAnd motioned Bertram from his sight.\\nGo, and repent, he said, while time 500\\nIs given thee; add not crime to crime.\\nMute and uncertain and amazed,\\nAs on a vision Bertram gazed\\nT was Mortham s bearing, bold and high,\\nHis sinewy frame, his falcon eye,\\nHis look and accent of command,\\nThe martial gesture of his hand,\\nHis stately form, spare-built and tall,\\nHis war-bleached locks t was Mortham\\nall.\\nThrough Bertram s dizzy brain career 510\\nA thousand thoughts, and all of fear;\\nHis wavering faith received not quite\\nThe form he saw as Mortham s sprite,\\nBut more he feared it if it stood\\nHis lord in living flesh and blood.\\nWhat spectre can the charnel send,\\nSo dreadful as an injured friend\\nThen, too, the habit of command,\\nUsed by the leader of the band\\nWhen Risingham for many a day 520\\nHad marched and fought beneath his sway,\\nTamed him and with reverted face\\nBackwards he bore his sullen pace,\\nOft stopped, and oft on Mortham stared,\\nAnd dark as rated mastiff glared,\\nBut when the tramp of steeds was heard\\nPlunged in the glen and disappeared;", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0276.jp2"}, "275": {"fulltext": "CANTO SECOND\\n245\\nNor longer there the warrior stood,\\nRetiring eastward through the wood,\\nBut first to Wilfrid warning gives, 530\\nTell thou to none that Mortham lives.\\nXXIII\\nStill rung these words in Wilfrid s ear,\\nHinting he knew not what of fear,\\nWhen nearer came the coursers tread,\\nAnd, with his father at their head,\\nOf horsemen armed a gallant power\\nReined up their steeds before the tower.\\nWhence these pale looks, my son he\\nsaid:\\nWhere s Bertram Why that naked\\nblade?\\nWilfrid ambiguously replied 540\\nFor Mortham s charge his honor tied\\nBertram is gone the villain s word\\nAvouched him murderer of his lord\\nEven now we fought but when your\\ntread\\nAnnounced you nigh, the felon fled.\\nIn Wycliffe s conscious eye appear\\nA guilty hope, a guilty fear;\\nOn his pale brow the dew-drop broke,\\nAnd his lip quivered as he spoke:\\nA murderer Philip Mortham died 550\\nAmid the battle s wildest tide.\\nWilfrid, or Bertram raves or you\\nYet, grant such strange confession true,\\nPursuit were vain let him fly far\\nJustice must sleep in civil war.\\nA gallant youth rode near his side,\\nBrave Rokeby s page, in battle tried;\\nThat morn an embassy of weight\\nHe brought to Barnard s castle gate,\\nAnd followed now in Wycliffe s train 560\\nAn answer for his lord to gain.\\nHis steed, whose arched and sable neck\\nAn hundred wreaths of foam bedeck,\\nChafed not against the curb more high\\nThan he at Oswald s cold reply;\\nHe bit his lip, implored his saint\\nHis the old faith then burst restraint:\\nXXV\\n1 Yes I beheld his bloody fall\\nBy that base traitor s dastard ball,\\nJust when I thought to measure sword, 570\\nPresumptuous hope with Mortham s lord.\\nAnd shall the murderer scape who slew\\nHis leader, generous, brave, and true\\nEscape, while on the dew you trace\\nThe marks of his gigantic pace\\nNo ere the sun that dew shall dry,\\nFalse Risingham shall yield or die.\\nRing out the castle larum bell\\nArouse the peasants with the knell 579\\nMeantime disperse ride, gallants, ride\\nBeset the wood on every side.\\nBut if among you one there be\\nThat honors Mortham s memory,\\nLet him dismount and follow me\\nElse on your crests sit fear and shame,\\nAnd foul suspicion dog your name\\nXXVI\\nInstant to earth young Redmond sprung;\\nInstant on earth the harness rung\\nOf twenty men of Wycliffe s band,\\nWho waited not their lord s command. 590\\nRedmond his spurs from buskins drew,\\nHis mantle from his shoulders threw,\\nHis pistols in his belt he placed,\\nThe green wood gained, the footsteps\\ntraced,\\nShouted like huntsman to his hounds,\\nTo cover, hark and in he bounds.\\nScarce heard was Oswald s anxious cry,\\nSuspicion yes pursue him fly\\nBut venture not in useless strife\\nOn ruffian desperate of his life; 600\\nWhoever finds him shoot him dead\\nFive hundred nobles for his head\\nThe horsemen galloped to make good\\nEach path that issued from the wood.\\nLoud from the thickets rung the shout\\nOf Redmond and his eager rout;\\nWith them was Wilfrid, stung with ire,\\nAnd envying Redmond s martial fire,\\nAnd emulous of fame. But where\\nIs Oswald, noble Mortham s heir 610\\nHe, bound by honor, law, and faith,\\nAvenger of his kinsman s death\\nLeaning against the elmin tree,\\nWith drooping head and slackened knee,\\nAnd clenched teeth, and close clasped\\nhands,\\nIn agony of soul he stands\\nHis downcast eye on earth is bent,\\nHis soul to every sound is lent;\\nFor in each shout that cleaves the air\\nMay ring discovery and despair. 620", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0277.jp2"}, "276": {"fulltext": "ROKEBY\\nXXVIII\\nWhat Vailed it him that brightly played\\nThe morning sun on Mortham s glade\\nAll seems in giddy round to ride,\\nLike objects on a stormy tide\\nSeen eddying by the moonlight dim,\\nImperfectly to sink and swim.\\nWhat vailed it that the fair domain,\\nIts battled mansion, hill, and plain,\\nOn which the sun so brightly shone,\\nEnvied so long, was now his own 630\\nThe lowest dungeon, in that hour,\\nOf Brackenbury s dismal tower,\\nHad been his choice, could such a doom\\nHave opened Mortham s bloody tomb\\nForced, too, to turn unwilling ear\\nTo each surmise of hope or fear,\\nMurmured among the rustics round,\\nWho gathered at the larum sound,\\nHe dare not turn his head away,\\nEven to look up to heaven to pray, 640\\nOr call on hell in bitter mood\\nFor one sharp death-shot from the wood\\nAt length o erpast that dreadful space,\\nBack straggling came the scattered chase;\\nJaded and weary, horse and man,\\nReturned the troopers one by one.\\nWilfrid the last arrived to say\\nAll trace was lost of Bertram s way,\\nThough Redmond still up Brignall wood\\nThe hopeless quest in vain pursued. 650\\nO, fatal doom of human race\\nWhat tyrant passions passions chase\\nRemorse from Oswald s brow is gone,\\nAvarice and pride resume their throne;\\nThe pang of instant terror by,\\nThey dictate thus their slave s reply:\\nXXX\\nAy let him range like hasty hound\\nAnd if the grim wolf s lair be found,\\nSmall is my care how goes the game\\nWith Redmond or with Risingham. 660\\nNay, answer not, thou simple boy\\nThy fair Matilda, all so coy\\nTo thee, is of another mood\\nTo that bold youth of Erin s blood.\\nThy ditties will she freely praise,\\nAnd pay thy pains with courtly phrase;\\nIn a rough path will oft command\\nAccept at least thy friendly hand\\nHis she avoids, or, urged and prayed,\\nUnwilling takes his proffered aid, c 7 o\\nWhile conscious passion plainly speaks\\nIn downcast look and blushing cheeks.\\nWhene er he sings will she glide nigh,\\nAnd all her soul is in her eye\\nYet doubts she still to tender free\\nThe wonted words of courtesy.\\nThese are strong signs yet wherefore\\nsigh,\\nAnd wipe, effeminate, thine eye\\nThine shall she be, if thou attend\\nThe counsels of thy sire and friend. 680\\nXXXI\\nScarce wert thou gone, when peep of\\nlight\\nBrought genuine news of Marston s fight.\\nBrave Cromwell turned the doubtful tide,\\nAnd conquest blessed the rightful side;\\nThree thousand cavaliers lie dead,\\nRupert and that bold Marquis fled;\\nNobles and knights, so proud of late,\\nMust fine for freedom and estate.\\nOf these committed to my charge\\nIs Rokeby, prisoner at large; 690\\nRedmond his page arrived to say\\nHe reaches Barnard s towers to-day.\\nRight heavy shall his ransom be\\nUnless that maid compound with thee\\nGo to her now be bold of cheer\\nWhile her soul floats twixt hope and fear;\\nIt is the very change of tide,\\nWhen best the female heart is tried\\nPride, prejudice, and modesty,\\nAre in the current swept to sea, 700\\nAnd the bold swain who plies his oar\\nMay lightly row his bark to shore.\\nCANTO THIRD\\nThe hunting tribes of air and earth\\nRespect the brethren of their birth;\\nNature, who loves the claim of kind,\\nLess cruel chase to each assigned.\\nThe falcon, poised on soaring wing,\\nWatches the wild-duck by the spring;\\nThe slow-hound wakes the fox s lair;\\nThe greyhound presses on the hare;\\nThe eagle pounces on the lamb;\\nThe wolf devours the fleecy dam:\\nEven tiger fell and sullen bear\\nTheir likeness and their lineage spare;\\nMan only mars kind Nature s plan,\\nAnd turns the fierce pursuit on man,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0278.jp2"}, "277": {"fulltext": "CANTO THIRD\\n247\\nPlying war s desultory trade,\\nIncursion, flight, and ambuscade,\\nSince Nirnrod, Cush s mighty son,\\nAt first the bloody game begun.\\nThe Indian, prowling for his prey,\\nWho hears the settlers track his way, 20\\nAnd knows in distant forest far\\nCamp his red brethren of the war\\nHe, when each double and disguise\\nTo baffle the pursuit he tries,\\nLow crouching now his head to hide\\nWhere swampy streams through rushes\\nglide,\\nNow covering with the withered leaves\\nThe foot-prints that the dew receives\\nHe, skilled in every sylvan guile,\\nKnows not, nor tries, such various wile 30\\nAs Risingham when on the wind\\nArose the loud pursuit behind.\\nIn Redesdale his youth had heard\\nEach art her wily dalesman dared,\\nWhen Rooken-edge and Redswair high\\nTo bugle rung and blood-hound s cry,\\nAnnouncing Jedwood-axe and spear,\\nAnd Lid sdale riders in the rear;\\nAnd well his venturous life had proved\\nThe lessons that his childhood loved. 40\\nin\\nOft had he shown in climes afar\\nEach attribute of roving war;\\nThe sharpened ear, the piercing eye,\\nThe quick resolve in danger nigh;\\nThe speed that in the flight or chase\\nOutstripped the Charib s rapid race;\\nThe steady brain, the sinewy limb,\\nTo leap, to climb, to dive, to swim;\\nThe iron frame, inured to bear\\nEach dire inclemency of air, 50\\nNor less confirmed to undergo\\nFatigue s faint chill and famine s throe.\\nThese arts he proved, his life to save,\\nIn peril oft by land and wave,\\nOn Arawaca s desert shore,\\nOr where La Plata s billows roar,\\nWhen oft the sons of vengeful Spain\\nTracked the marauder s steps in vain.\\nThese arts, in Indian warfare tried,\\nMust save him now by Greta s side. 60\\nT was then, in hour of utmost need,\\nHe proved his courage, art, and speed.\\nNow slow he stalked with stealthy pace,\\nNow started forth in rapid race,\\nOft doubling back in mazy train\\nTo blind the trace the dews retain;\\nNow clomb the rocks projecting high\\nTo baffle the pursuer s eye;\\nNow sought the stream, whose brawling\\nsound\\nThe echo of his footsteps drowned. 70\\nBut if the forest verge he nears,\\nThere trample steeds, and glimmer spears\\nIf deeper down the copse he drew,\\nHe heard the rangers loud halloo,\\nBeating each cover while they came,\\nAs if to start the sylvan game.\\nT was then like tiger close beset\\nAt every pass with toil and net,\\nCountered where er he turns his glare\\nBy clashing arms and torches flare, 80\\nWho meditates with furious bound\\nTo burst on hunter, horse and hound\\nT was then that Bertram s soul arose,\\nPrompting to rush upon his foes:\\nBut as that crouching tiger, cowed\\nBy brandished steel and shouting crowd,\\nRetreats beneath the jungle s shroud,\\nBertram suspends his purpose stern,\\nAnd crouches in the brake and fern,\\nHiding his face lest foemen spy 90\\nThe sparkle of his swarthy eye.\\nThen Bertram might the bearing trace\\nOf the bold youth who led the chase;\\nWho paused to list for every sound,\\nClimbed every height to look around,\\nThen rushing on with naked sword,\\nEach dingle s bosky depths explored.\\nT was Redmond by the azure eye\\nT was Redmond by the locks that fly\\nDisordered from his glowing cheek; 100\\nMien, face, and form young Redmond\\nA form more active, light, and strong,\\nNe er shot the ranks of war along;\\nThe modest yet the manly mien\\nMight grace the court of maiden queen;\\nA face more fair you well might find,\\nFor Redmond s knew the sun and wind,\\nNor boasted, from their tinge when free,\\nThe charm of regularity;\\nBut every feature had the power 1\\nTo aid the expression of the hour:\\nWhether gay wit and humor sly\\nDanced laughing in his light-blue eye,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0279.jp2"}, "278": {"fulltext": "248\\nROKEBY\\nOr bended brow and glance of fire\\nAnd kindling cheek spoke Erin s ire,\\nOr soft and saddened glances show\\nHer ready sympathy with woe;\\nOr in that wayward mood of mind\\nWhen various feelings are combined,\\nWhen joy and sorrow mingle near, 120\\nAnd hope s bright wings are checked by\\nfear,\\nAnd rising doubts keep transport down,\\nAnd anger lends a short-lived frown;\\nIn that strange mood which maids approve\\nEven when they dare not call it love\\nWith every change his features played,\\nAs aspens show the light and shade.\\nVI\\nWell Eisingham young Redmond knew,\\nAnd much he marvelled that the crew\\nRoused to revenge bold Mortham dead 130\\nWere by that Mortham s foeman led;\\nFor never felt his soul the woe\\nThat wails a generous foeman low,\\nFar less that sense of justice strong\\nThat wreaks a generous f oeman s wrong.\\nBut small his leisure now to pause\\nRedmond is first, whate er the cause:\\nAnd twice that Redmond came so near\\nWhere Bertram couched like hunted deer,\\nThe very boughs his steps displace 140\\nRustled against the ruffian s face,\\nWho desperate twice prepared to start,\\nAnd plunge his dagger in his heart\\nBut Redmond turned a different way,\\nAnd the bent boughs resumed their sway,\\nAnd Bertram held it wise, unseen,\\nDeeper to plunge in coppice green.\\nThus, circled in his coil, the snake,\\nWhen roving hunters beat the brake,\\nWatches with red and glistening eye, 150\\nPrepared, if heedless step draw nigh,\\nWith forked tongue and venomed fang\\nInstant to dart the deadly pang;\\nBut if the intruders turn aside,\\nAway his coils unfolded glide,\\nAnd through the deep savannah wind,\\nSome undisturbed retreat to find.\\nBut Bertram, as he backward drew,\\nAnd heard the loud pursuit renew,\\nAnd Redmond s hollo on the wind,\\nOft muttered in his savage mind\\nRedmond O Neale were thou and I\\nAlone this day s event to try,\\nWith not a second here to see\\nBut the gray cliff and oaken tree,\\nThat voice of thine that shouts so loud\\nShould ne er repeat its summons proud\\nNo nor e er try its melting power\\nAgain in maiden s summer bower.\\nEluded, now behind him die 170\\nFaint and more faint each hostile cry;\\nHe stands in Scargill wood alone,\\nNor hears he now a harsher tone\\nThan the hoarse cushat s plaintive cry,\\nOr Greta s sound that murmurs by;\\nAnd on the dale, so lone and wild,\\nThe summer sun in quiet smiled.\\nVIII\\nHe listened long with anxious heart,\\nEar bent to hear and foot to start,\\nAnd, while his stretched attention glows, 180\\nRefused his weary frame repose.\\nT was silence all he laid him down,\\nWhere purple heath profusely strown,\\nAnd throatwort with its azure bell,\\nAnd moss and thyme his cushion swell.\\nThere, spent with toil, he listless eyed\\nThe course of Greta s playful tide;\\nBeneath her banks now eddying dun,\\nNow brightly gleaming to the sun,\\nAs, dancing over rock and stone, 190\\nIn yellow light her currents shone,\\nMatching in hue the favorite gem\\nOf Albin s mountain-diadem.\\nThen, tired to watch the currents play,\\nHe turned his weary eyes away\\nTo where the bank opposing snowed\\nIts huge, square cliffs through shaggy\\nwood.\\nOne, prominent above the rest,\\nReared to the sun its pale gray breast;\\nAround its broken summit grew 200\\nThe hazel rude and sable yew;\\nA thousand varied lichens dyed\\nIts waste and weather-beaten side,\\nAnd round its rugged basis lay,\\nBy time or thunder rent away,\\nFragments that from its frontlet torn\\nWere mantled now by verdant thorn.\\nSuch was the scene s wild majesty\\nThat filled stern Bertram s gazing eye.\\nIX\\nIn sullen mood he lay reclined,\\nRevolving in his stormy mind\\nThe felon deed, the fruitless guilt,\\nHis patron s blood by treason spilt;", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0280.jp2"}, "279": {"fulltext": "CANTO THIRD\\n249\\nA crime, it seemed, so dire and dread\\nThat it had power to wake the dead.\\nThen, pondering on his life betrayed\\nBy Oswald s art to Redmond s blade,\\nIn treacherous purpose to withhold,\\nSo seemed it, Mortham s promised gold,\\nA deep and full revenge he vowed 2.\\nOn Redmond, forward, fierce, and proud:\\nRevenge on Wilfrid on his sire\\nRedoubled vengeance, swift and dire\\nIf, in such mood as legends say,\\nAnd well believed that simple day\\nThe Enemy of Man has power\\nTo profit by the evil hour,\\nHere stood a wretch prepared to change\\nHis soul s redemption for revenge\\nBut though his vows with such a fire 23\\nOf earnest and intense desire\\nFor vengeance dark and fell were made\\nAs well might reach hell s lowest shade,\\nNo deeper clouds the grove embrowned,\\nNo nether thunders shook the ground;\\nThe demon knew his vassal s heart,\\nAnd spared temptation s needless art.\\nOft, mingled with the direful theme,\\nCame Mortham s form was it a dream\\nOr had he seen in vision true 240\\nThat very Mortham whom he slew\\nOr had in living flesh appeared\\nThe only man on earth he feared\\nTo try the mystic cause intent,\\nHis eyes that on the cliff were bent\\nCountered at once a dazzling glance,\\nLike sunbeam flashed from sword or lance.\\nAt once he started as for fight,\\nBut not a foeman was in sight;\\nHe heard the cushat s murmur hoarse, 250\\nHe heard the river s sounding course;\\nThe solitary woodlands lay,\\nAs slumbering in the summer ray.\\nHe gazed, like lion roused, around,\\nThen sunk again upon the ground.\\nT was but, he thought, some fitful beam,\\nGlanced sudden from the sparkling stream;\\nThen plunged him in his gloomy train\\nOf ill-connected thoughts again,\\nUntil a voice behind him cried, 260\\nj Bertram well met on Greta side.\\nXI\\nInstant his sword was in his hand,\\nAs instant sunk the ready brand\\nYet, dubious still, opposed he stood\\nTo him that issued from the wood\\nGuy Denzil is it thou he said;\\nDo we two meet in Scargill shade\\nStand back a space thy purpose show,\\nWhether thou comest as friend or foe.\\nReport hath said, that Denzil s name 270\\nFrom Rokeby s band was razed with\\nshame\\nA shame I owe that hot O Neale,\\nWho told his knight in peevish zeal\\nOf my marauding on the clowns\\nOf Calverley and Bradford downs.\\nI reck not. In a war to strive,\\nWhere save the leaders none can thrive,\\nSuits ill my mood; and better game\\nAwaits us both, if thou rt the same\\nUnscrupulous, bold Risingham 280\\nWho watched with me in midnight dark\\nTo snatch a deer from Rokeby-park.\\nHow think st thou Speak thy pur-\\npose out;\\nI love not mystery or doubt.\\nXII\\n1 Then list. Not far there lurk a crew\\nOf trusty comrades stanch and true,\\nGleaned from both factions Roundheads,\\nfreed\\nFrom cant of sermon and of creed,\\nAnd Cavaliers, whose souls like mine\\nSpurn at the bonds of discipline. 290\\nWiser, we judge, by dale and wold\\nA warfare of our own to hold\\nThan breathe our last on battle-down\\nFor cloak or surplice, mace or crown.\\nOur schemes are laid, our purpose set,\\nA chief and leader lack we yet.\\nThou art a wanderer, it is said,\\nFor Mortham s death thy steps waylaid,\\nThy head at price so say our spies,\\nWho ranged the valley in disguise. 30a\\nJoin then with us: though wild debate\\nAnd wrangling rend our infant state,\\nEach, to an equal loath to bow,\\nWill yield to chief renowned as thou.\\nXIII\\nEven now, thought Bertram, passion-\\nstirred,\\nI called on hell, and hell has heard\\nWhat lack I, vengeance to command,\\nBut of stanch comrades such a band\\nThis Denzil, vowed to every evil,\\nMight read a lesson to the devil. 3 10", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0281.jp2"}, "280": {"fulltext": "250\\nROKEBY\\nWell, be it so each knave and fool\\nShall serve as my revenge s tool.\\nAloud, I take thy proffer, Guy,\\nBut tell me where thy comrades lie.\\nNot far from hence, Guy Denzil said;\\nDescend and cross the river s bed\\nWhere rises yonder cliff so gray.\\nDo thou, said Bertram, lead the way.\\nThen muttered, It is best make sure;\\nGuy Denzil s faith was never pure. 320\\nHe followed down the steep descent,\\nThen through the Greta s streams they\\nwent;\\nAnd when they reached the farther shore\\nThey stood the lonely cliff before.\\nXIV\\nWith wonder Bertram heard within\\nThe flinty rock a murmured din;\\nBut when Guy pulled the wilding spray\\nAnd brambles from its base away,\\nHe saw appearing to the air\\nA little entrance low and square, 330\\nLike opening cell of hermit lone,\\nDark winding through the living stone.\\nHere entered Denzil, Bertram here;\\nAnd loud and louder on their ear,\\nAs from the bowels of the earth,\\nResounded shouts of boisterous mirth.\\nOf old the cavern strait and rude\\nIn slaty rock the peasant hewed;\\nAnd Brignall s woods and Scargill s wave\\nE en now o er many a sister cave, 340\\nWhere, far within the darksome rift,\\nThe wedge and lever ply their thrift.\\nBut war had silenced rural trade,\\nAnd the deserted mine was made\\nThe banquet-hall and fortress too\\nOf Denzil and his desperate crew.\\nThere Guilt his anxious revel kept,\\nThere on his sordid pallet slept\\nGuilt-born Excess, the goblet drained\\nStill in his slumbering grasp retained; 350\\nRegret was there, his eye still cast\\nWith vain repining on the past;\\nAmong the feasters waited near\\nSorrow and unrepentant Fear,\\nAnd Blasphemy, to frenzy driven,\\nWith his own crimes reproaching Heaven;\\nWhile Bertram showed amid the crew\\nThe Master-Fiend that Milton drew.\\nXV\\nHark the loud revel wakes again\\nTo greet the leader of the train.\\n360\\nBehold the group by the pale lamp\\nThat struggles with the earthy damp\\nBy what strange features Vice hath known\\nTo single out and mark her own\\nYet some there are whose brows retain\\nLess deeply stamped her brand and stain.\\nSee yon pale stripling when a boy,\\nA mother s pride, a father s joy\\nNow, gainst the vault s rude walls reclined,\\nAn early image fills his mind:\\nThe cottage once his sire s he sees,\\nEmbowered upon the banks of Tees;\\nHe views sweet Winston s woodland scene,\\nAnd shares the dance on Gainford-green.\\nA tear is springing but the zest\\nOf some wild tale or brutal jest\\nHath to loud laughter stirred the rest.\\nOn him they call, the aptest mate\\nFor jovial song and merry feat:\\nFast flies his dream with dauntless\\nair, 380\\nAs one victorious o er despair,\\nHe bids the ruddy cup go round\\nTill sense and sorrow both are drowned;\\nAnd soon in merry wassail he,\\nThe life of all their revelry,\\nPeals his loud song The muse has\\nfound\\nHer blossoms on the wildest ground,\\nMid noxious weeds at random strewed,\\nThemselves all profitless and rude.\\nWith desperate merriment he sung,\\nThe cavern to the chorus rung,\\nYet mingled with his reckless glee\\nRemorse s bitter agony.\\nXVI\\nSONG\\nO, Brignall banks are wild and fair,\\nAnd Greta woods are green,\\nAnd you may gather garlands there\\nWould grace a summer queen.\\nAnd as I rode by Dalton-hall,\\nBeneath the turrets high,\\nA maiden on the castle wall\\nWas singing merrily,\\nO, Brignall banks are fresh and fair,\\nAnd Greta woods are green;\\nI d rather rove with Edmund there\\nThan reign our English queen.\\nIf, maiden, thou wouldst wend with me,\\nTo leave both tower and town,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0282.jp2"}, "281": {"fulltext": "CANTO THIRD\\n2 5*\\nThou first must guess what life lead we\\nThat dwell by dale and down\\nAnd if thou canst that riddle read, 4\\nAs read full well you may,\\nThen to the greenwood shalt thou speed,\\nAs blithe as Queen of May.\\nYet sung she, Brignall banks are fair,\\nAnd Greta woods are green;\\nI d rather rove with Edmund there\\nThan reign our English queen.\\nXVII\\nI read you, by your bugle horn,\\nAnd by your palfrey good,\\nI read you for a ranger sworn 420\\nTo keep the king s greenwood.\\nA ranger, lady, winds his horn,\\nAnd tis at peep of light;\\nHis blast !s heard at merry morn,\\nAnd mine at dead of night.\\nCHORUS\\nYet sung she, Brignall banks are fair,\\nAnd Greta woods are gay;\\nI would I were with Edmund there,\\nTo reign his Queen of May\\nWith burnished brand and musketoon 430\\nSo gallantly you come,\\nI read you for a bold dragoon,\\nThat lists the tuck of drum.\\nI list no more the tuck of drum,\\nNo more the trumpet hear;\\nBut when the beetle sounds his hum,\\nMy comrades take the spear.\\nAnd O, though Brignall banks be fair,\\nAnd Greta woods be gay,\\nYet mickle must the maiden dare 4\\nWould reign my Queen of May\\nXVIII\\nMaiden a nameless life I lead,\\nA nameless death I 11 die;\\nThe fiend whose lantern lights the mead\\nWere better mate than I\\nAnd when I m with my comrades met\\nBeneath the greenwood bough,\\nWhat once we were we all forget,\\nNor think what we are now.\\nCHORUS\\nYet Brignall banks are fresh and fair, 450\\nAnd Greta woods are green,\\nAnd you may gather garlands there\\nWould grace a summer queen.\\nWhen Edmund ceased his simple song,\\nWas silence on the sullen throug.\\nTill waked some ruder mate their glee\\nWith note of coarser minstrelsy.\\nBut far apart in dark divan,\\nDenzil and Bertram many a plan\\nOf import foul and fierce designed, 460\\nWhile still on Bertram s grasping mind\\nThe wealth of murdered Mortham hung;\\nThough half he feared his daring tongue,\\nWhen it should give his wishes birth,\\nMight raise a spectre from the earth\\nAt length his wondrous tale he told\\nWhen scornful smiled his comrade bold,\\nFor, trained in license of a court,\\nReligion s self was Denzil s sport;\\nThen judge in what contempt he held 470\\nThe visionary tales of eld\\nHis awe for Bertram scarce repressed\\nThe unbeliever s sneering jest,\\nT were hard, he said, for sage or seer\\nTo spell the subject of your fear;\\nNor do I boast the art renowned\\nVision and omen to expound.\\nYet, faith if I must needs afford\\nTo spectre watching treasured hoard,\\nAs ban-dog keeps his master s roof, 480\\nBidding the plunderer stand aloof,\\nThis doubt remains thy goblin gaunt\\nHath chosen ill his ghostly haunt:\\nFor why his guard on Mortham hold,\\nWhen Rokeby castle hath the gold\\nThy patron won on Indian soil\\nBy stealth, by piracy and spoil\\nxx\\nAt this he paused for angry shame\\nLowered on the brow of Risingham. 489\\nHe blushed to think, that he should seem\\nAsserter of an airy dream,\\nAnd gave his wrath another theme.\\nDenzil, he says, though lowly laid,\\nWrong not the memory of the dead;\\nFor while he lived at Mortham s look\\nThy very soul, Guy Denzil, shook\\nAnd when he taxed thy breach of word\\nTo yon fair rose of Allenford,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0283.jp2"}, "282": {"fulltext": "252\\nROKEBY\\nI saw thee crouch like chastened hound\\nWhose back the huntsman s lash hath\\nfound. 500\\nNor dare to call his foreign wealth\\nThe spoil of piracy or stealth;\\nHe won it bravely with his brand\\nWhen Spain waged warfare with our land.\\nMark, too I brook no idle jeer,\\nNor couple Bertram s name with fear;\\nMine is but half the demon s lot,\\nFor I believe, but tremble not.\\nEnough of this. Say, why this hoard\\nThou deem st at Rokeby castle stored; 510\\nOr think st that Mortham would bestow\\nHis treasure with his faction s foe\\nXXI\\nSoon quenched was Denzil s ill timed\\nmirth;\\nRather he would have seen the earth\\nGive to ten thousand spectres birth\\nThan venture to awake to flame\\nThe deadly wrath of Risingham.\\nSubmiss he answered, Mortham s mind,\\nThou know st, to joy was ill inclined.\\nIn youth, t is said, a gallant free, 520\\nA lusty reveller was he;\\nBut since returned from over sea,\\nA sullen and a silent mood\\nHath numbed the current of his blood.\\nHence he refused each kindly call\\nTo Rokeby s hospitable hall,\\nAnd our stout knight, at dawn or morn\\nWho loved to hear the bugle-horn,\\nNor less, when eve his oaks embrowned,\\nTo see the ruddy cup go round, 530\\nTook umbrage that a friend so near\\nRefused to share his chase and cheer;\\nThus did the kindred barons jar\\nEre they divided in the war.\\nYet, trust me, friend, Matilda fair\\nOf Mortham s wealth is destined heir.\\nXXII\\nDestined to her to yon slight maid\\nThe prize my life had wellnigh paid\\nWhen gainst Laroche by Cayo s wave\\nI fought my patron s wealth to save 540\\nDenzil, I knew him long, yet ne er\\nKnew him that joyous cavalier\\nWhom youthful friends and early fame\\nCalled soul of gallantry and game.\\nA moody man he sought our crew,\\nDesperate and dark, whom no one knew,\\nAnd rose, as men with us must rise,\\nBy scorning life and all its ties.\\nOn each adventure rash he roved,\\nAs danger for itself he loved;\\nOn his sad brow nor mirth nor wine\\nCould ere one wrinkled knot untwine;\\n111 was the omen if he smiled,\\nFor t was in peril stern and wild;\\nBut when he laughed each luckless mate\\nMight hold our fortune desperate.\\nForemost he fought in every broil,\\nThen scornful turned him from the spoil,\\nNay, often strove to bar the way\\nBetween his comrades and their prey; 561\\nPreaching even then to such as we,\\nHot with our dear-bought victory,\\nOf mercy and humanity.\\nXXIII\\nI loved him well his fearless part,\\nHis gallant leading, won my heart.\\nAnd after each victorious fight,\\nT was I that wrangled for his right,\\nRedeemed his portion of the prey\\nThat greedier mates had torn away,\\nIn field and storm thrice saved his life, 57\\nAnd once amid our comrades strife.\\nYes, I have loved thee Well hath proved\\nMy toil, my danger, how I loved\\nYet will I mourn no more thy fate,\\nIngrate in life, in death ingrate.\\nRise if thou canst he looked around\\nAnd sternly stamped upon the ground\\nRise, with thy bearing proud and high,\\nEven as this morn it met mine eye,\\nAnd give me, if thou darest, the lie 58c\\nHe paused then, calm and passion-freed\\nBade Denzil with his tale proceed.\\nBertram, to thee I need not tell,\\nWhat thou hast cause to wot so well,\\nHow superstition s nets were twined\\nAround the Lord of Mortham s mind;\\nBut since he drove thee from his tower\\nA maid he found in Greta s bower\\nWhose speech, like David s harp, had sway\\nTo charm his evil fiend away. 59\\nI know not if her features moved\\nRemembrance of the wife he loved,\\nBut he would gaze upon her eye,\\nTill his mood softened to a sigh.\\nHe, whom no living mortal sought\\nTo question of his secret thought,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0284.jp2"}, "283": {"fulltext": "CANTO THIRD\\n253\\nNow every thought and care confessed\\nTo his fair niece s faithful breast;\\nNor was there aught of rich and rare,\\nIn earth, in ocean, or in air, 600\\nBut it must deck Matilda s hair.\\nHer love still bound him unto life\\nBut then awoke the civil strife,\\nAnd menials bore by his commands\\nThree coffers with their iron bands\\nFrom Mortham s vault at midnight deep\\nTo her lone bower in Rokeby-Keep,\\nPonderous with gold and plate of pride,\\nHis gift, if he in battle died.\\nXXV\\nI Then Denzil, as I guess, lays train 610\\nThese iron-banded chests to gain,\\nElse wherefore should he hover here\\nWhere many a peril waits him near\\nFor all his feats of war and peace,\\nFor plundered boors, and harts of greese\\nSince through the hamlets as he fared\\nWhat hearth has Guy s marauding spared,\\nOr where the chase that hath not rung\\nWith Denzil s bow at midnight strung\\nJ I hold my wont my rangers go, 620\\nEven now to track a milk-white doe.\\nBy Rokeby-hall she takes her lair,\\nIn Greta wood she harbors fair,\\nAnd when my huntsman marks her way,\\nWhat think st thou, Bertram, of the prey\\nWere Rokeby s daughter in our power,\\nWe rate her ransom at her dower.\\nT is well there s vengeance in the\\nthought,\\nMatilda is by Wilfrid sought;\\nAnd hot-brained Redmond too, t is said, 630\\nPays lover s homage to the maid.\\nBertram she scorned if met by chance\\nShe turned from me her shuddering glance,\\nLike a nice dame that will not brook\\nOn what she hates and loathes to look;\\nShe told to Mortham she could ne er\\nBehold me without secret fear,\\nForeboding evil: she may rue\\nTo find her prophecy fall true\\nThe war has weeded Rokeby s train, 640\\nFew followers in his halls remain;\\nIf thy scheme miss, then, brief and bold,\\nWe are enow to storm the hold,\\nBear off the plunder and the dame,\\nAnd leave the castle all in flame.\\nXXVII\\nStill art thou Valor s venturous son\\nYet ponder first the risk to run:\\nThe menials of the castle, true\\nAnd stubborn to their charge, though\\nfew\\nThe wall to scale the moat to cross 650\\nThe wicket-grate the inner fosse\\nFool if we blench for toys like these,\\nOn what fair guerdon can we seize\\nOur hardiest venture, to explore\\nSome wretched peasant s fenceless door,\\nAnd the best prize we bear away,\\nThe earnings of his sordid day.\\nA while thy hasty taunt forbear:\\nIn sight of road more sure and fair\\nThou wouldst not choose, in blindfold\\nwrath 660\\nOr wantonness a desperate path\\nList, then; for vantage or assault,\\nFrom gilded vane to dungeon vault,\\nEach pass of Rokeby-house I know:\\nThere is one postern dark and low\\nThat issues at a secret spot,\\nBy most neglected or forgot.\\nNow, could a spial of our train\\nOn fair pretext admittance gain,\\nThat sally-port might be unbarred; 670\\nThen, vain were battlement and ward\\nXXVIII\\nNow speak st thou well: to me the same\\nIf force or art shall urge the game;\\nIndifferent if like fox I wind,\\nOr spring like tiger on the hind.\\nBut, hark our merry men so gay\\nTroll forth another roundelay.\\nA weary lot is thine, fair maid,\\nA weary lot is thine\\nTo pull the thorn thy brow to braid, 680\\nAnd press the rue for wine\\nA lightsome eye, a soldier s mien,\\nA feather of the blue,\\nA doublet of the Lincoln green,\\nNo more of me you knew,\\nMy love\\nNo more of me you knew.\\n1 This morn is merry June, I trow,\\nThe rose is budding fain;\\nBut she shall bloom in winter snow 690\\nEre we two meet again.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0285.jp2"}, "284": {"fulltext": "254\\nROKEBY\\nHe turned his charger as he spake\\nUpon the river shore,\\nHe gave his bridle-reins a shake,\\nSaid, Adieu for evermore,\\nMy love\\nAnd adieu for evermore.\\nXXIX\\nWhat youth is this your band among\\nThe best for minstrelsy and song\\nIn his wild notes seem aptly met 700\\nA strain of pleasure and regret.\\nEdmund of Winston is his name;\\nThe hamlet sounded with the fame\\nOf early hopes his childhood gave,\\nNow centred all in Brignall cave\\nI watch him well his wayward course\\nShows oft a tincture of remorse.\\nSom5 early love-shaft grazed his heart,\\nAnd oft the scar will ache and smart.\\nYet is he useful; of the rest 710\\nBy fits the darling and the jest,\\nHis harp, his story, and his lay,\\nOft aid the idle hours away:\\nWhen unemployed, each fiery mate\\nIs ripe for mutinous debate.\\nHe tuned his strings e en now again\\nHe wakes them with a blither strain.\\nxxx\\nSONG\\nALLEN- A- DALE\\nAllen-a-Dale has no fagot for burning,\\nAllen-a-Dale has no furrow for turning,\\nAllen-a-Dale has no fleece for the spin-\\nning, 720\\nYet Allen-a-Dale has red gold for the\\nwinning.\\nCome, read me my riddle come, hearken\\nmy tale\\nAnd tell me the craft of bold Allen-a-\\nDale.\\nThe Baron of Ravensworth prances in\\npride,\\nAnd he views his domains upon Arkindale\\nside.\\nThe mere for his net and the land for his\\ngame,\\nThe chase for the wild and the park for\\nthe tame;\\nYet the fish of the lake and the deer of tin\\nvale\\nAre less free to Lord Dacre than Allen-a-\\nDale\\nAllen-a-Dale was ne er belted a knight, 73\\nThough his spur be as sharp and his blade\\nbe as bright;\\nAllen-a-Dale is no baron or lord,\\nYet twenty tall yeomen will draw at his\\nword;\\nAnd the best of our nobles his bonnet wil\\nvail,\\nWho at Rere-cross on Stanmore meets\\nAllen-a-Dale\\nAllen-a-Dale to his wooing is come;\\nThe mother, she asked of his househol\\nand home:\\nThough the castle of Richmond stand fair\\non the hill,\\nMy hall, quoth bold Allen, shows gallanter\\nstill;\\nT is the blue vault of heaven, with its cres-\\ncent so pale 740\\nAnd with all its bright spangles said\\nAllen-a-Dale.\\nThe father was steel and the mother ws\\nstdne;\\nThey lifted the latch and they bade him b\\ngone;\\nBut loud on the morrow their wail and thei\\ncry:\\nHe had laughed on the lass with his bonny\\nblack eye,\\nAnd she fled to the forest to hear a love-\\ntale,\\nAnd the youth it was told by was Allen-a-\\ndale\\nXXXI\\nThou see st that, whether sad or gay,\\nLove mingles ever in his lay.\\nBut when his boyish wayward fit\\nIs o er, he hath address and wit;\\nO, t is a brain of fire, can ape\\nEach dialect, each various shape\\nNay then, to aid thy project, Guy\\nSoft who comes here My trusty\\nspy-\\nSpeak, Hamlin hast thou lodged out\\ndeer\\n1 1 have but two fair stags are near.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0286.jp2"}, "285": {"fulltext": "CANTO FOURTH\\n2 55\\nI watched her as she slowly strayed\\nFrom Egliston up Thorsgill glade,\\nBut Wilfrid Wycliffe sought her side, 760\\nAnd then young Redmond in his pride\\nShot down to meet them on their way;\\nMuch, as it seemed, was theirs to say\\nThere s time to pitch both toil and net\\nBefore their path be homeward set.\\nA hurried and a whispered speech\\nDid Bertram s will to Denzil teach,\\nWho, turning to the robber band,\\nBade four, the bravest, take the brand.\\nCANTO FOURTH\\nWhen Denmark s raven soared on high,\\nTriumphant through Northumbrian sky,\\nThe hovering near her fatal croak\\nBade Reged s Britons dread the yoke,\\nAnd the broad shadow of her wing\\nBlackened each cataract and spring\\nWhere Tees in tumult leaves his source,\\nThundering o er Caldron and High-Force;\\nBeneath the shade the Northmen came,\\nFixed on each vale a Runic name, 10\\nReared high their altar s rugged stone,\\nAnd gave their gods the land they won.\\nThen, Balder, one bleak garth was thine\\nAnd one sweet brooklet s silver line,\\nAnd Woden s Croft did title gain\\nFrom the stern Father of the Slain;\\nBut to the Monarch of the Mace,\\nThat held in fight the foremost place,\\nTo Odin s son and Sifia s spouse, 19\\nNear Startforth high they paid their vows,\\nRemembered Thor s victorious fame,\\nAnd gave the dell the Thunderer s name.\\nYet Scald or Kemper erred, I ween,\\nWho gave that soft and quiet scene,\\nWith all its varied light and shade,\\nAnd every little sunny glade,\\nAnd the blithe brook that strolls along\\nIts pebbled bed with summer song,\\nTo the grim God of blood and scar,\\nThe grisly King of Northern War. 30\\nO, better were its banks assigned\\nTo spirits of a gentler kind\\nFor where the thicket-groups recede\\nAnd the rath primrose decks the mead,\\nThe velvet grass seems carpet meet\\nFor the light fairies lively feet.\\nYon tufted knoll with daisies strown\\nMight make proud Oberon a throne,\\nWhile, hidden in the thicket nigh,\\nPuck should brood o er his frolic sly; 40\\nAnd where profuse the wood-vetch clings\\nRound ash and elm in verdant rings,\\nIts pale and azure-pencilled flower\\nShould canopy Titania s bower.\\nHere rise no cliffs the vale to shade;\\nBut, skirting every sunny glade,\\nIn fair variety of green\\nThe woodland lends its sylvan screen.\\nHoary yet haughty, frowns the oak,\\nIts boughs by weight of ages broke; 50\\nAnd towers erect in sable spire\\nThe pine-tree scathed by lightning-fire;\\nThe drooping ash and birch between\\nHang their fair tresses o er the green,\\nAnd all beneath at random grow\\nEach coppice dwarf of varied show,\\nOr, round the stems profusely twined,\\nFling summer odors on the wind.\\nSuch varied group Urbino s hand\\nRound Him of Tarsus nobly planned, 60\\nWhat time he bade proud Athens own\\nOn Mars s Mount the God Unknown\\nThen gray Philosophy stood nigh,\\nThough bent by age, in spirit high:\\nThere rose the scar-seamed veteran s spear,\\nThere Grecian Beauty bent to hear,\\nWhile Childhood at her foot was placed,\\nOr clung delighted to her waist.\\nAnd rest we here, Matilda said,\\nAnd sat her in the varying shade. 70\\nChance-met, we well may steal an hour,\\nTo friendship due from fortune s power.\\nThou, Wilfrid, ever kind, must lend\\nThy counsel to thy sister- f riend\\nAnd, Redmond, thou, at my behest,\\nNo farther urge thy desperate quest.\\nFor to my care a charge is left,\\nDangerous to one of aid bereft,\\nWellnigh an orphan and alone,\\nCaptive her sire, her house o erthrown. 80\\nWilfrid, with wonted kindness graced,\\nBeside her on the turf she placed;\\nThen paused with downcast look and eye,\\nNor bade young Redmond seat him nigh.\\nHer conscious diffidence he saw,\\nDrew backward as in modest awe,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0287.jp2"}, "286": {"fulltext": "256 ROKEBY\\nAnd sat a little space removed,\\nUnmarked to gaze on her he loved.\\nWreathed in its dark-brown rings, her hair\\nHalf hid Matilda s forehead fair, 90\\nHalf hid and half revealed to view\\nHer full dark eye of hazel hue.\\nThe rose with faint and feeble streak\\nSo slightly tinged the maiden s cheek\\nThat you had said her hue was pale;\\nBut if she faced the summer gale,\\nOr spoke, or sung, or quicker moved,\\nOr heard the praise of those she loved,\\nOr when of interest was expressed\\nAught that waked feeling in her breast, 100\\nThe mantling blood in ready play\\nRivalled the blush of rising day.\\nThere was a soft and pensive grace,\\nA cast of thought upon her face,\\nThat suited well the forehead high,\\nThe eyelash dark and downcast eye;\\nThe mild expression spoke a mind\\nIn duty firm, composed, resigned;\\nT is that which Roman art has given,\\nTo mark their maiden Queen of Heaven, no\\nIn hours of sport that mood gave way\\nTo Fancy s light and frolic play;\\nAnd when the dance, or tale, or song\\nIn harmless mirth sped time along,\\nFull oft her doting sire would call\\nHis Maud the merriest of them all.\\nBut days of war and civil crime\\nAllowed but ill such festal time,\\nAnd her soft pensiveness of brow\\nHad deepened into sadness now. 120\\nIn Marston field her father ta en,\\nHer friends dispersed, brave Mortham\\nslain,\\nWhile every ill her soul foretold\\nFrom Oswald s thirst of power and gold,\\nAnd boding thoughts that she must part\\nWith a soft vision of her heart,\\nAll lowered around the lovely maid,\\nTo darken her dejection s shade.\\nWho has not heard while Erin yet\\nStrove gainst the Saxon s iron bit 130\\nWho has not heard how brave O Neale\\nIn English blood imbrued his steel,\\nAgainst Saint George s cross blazed high\\nThe banners of his Tanistry,\\nTo fiery Essex gave the foil,\\nAnd reigned a prince on Ulster s soil\\n150\\nBut chief arose his victor pride\\nWhen that brave Marshal fought and died,\\nAnd Avon-Duff to ocean bore\\nHis billows red with Saxon gore. 140\\nT was first in that disastrous fight\\nRokeby and Mortham proved their might.\\nThere had they fallen amongst the rest,\\nBut pity touched a chieftain s breast;\\nThe Tanist he to great O Neale,\\nHe checked his followers bloody zeal,\\nTo quarter took the kinsmen bold,\\nAnd bore them to his mountain-hold,\\nGave them each sylvan joy to know\\nSlieve-Donard s cliffs and woods could\\nshow,\\nShared with them Erin s festal cheer,\\nShowed them the chase of wolf and deer,\\nAnd, when a fitting time was come,\\nSafe and unransomed sent them home,\\nLoaded with many a gift to prove\\nA generous foe s respect and love.\\nVII\\nYears speed away. On Rokeby s head\\nSome touch of early snow was shed;\\nCalm he enjoyed by Greta s wave 159\\nThe peace which James the Peaceful gave,\\nWhile Mortham far beyond the main\\nWaged his fierce wars on Indian Spain.\\nIt chanced upon a wintry night\\nThat whitened Stanmore s stormy height,\\nThe chase was o er, the stag was killed\\nIn Rokeby hall the cups were filled,\\nAnd by the huge stone chimney sate\\nThe knight in hospitable state.\\nMoonless the sky, the hour was late,\\nWhen a loud summons shook the gate,\\nAnd sore for entrance and for aid\\nA voice of foreign accent prayed.\\nThe porter answered to the call,\\nAnd instant rushed into the hall\\nA man whose aspect and attire\\nStartled the circle by the fire.\\nVIII\\nHis plaited hair in elf-locks spread\\nAround his bare and matted head;\\nOn leg and thigh, close stretched and trim.\\nHis vesture showed the sinewy limb; 18c\\nIn saffron dyed, a linen vest\\nWas frequent folded round his breast;\\nA mantle long and loose he wore,\\nShaggy with ice and stained with gore.\\nHe clasped a burden to his heart,\\nAnd, resting on a knotted dart,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0288.jp2"}, "287": {"fulltext": "CANTO FOURTH\\n257\\nThe snow from hair and beard he shook,\\nAnd round him gazed with wildered look.\\nThen up the hall with staggering pace\\nHe hastened by the blaze to place, 190\\nHalf lifeless from the bitter air,\\nHis load, a boy of beauty rare.\\nTo Rokeby next he louted low,\\nThen stood erect his tale to show\\nWith wild majestic port and tone,\\nLike envoy of some barbarous throne.\\nSir ivichard, Lord of Rokeby, hear\\nTurlough O Neale salutes thee dear;\\nHe graces thee, and to thy care 199\\nYoung Redmond gives, his grandson fair.\\nHe bids thee breed him as thy son,\\nFor Turlough s days of joy are done,\\nAnd other lords h~* e seized his land,\\nAnd faint and fee Die is his hand,\\nAnd all the glory of Tyrone\\nIs like a morning vapor flown.\\nTo bind the duty on thy soul,\\nHe bids thee think on Erin s bowl\\nIf any wrong the young O Neale,\\nHe bids thee think of Erin s steel. 210\\nTo Mortham first this charge was due,\\nBut in his absence honors you.\\nNow is my master s message by,\\nAnd Ferraught will contented die.\\nIX\\nHis look grew fixed, his cheek grew pale,\\nHe sunk when he had told his tale;\\nFor, hid beneath his mantle wide,\\nA mortal wound was in his side.\\nVain was all aid in terror wild\\nAnd sorrow screamed the orphan child. 220\\nPoor Ferraught raised his wistful eyes,\\nAnd faintly strove to soothe his cries;\\nAll reckless of his dying pain,\\nHe blest and blest him o er again,\\nAnd kissed the little hands outspread,\\nAnd kissed and crossed the infant head,\\nAnd in his native tongue and phrase\\nPrayed to each saint to watch his days;\\nThen all his strength together drew\\nThe charge to Rokeby to renew. 230\\nWhen half was faltered from his breast,\\nAnd half by dying signs expressed,\\nBless thee, O Neale he faintly said,\\nAnd thus the faithful spirit fled.\\nT was long ere soothing might prevail\\nUpon the child to end the tale:\\nAnd then he said that from his home\\nHis grandsire had been forced to roam,\\nWhich had not been if Redmond s hand\\nHad but had strength to draw the brand,\\nThe brand of Lenaugh More the Red, 241\\nThat hung beside the gray wolf s head.\\nT was from his broken phrase descried,\\nHis foster father was his guide,\\nWho in his charge from Ulster bore\\nLetters and gifts a goodly store;\\nBut ruffians met them in the wood,\\nFerraught in battle boldly stood,\\nTill wounded and o crpowered at length,\\nAnd stripped of all, his failing strength 25c\\nJust bore him here and then the child\\nRenewed again his moaning wild.\\nXI\\nThe tear down childhood s cheek that flows\\nIs like the dew-drop on the rose;\\nWhen next the summer breeze comes by\\nAnd waves the bush, the flower is dry.\\nWon by their care, the orphan child\\nSoon on his new protector smiled,\\nWith dimpled cheek and eye so fair,\\nThrough his thick curls of flaxen hair, 260\\nBut blithest laughed that cheek and eye,\\nWhen Rokeby s little maid was nigh;\\nT was his with elder brother s pride\\nMatilda s tottering steps to guide;\\nHis native lays in Irish tongue\\nTo soothe her infant ear he sung,\\nAnd primrose twined with daisy fair\\nTo form a chaplet for her hair.\\nBy lawn, by grove, by brooklet s strand,\\nThe children still were hand in hand, 270\\nAnd good Sir Richard smiling eyed\\nThe early knot so kindly tied.\\nXII\\nBut summer months bring wilding shoot\\nFrom bud to bloom, from bloom to fruit;\\nAnd years draw on our human span\\nFrom child to boy, from boy to man;\\nAnd soon in Rokeby s woods is seen\\nA gallant boy in hunter s green.\\nHe loves to wake the felon boar\\nIn his dark haunt on Greta s shore, 280\\nAnd loves against the deer so dun\\nTo draw the shaft, or lift the gun:\\nYet more he loves in autumn prime\\nThe hazel s spreading boughs to climb,\\nAnd down its clustered stores to hail\\nWhere young Matilda holds her veil.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0289.jp2"}, "288": {"fulltext": "258\\nROKEBY\\nAnd she whose veil receives the shower\\nIs altered too and knows her power,\\nAssumes a monitress s pride 289\\nHer Redmond s dangerous sports to chide,\\nYet listens still to hear him tell\\nHow the grim wild-boar fought and fell,\\nHow at his fall the bugle rung,\\nTill rock and greenwood answer flung;\\nThen blesses her that man can find\\nA pastime of such savage kind\\nXIII\\nBut Redmond knew to weave his tale\\nSo well with praise of wood and dale,\\nAnd knew so well each point to trace\\nGives living interest to the chase, 300\\nAnd knew so well o er all to throw\\nHis spirit s wild romantic glow,\\nThat, while she blamed and while she\\nfeared,\\nShe loved each venturous tale she heard.\\nOft, too, when drifted snow and rain\\nTo bower and hall their steps restrain,\\nTogether they explored the page\\nOf glowing bard or gifted sage;\\nOft, placed the evening fire beside,\\nThe minstrel art alternate tried, 3 10\\nWhile gladsome harp and lively lay\\nBade winter night flit fast away:\\nThus, from their childhood blending still\\nTheir sport, their study, and their skill,\\nAn union of the soul they prove,\\nBut must not think that it was love.\\nBut though they dared not, envious Fame\\nSoon dared to give that union name\\nAnd when so often side by side\\nFrom year to year the pair she eyed, 320\\nShe sometimes blamed the good old knight\\nAs dull of ear and dim of sight,\\nSometimes his purpose would declare\\nThat young O Neale should wed his heir.\\nXIV\\nThe suit of Wilfrid rent disguise\\nAnd bandage from the lovers eyes;\\nT was plain that Oswald for his son\\nHad Rokeby s favor wellnigh won.\\nNow must they meet with change of cheer,\\nWith mutual looks of shame and fear; 330\\nNow must Matilda stray apart\\nTo school her disobedient heart,\\nAnd Redmond now alone must rue\\nThe love he never can subdue.\\nBut factions rose, and Rokeby sware\\nNo rebel s son should wed his heir:\\nAnd Redmond, nurtured while a child\\nIn many a bard s traditions wild,\\nNow sought the lonely wood or stream,\\nTo cherish there a happier dream 340\\nOf maiden won by sword or lance,\\nAs in the regions of romance;\\nAnd count the heroes of his line,\\nGreat Nial of the Pledges Nine,\\nShane-Dymas wild, and Geraldine,\\nAnd Connan-more, who vowed his race\\nFor ever to the fight and chase,\\nAnd cursed him of his lineage born\\nShould sheathe the sword to reap the\\ncorn,\\nOr leave the mountain and the wold\\nTo shroud himself in castled hold.\\nFrom such examples hope he drew,\\nAnd brightened as the trumpet blew.\\n350\\nxv\\nIf brides were won by heart and* blade,\\nRedmond had both his cause to aid,\\nAnd all beside of nurture rare\\nThat might beseem a baron s heir.\\nTurlough O Neale in Erin s strife\\nOn Rokeby s Lord bestowed his life,\\nAnd well did Rokeby s generous knight 36c\\nYoung Redmond for the deed requite.\\nNor was his liberal care and cost\\nUpon the gallant stripling lost:\\nSeek the North Riding broad and wide,\\nLike Redmond none could steed bestride;\\nFrom Tynemouth search to Cumberland,\\nLike Redmond none could wield a brand;\\nAnd then, of humor kind and free,\\nAnd bearing him to each degree\\nWith frank and fearless courtesy, 370\\nThere never youth was formed to steal\\nUpon the heart like brave O Neale.\\nXVI\\nSir Richard loved him as his son;\\nAnd when the days of peace were done,\\nAnd to the gales of war he gave\\nThe banner of his sires to wave,\\nRedmond, distinguished by his care,\\nHe chose that honored flag to bear,\\nAnd named his page, the next degree\\nIn that old time to chivalry. 38\u00c2\u00a9\\nIn five pitched fields he well maintained\\nThe honored place his worth obtained,\\nAnd high was Redmond s youthful name\\nBlazed in the roll of martial fame.\\nHad fortune smiled on Marston fight,\\nThe eve had seen him dubbed a knight;", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0290.jp2"}, "289": {"fulltext": "CANTO FOURTH\\n2 59\\nTwice mid the battle s doubtful strife\\nOf Rokeby s Lord he saved the life,\\nBut when he saw him prisoner made,\\nHe kissed and then resigned his blade, 390\\nAnd yielded him an easy prey\\nTo those who led the knight away,\\nResolved Matilda s sire should prove\\nIn prison, as in fight, his love.\\nXVII\\nWhen lovers meet in adverse hour,\\nT is like a sun-glimpse through a shower,\\nA watery ray an instant seen\\nThe darkly closing clouds between.\\nAs Redmond on the turf reclined,\\nThe past and present filled his mind: 400\\n1 It was not thus, Affection said,\\nI dreamed of my return, dear maid\\nNot thus when from thy trembling hand\\nI took the banner and the brand,\\nWhen round me, as the bugles blew,\\nTheir blades three hundred warriors drew,\\nAnd, while the standard I unrolled,\\nClashed their bright arms, with clamor\\nbold.\\nWhere is that banner now its pride\\nLies whelmed in Ouse s sullen tide 410\\nWhere now these warriors in their gore\\nThey cumber Marston s dismal moor\\nAnd what avails a useless brand,\\nHeld by a captive s shackled hand,\\nThat* only would his life retain\\nTo aid thy sire to bear his chain\\nThus Redmond to himself apart,\\nNor lighter was his rival s heart;\\nFor Wilfrid, while his generous soul\\nDisdained to profit by control, 420\\nBy many a sign could mark too plain,\\nSave with such aid, his hopes were vain.\\nBut now Matilda s accents stole\\nOn the dark visions of their soul,\\n1 And bade their mournful musing fly,\\nLike mist before the zephyr s sigh.\\nXVIII\\nI need not to my friends recall,\\nHow Mortham shunned my father s hall,\\nA man of silence and of woe,\\nYet ever anxious to bestow 430\\nOn my poor self whate er could prove\\nA kinsman s confidence and love.\\nMy feeble aid could sometimes chase\\nThe clouds of sorrow for a space;\\nBut oftener, fixed beyond my power,\\nI marked his deep despondence lower.\\nOne dismal cause, by all unguessed,\\nHis fearful confidence confessed;\\nAnd twice it was my hap to see\\nExamples of that agony 440\\nWhich for a season can o erstrain\\nAnd wreck the structure of the brain.\\nHe had the awful power to know\\nThe approaching mental overthrow,\\nAnd while his mind had courage yet\\nTo struggle with the dreadful fit,\\nThe victim writhed against its throes,\\nLike wretch beneath a murderer s blows.\\nThis malady, I well could mark,\\nSprung from some direful cause and\\ndark, 450\\nBut still he kept its source concealed,\\nTill arming for the civil field;\\nThen in my charge he bade me hold\\nA treasure huge of gems and gold,\\nWith this disjointed dismal scroll\\nThat tells the secret of his soul\\nIn such wild words as oft betray\\nA mind by anguish forced astray.\\nXIX\\nmortham s histoky\\nMatilda thou hast seen me start,\\nAs if a dagger thrilled my heart, 460\\nWhen it has happed some casual phrase\\nWaked memory of my former days.\\nBelieve that few can backward cast\\nTheir thought with pleasure on the past;\\nBut I my youth was rash and vain,\\nAnd blood and rage my manhood stain,\\nAnd my gray hairs must now descend\\nTo my cold grave without a friend\\nEven thou, Matilda, wilt disown\\nThy kinsman when his guilt is known. 470\\nAnd must I lift the bloody veil\\nThat hides my dark and fatal tale\\nI must I will Pale phantom, cease\\nLeave me one little hour in peace\\nThus haunted, think st thou I have skill\\nThine own commission to fulfil\\nOr, while thou point st with gesture fierce\\nThy blighted cheek, thy bloody hearse,\\nHow can I paint thee as thou wert,\\nSo fair in face, so warm in heart 480\\nYes, she was fair Matilda, thou\\nHast a soft sadness on thy brow\\nBut hers was like the sunny glow,\\nThat laughs on earth and all below", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0291.jp2"}, "290": {"fulltext": "260\\nROKEBY\\nWe wedded secret there was need\\nDiffering in country and in creed;\\nAnd when to Mortham s tower she came,\\nWe mentioned not her race and name,\\nUntil thy sire, who fought afar, 4 8 9\\nShould turn him home from foreign war,\\nOn whose kind influence we relied\\nTo soothe her father s ire and pride.\\nFew months we lived retired, unknown\\nTo all but one dear friend alone,\\nOne darling friend I spare his shame,\\nI will not write the villain s name\\nMy trespasses 1 might forget,\\nAnd sue in vengeance for the debt\\nDue by a brother worm to me,\\nUngrateful to God s clemency, 500\\nThat spared me penitential time,\\nNor cut me off amid my crime.\\nXXI\\nA kindly smile to all she lent,\\nBut on her husband s friend t was bent\\nSo kind that from its harmless glee\\nThe wretch misconstrued villauy.\\nRepulsed in his presumptuous love,\\nA vengeful snare the traitor wove.\\nAlone we sat the flask had flowed,\\nMy blood with heat unwonted glowed, 510\\nWhen through the alleyed walk we spied\\nWith hurried step my Edith glide,\\nCowering beneath the verdant screen,\\nAs one unwilling to be seen.\\nWords cannot paint the fiendish smile\\nThat curled the traitor s cheek the while\\nFiercely I questioned of the cause;\\nHe made a cold and artful pause,\\nThen prayed it might not chafe my mood\\nThere was a gallant in the wood 520\\nWe had been shooting at the deer;\\nMy cross-bow evil chance was near:\\nThat ready weapon of my wrath\\nI caught and, hasting up the path,\\nIn the yew grove my wife I found;\\nA stranger s arms her neck had bound\\nI marked his heart the bow I drew\\nI loosed the shaft t was more than true\\nI found my Edith s dying charms 529\\nLocked in her murdered brother s arms\\nHe came in secret to inquire\\nHer state and reconcile her sire.\\nAll fled my rage the villain first\\nWhose craft my jealousy had nursed;\\nHe sought in far and foreign clime\\nTo scape the vengeance of his crime.\\nThe manner of the slaughter done\\nWas known to few, my guilt to none;\\nSome tale my faithful steward framed\\nI know not what of shaft mis-aimed; 540\\nAnd even from those the act who knew\\nHe hid the hand from which it flew.\\nUntouched by human laws I stood,\\nBut God had heard the cry of blood\\nThere is a blank upon my mind,\\nA fearful vision ill-defined\\nOf raving till my flesh was torn,\\nOf dungeon-bolts and fetters worn\\nAnd when I waked to woe more mild\\nAnd questioned of my infant child 550\\nHave I not written that she bare\\nA boy, like summer morning fair\\nWith looks confused my menials tell\\nThat armed men in Mortham dell\\nBeset the nurse s evening way,\\nAnd bore her with her charge away.\\nMy faithless friend, and none but he,\\nCould profit by this villany\\nHim then I sought with purpose dread\\nOf treble vengeance on his head 560\\nHe scaped me but my bosom s wound\\nSome faint relief from wandering found,\\nAnd over distant land and sea\\nI bore my load of misery.\\nT was then that fate my footsteps led\\nAmong a daring crew and dread,\\nWith whom full oft my hated life\\nI ventured in such desperate strife\\nThat even my fierce associates saw\\nMy frantic deeds with doubt and awe. 570\\nMuch then I learned and much can show\\nOf human guilt and human woe,\\nYet ne er have in my wanderings known\\nA wretch whose sorrows matched my\\nown\\nIt chanced that after battle fray\\nUpon the bloody field we lay;\\nThe yellow moon her lustre shed\\nUpon the wounded and the dead,\\nWhile, sense in toil and wassail drowned,\\nMy ruffian comrades slept around, 580\\nThere came a voice its silver tone\\nWas soft, Matilda, as thine own\\nAh, wretch it said, what mak st thou\\nhere,\\nWhile unavenged my bloody bier,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0292.jp2"}, "291": {"fulltext": "CANTO FOURTH\\n261\\nWhile unprotected lives mine heir\\nWithout a father s name and care\\n1 1 heard obeyed and homeward drew;\\nThe fiercest of our desperate crew\\nI brought, at time of need to aid\\nMy purposed vengeance long delayed. 590\\nBut humble be my thanks to Heaven\\nThat better hopes and thoughts has given,\\nAnd by our Lord s dear prayer has taught\\nMercy by mercy must be bought\\nLet me in misery rejoice\\nI ve seen his face I ve heard his\\nvoice\\nI claimed of him my only child\\nAs he disowned the theft, he smiled\\nThat very calm and callous look,\\nThat fiendish sneer his visage took, 600\\nAs when he said, in scornful mood,\\nThere is a gallant in the wood\\nI did not slay him as he stood\\nAll praise be to my Maker given\\nLong suffrance is one path to heaven.\\nThus far the woful tale was heard\\nWhen something in the thicket stirred.\\nUp Redmond sprung; the villain Guy\\nFor he it was that lurked so nigh\\nDrew back he durst not cross his steel 610\\nA moment s space with brave O Neale\\nFor all the treasured gold that rests\\nIn Mortham s iron-banded chests.\\nRedmond resumed his seat; he said\\nSome roe was rustling in the shade.\\nBertram laughed grimly when he saw\\nHis timorous comrade backward draw;\\nA trusty mate art thou, to fear\\nA single arm, and aid so near\\nYet have I seen thee mark a deer. 620\\nGive me thy carabine I 11 show\\nAn art that thou wilt gladly know,\\nHow thou mayst safely quell a foe.\\nXXVI\\nOn hands and knees fierce Bertram drew\\nThe spreading birch and hazels through,\\nTill he had Redmond full in view;\\nThe gun he levelled Mark like this\\nWas Bertram never known to miss,\\nWhen fair opposed to aim their sate\\nAn object of his mortal hate. 630\\nThat day young Redmond s death had seen,\\nBut twice Matilda came between\\nThe carabine and Redmond s breast\\nJust ere the spring his finger pressed.\\nA deadly oath the ruffian swore,\\nBut yet his fell design forbore:\\nIt ne er, he muttered, shall be said\\nThat thus I scathed thee, haughty maid\\nThen moved to seek more open aim,\\nWhen to his side Guy Denzil came: 640\\nBertram, forbear we are undone\\nFor ever, if thou fire the gun.\\nBy all the fiends, an armed force\\nDescends the dell of foot and horse\\nWe perish if they hear a shot\\nMadman we have a safer plot\\nNay, friend, be ruled, and bear thee\\nback\\nBehold, down yonder hollow track\\nThe warlike leader of the band\\nComes with his broadsword in his hand. 650\\nBertram looked up he saw, he knew\\nThat Denzil s fears had counselled true,\\nThen cursed his fortune and withdrew,\\nThreaded the woodlands undescried,\\nAnd gained the cave on Greta side.\\nThey whom dark Bertram in his wrath\\nDoomed to captivity or death,\\nTheir thoughts to one sad subject lent,\\nSaw not nor heard the ambushment.\\nHeedless and unconcerned they sate 660\\nWhile on the very verge of fate,\\nHeedless and unconcerned remained\\nWhen Heaven the murderer s arm re-\\nstrained\\nAs ships drift darkling down the tide,\\nNor see the shelves o er which they glide.\\nUninterrupted thus they heard\\nWhat Mortham s closing tale declared.\\nHe spoke of wealth as of a load\\nBy fortune on a wretch bestowed,\\nIn bitter mockery of hate, 670\\nHis cureless woes to aggravate;\\nBut yet he prayed Matilda s care\\nMight save that treasure for his heir\\nHis Edith s son for still he raved\\nAs confident his life was saved\\nIn frequent vision, he averred,\\nHe saw his face, his voice he heard,\\nThen argued calm had murder been,\\nThe blood, the corpses, had been seen;\\nSome had pretended, too, to mark 680\\nOn Windermere a stranger bark,\\nWhose crew, with jealous care yet mild,\\nGuarded a female and a child.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0293.jp2"}, "292": {"fulltext": "262\\nROKEBY\\nWhile these faint proofs he told and\\npressed,\\nHope seemed to kindle in his breast;\\nThough inconsistent, vague, and vain,\\nIt warped his judgment and his brain.\\nXXVIII\\nThese solemn words his story close:\\nHeaven witness for me that I chose\\nMy part in this sad civil fight 690\\nMoved by no cause but England s right.\\nMy country s groans have bid me draw\\nMy sword for gospel and for law;\\nThese righted, I fling arms aside\\nAnd seek my son through Europe wide.\\nMy wealth, on which a kinsman nigh\\nAlready casts a grasping eye,\\nWith thee may unsuspected lie.\\nWhen of my death Matilda hears,\\nLet her retain her trust three years 700\\nIf none from me the treasure claim,\\nPerished is Mortham s race and name.\\nThen let it leave her generous hand,\\nAnd flow in bounty o er the land,\\nSoften the wounded prisoner s lot,\\nRebuild the peasant s ruined cot;\\nSo spoils, acquired by fight afar,\\nShall mitigate domestic war.\\nXXIX\\nThe generous youths, who well had known\\nOf Mortham s mind the powerful tone, 710\\nTo that high mind by sorrow swerved\\nGave sympathy his woes deserved;\\nBut Wilfrid chief, who saw revealed\\nWhy Mortham wished his life concealed,\\nIn secret, doubtless, to pursue\\nThe schemes his wildered fancy drew.\\nThoughtful he heard Matilda tell\\nThat she would share her father s cell,\\nHis partner of captivity,\\nWhere er his prison-house should be; 720\\nYet grieved to think that Rokeby-hall,\\nDismantled and forsook by all,\\nOpen to rapine and to stealth,\\nHad now no safeguard for the wealth\\nIntrusted by her kinsman kind\\nAnd for such noble use designed.\\nWas Barnard Castle then her choice,\\nWilfrid inquired with hasty voice,\\nSince there the victor s laws ordain\\nHer father must a space remain 730\\nA fluttered hope his accent shook,\\nA fluttered joy was in his look.\\nMatilda hastened to reply,\\nFor anger flashed in Redmond s eye;\\nDuty, she said, with gentle grace,\\nKind Wilfrid, has no choice of place;\\nElse had I for my sire assigned\\nPrison less galling to his mind\\nThan that his wild-wood haunts which sees\\nAnd hears the murmur of the Tees, 740\\nRecalling thus with every glance\\nWhat captive s sorrow can enhance;\\nBut where those woes are highest, there\\nNeeds Rokeby most his daughter s care.*\\nXXX\\nHe felt the kindly check she gave,\\nAnd stood abashed then answered grave\\n1 1 sought thy purpose, noble maid,\\nThy doubts to clear, thy schemes to aid.\\nI have beneath mine own command,\\nSo wills my sire, a gallant band, 75c\\nAnd well could send some horsemen wight\\nTo bear the treasure forth by night,\\nAnd so bestow it as you deem\\nIn these ill days may safest seem.\\nThanks, gentle Wilfrid, thanks, she said\\n1 O, be it not one day delayed\\nAnd, more thy sister-friend to aid,\\nBe thou thyself content to hold\\nIn thine own keeping Mortham s gold, 75\\nSafest with thee. While thus she spoke,\\nArmed soldiers on their converse broke,\\nThe same of whose approach afraid\\nThe ruffians left their ambuscade.\\nTheir chief to Wilfrid bended low,\\nThen looked around as for a foe.\\nWhat mean st thou, friend, young Wy-\\ncliffe said,\\nWhy thus in arms beset the glade\\nThat would I gladly learn from you;\\nFor up my squadron as I drew\\nTo exercise our martial game 77\u00c2\u00b0\\nUpon the moor of Barninghame,\\nA stranger told you were waylaid,\\nSurrounded, and to death betrayed.\\nHe had a leader s voice, I ween,\\nA falcon glance, a warrior s mien.\\nHe bade me bring you instant aid;\\nI doubted not and I obeyed.\\nXXXI\\nWilfrid changed color, and amazed\\nTurned short and on the speaker gazed,\\nWhile Redmond every thicket round 780\\nTracked earnest as a questing hound,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0294.jp2"}, "293": {"fulltext": "CANTO FIFTH\\n263\\nAndDenzil s carabine he found;\\nSure evidence by which they knew\\nThe warning was as kind as true.\\nWisest it seemed with cautious speed\\nTo leave the dell. It was agreed\\nThat Redmond with Matilda fair\\nAnd fitting guard should home repair;\\nAt nightfall Wilfrid should attend\\nWith a strong band his sister-friend, 79\u00c2\u00b0\\nTo bear with her from Rokeby s bowers\\nTo Barnard Castle s lofty towers\\nSecret and safe the banded chests\\nIn which the wealth of Mortham rests.\\nThis hasty purpose fixed, they part,\\nEach with a grieved and anxious heart.\\nCANTO FIFTH\\nThe sultry summer day is done,\\nThe western hills have hid the sun,\\nBut mountain peak and village spire\\nRetain reflection of his fire.\\nOld Barnard s towers are purple still\\nTo those that gaze from Toller-hill;\\nDistant and high, the tower of Bowes\\nLike steel upon the anvil glows;\\nAnd Stanmore s ridge behind that lay\\nRich with the spoils of parting day, n\\nIn crimson and in gold arrayed,\\nStreaks yet awhile the closing shade,\\nThen slow resigns to darkening heaven\\nThe tints which brighter hours had given.\\nThus aged men full loath and slow\\nThe vanities of life forego,\\nAnd count their youthful follies o er\\nTill memory lends her light no more.\\nThe eve that slow on upland fades\\nHas darker closed on Rokeby s glades 20\\nWhere, sunk within their banks profound,\\nHer guardian streams to meeting wound.\\nThe stately oaks, whose sombre frown\\nOf noontide made a twilight brown,\\nImpervious now to fainter light,\\nOf twilight make an early night.\\nHoarse into middle air arose\\nThe vespers of the roosting crows,\\nAnd with congenial murmurs seem\\nTo wake the Genii of the stream; 30\\nFor louder clamored Greta s tide,\\nAnd Tees in deeper voice replied,\\nAnd fitful waked the evening wind,\\nFitful in sighs its breath resigned.\\nWilfrid, whose fancy-nurtured soul\\nFelt in the scene a soft control,\\nWith lighter footstep pressed the ground,\\nAnd often paused to look around;\\nAnd, though his path was to his love,\\nCould not but linger in the grove, 40\\nTo drink the thrilling interest dear\\nOf awful pleasure checked by fear.\\nSuch inconsistent moods have we,\\nEven when our passions strike the key.\\nin\\nNow, through the wood s dark mazes past,\\nThe opening lawn he reached at last\\nWhere, silvered by the moonlight ray,\\nThe ancient Hall before him lay.\\nThose martial terrors long were fled\\nThat frowned of old around its head: 50\\nThe battlements, the turrets gray,\\nSeemed half abandoned to decay;\\nOn barbican and keep of stone\\nStern Time the foeman s work had done.\\nWhere banners the invader braved,\\nThe harebell now and wallflower waved;\\nIn the rude guard-room where of yore\\nTheir weary hours the warders wore,\\nNow, while the cheerful fagots blaze,\\nOn the paved floor the spindle plays; 60\\nThe flanking guns dismounted lie,\\nThe moat is ruinous and dry,\\nThe grim portcullis gone and all\\nThe fortress turned to peaceful Hall.\\nBut yet precautions lately ta en\\nShowed danger s day revived again;\\nThe court-yard wall showed marks of care\\nThe fall n defences to repair,\\nLending such strength as might withstand\\nThe insult of marauding band. 70\\nThe beams once more were taught to bear\\nThe trembling drawbridge into air,\\nAnd not till questioned o er and o er\\nFor Wilfrid oped the jealous door,\\nAnd when he entered bolt and bar\\nResumed their place with sullen jar;\\nThen, as he crossed the vaulted porch,\\nThe old gray porter raised his torch,\\nAnd viewed him o er from foot to head\\nEre to the hall his steps he led. 80\\nThat huge old hall of knightly state\\nDismantled seemed and desolate.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0295.jp2"}, "294": {"fulltext": "264\\nROKEBY\\nThe moon through transom-shafts of stone\\nWhich crossed the latticed oriels shone,\\nAnd by the mournful light she gave\\nThe Gothic vault seemed funeral cave.\\nPennon and banner waved no more\\nO er beams of stag and tusks of boar,\\nNor glimmering arms were marshalled\\nseen\\nTo glance those sylvan spoils between. 90\\nThose arms, those ensigns, borne away,\\nAccomplished Rokeby s brave array,\\nBut all were lost on Marston s day\\nYet here and there the moonbeams fall\\nWhere armor yet adorns the wall,\\nCumbrous of size, uncouth to sight,\\nAnd useless in the modern fight,\\nLike veteran relic of the wars\\nKnown only by neglected scars.\\nMatilda soon to greet him came, 100\\nAnd bade them light the evening flame;\\nSaid all for parting was prepared,\\nAnd tarried but for Wilfrid s guard.\\nBut then, reluctant to unfold\\nHis father s avarice of gold,\\nHe hinted that lest jealous eye\\nShould on their precious burden pry,\\nHe judged it best the castle gate\\nTo enter when the night wore late;\\nAnd therefore he had left command no\\nWith those he trusted of his band\\nThat they should be at Rokeby met\\nWhat time the midnight-watch was set.\\nNow Redmond came, whose anxious care\\nTill then was busied to prepare\\nAll needful, meetly to arrange\\nThe mansion for its mournful change.\\nWith Wilfrid s care and kindness pleased,\\nHis cold unready hand he seized,\\nAnd pressed it till his kindly strain 120\\nThe gentle youth returned again.\\nSeemed as between them this was said,\\n4 Awhile let jealousy be dead,\\nAnd let our contest be whose care\\nShall best assist this helpless fair.\\nVI\\nThere was no speech the truce to bind;\\nIt was a compact of the mind,\\nA generous thought at once impressed\\nOn either rival s generous breast.\\nMatilda well the secret took 130\\nFrom sudden change of mien and look,\\nAnd for not small had been her fear\\nOf jealous ire and danger near\\nFelt even in her dejected state\\nA joy beyond the reach of fate.\\nThey closed beside the chimney s blaze,\\nAnd talked, and hoped for happier days,\\nAnd lent their spirits rising glow\\nAwhile to gild impending woe\\nHigh privilege of youthful time, I40\\nWorth all the pleasures of our prime\\nThe bickering fagot sparkled bright\\nAnd gave the scene of love to sight,\\nBade Wilfrid s cheek more lively glow,\\nPlayed on Matilda s neck of snow,\\nHer nut-brown curls and forehead high,\\nAnd laughed in Redmond s azure eye.\\nTwo lovers by the maiden sate\\nWithout a glance of jealous hate;\\nThe maid her lovers sat between 150\\nWith open brow and equal mien;\\nIt is a sight but rarely spied,\\nThanks to man s wrath and woman s pride.\\nVII\\nWhile thus in peaceful guise they sate\\nA knock alarmed the outer gate,\\nAnd ere the tardy porter stirred\\nThe tinkling of a harp was heard.\\nA manly voice of mellow swell\\nBore burden to the music well\\nSONG\\nSummer eve is gone and past, 160\\nSummer dew is falling fast;\\nI have wandered all the day,\\nDo not bid me farther stray\\nGentle hearts of gentle kin,\\nTake the wandering harper in\\nBut the stern porter answer gave,\\nWith Get thee hence, thou strolling knave\\nThe king wants soldiers; war, I trow,\\nWere meeter trade for such as thou.\\nAt this unkind reproof again J7 o\\nAnswered the ready Minstrel s strain:\\nSONG RESUMED\\nBid not me, in battle-field,\\nBuckler lift or broadsword wield\\nAll my strength and all my art\\nIs to touch the gentle heart\\nWith the wizard notes that ring\\nFrom the peaceful minstrel-string.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0296.jp2"}, "295": {"fulltext": "CANTO FIFTH\\n265\\nThe porter, all unmoved, replied,\\nDepart in peace, with Heaven to guide;\\nIf longer by the gate thou dwell, 180\\nTrust me, thou shalt not part so well.\\nWith somewhat of appealing look\\nThe harper s part young Wilfrid took:\\n5 These notes so wild and ready thrill,\\nThey show no vulgar minstrel s skill;\\nHard were his task to seek a home\\nMore distant, since the night is come;\\nAnd for his faith I dare engage\\nYour Harpool s blood is soured by age;\\nHis gate, ouce readily displayed 190\\nTo greet the friend, the poor to aid,\\nNow even to me though known of old\\nDid but reluctantly unfold.\\nO blame not as poor Harpool s crime\\nAn evil of this evil time.\\nHe deems dependent on his care\\nThe safety of his patron s heir,\\nNor judges meet to ope the tower\\nTo guest unknown at parting hour,\\nUrging his duty to excess 200\\nOf rough and stubborn faithfulness.\\nFor this poor harper, I would fain\\nHe may relax: hark to his strain!\\nIX\\nSONG RESUMED\\nI have song of war for knight,\\nLay of love for lady bright,\\nFairy tale to lull the heir,\\nGoblin grim the maids to scare.\\nDark the night and long till day,\\nDo not bid me farther stray\\nRokeby s lords of martial fame, 210\\nI can count them name by name;\\nLegends of their line there be,\\nKnown to few but known to me;\\nIf you honor Rokeby s kin,\\nTake the wandering harper in\\nRokeby s lords had fair regard\\nFor the harp and for the bard;\\nBaron s race throve never well\\nWhere the curse of minstrel fell.\\nIf you love that noble kin, 220\\nTake the weary harper in\\nHark Harpool parleys there is hope,\\nSaid Redmond, that the gate will ope.\\nFor all thy brag and boast, I trow,\\nNought kuowest thou of the Felon Sow,\\nQuoth Harpool, nor how Greta-side\\nShe roamed and Rokeby forest wide;\\nNor how Ralph Rokeby gave the beast\\nTo Richmond s friars to make a feast.\\nOf Gilbert Griffinson the tale 2\\nGoes, and of gallant Peter Dale\\nThat well could strike with sword amain,\\nAnd of the valiant son of Spain,\\nFriar Middleton, and blithe Sir Ralph;\\nThere were a jest to make us laugh\\nIf thou canst tell it, in yon shed,\\nThou st won thy supper and thy bed.\\nMatilda smiled; Cold hope, said she,\\nFrom Harpool s love of minstrelsy\\nBut for this harper may we dare, 240\\nRedmond, to mend his couch and fare\\nO, ask me not At minstrel-string\\nMy heart from infancy would spring;\\nNor can I hear its simplest strain\\nBut it brings Erin s dream again,\\nWhen placed by Owen Lysagh s knee\\nThe Filea of O Neale was he,\\nA blind and bearded man whose eld\\nWas sacred as a prophet s held\\nI ve seen a ring of rugged kerne, 250\\nWith aspects shaggy, wild, and stern,\\nEnchanted by the master s lay,\\nLinger around the livelong day,\\nShift from wild rage to wilder glee,\\nTo love, to grief, to ecstasy,\\nAnd feel each varied change of soul\\nObedient to the bard s control.\\nAh Clandeboy thy friendly floor\\nSlieve-Donard s oak shall light no more;\\nNor Owen s harp beside the blaze 260\\nTell maiden s love or hero s praise\\nThe mantling brambles hide thy hearth,\\nCentre of hospitable mirth;\\nAll undistinguished in the glade,\\nMy sires glad home is prostrate laid,\\nTheir vassals wander wide and far,\\nServe foreign lords in distant war,\\nAnd now the stranger s sons enjoy\\nThe lovely woods of Clandeboy\\nHe spoke, and proudly turned aside 270\\nThe starting tear to dry and hide.\\nXI\\nMatilda s dark and softened eye\\nWas glistening ere O Neale s was dry.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0297.jp2"}, "296": {"fulltext": "266\\nROKEBY\\nHer hand upon his arm she laid,\\nIt is the will of Heaven, she said.\\nAnd think st thou, Redmond, I can part\\nFrom this loved home with lightsome\\nheart,\\nLeaving to wild neglect whate er\\nEven from my infancy was dear?\\nFor in this calm domestic bound 280\\nWere all Matilda s pleasures found.\\nThat hearth my sire was wont to grace\\nFull soon may be a stranger s place\\nThis hall in which a child I played\\nLike thine, dear Redmond, lowly laid,\\nThe bramble and the thorn may braid;\\nOr, passed for aye from me and mine,\\nIt ne er may shelter Rokeby s line.\\nYet is this consolation given, 289\\nMy Redmond, t is the will of Heaven.\\nHer word, her action, and her phrase\\nWere kindly as in early days;\\nFor cold reserve had lost its power\\nIn sorrow s sympathetic hour.\\nYoung Redmond dared not trust his voice\\nBut rather had it been his choice\\nTo share that melancholy hour\\nThan, armed with all a chieftain s power,\\nIn full possession to enjoy\\nSlieve-Donard wide and Clandeboy. 300\\nXII\\nThe blood left Wilfrid s ashen cheek,\\nMatilda sees and hastes to speak.\\nHappy in friendship s ready aid,\\nLet all my murmurs here be staid\\nAnd Rokeby s maiden will not part\\nFrom Rokeby s hall with moody heart.\\nThis night at least for Rokeby s fame\\nThe hospitable hearth shall flame,\\nAnd ere its native heir retire\\nFind for the wanderer rest and fire, 310\\nWhile this poor harper by the blaze\\nRecounts the tale of other days.\\nBid Harpool ope the door with speed,\\nAdmit him and relieve each need.\\nMeantime, kind Wycliffe, wilt thou try\\nThy minstrel skill Nay, no reply\\nAnd look not sad I guess thy thought;\\nThy verse with laurels would be bought,\\nAnd poor Matilda, landless now,\\nHas not a garland for thy brow. 320\\nTrue, I must leave sweet Rokeby s glades,\\nNor wander more in Greta shades;\\nBut sure, no rigid jailer, thou\\nWilt a short prison-walk allow\\nWhere summer flowers grow wild at will\\nOn Marwood-chase and Toller Hill;\\nThen holly green and lily gay\\nShall twine in guerdon of thy lay.\\nThe mournful youth a space aside\\nTo tune Matilda s harp applied,\\nAnd then a low sad descant rung\\nAs prelude to the lay he sung.\\nXIII\\nTHE CYPRESS WREATH\\nO, lady, twine no wreath for me,\\nOr twine it of the cypress-tree\\nToo lively glow the lilies light,\\nThe varnished holly s all too bright,\\nThe May-flower and the eglantine\\nMay shade a brow less sad than mine;\\nBut, lady, weave no wreath for me,\\nOr weave it of the cypress-tree 34 o\\nLet dimpled Mirth his temples twine\\nWith tendrils of the laughing vine;\\nThe manly oak, the pensive yew,\\nTo patriot and to sage be due;\\nThe myrtle bough bids lovers live,\\nBut that Matilda will not give\\nThen, lady, twine no wreath for me,\\nOr twine it of the cypress-tree\\n1 Let merry England proudly rear\\nHer blended roses bought so dear; 350\\nLet Albin bind her bonnet blue\\nWith heath and harebell dipped in dew;\\nOn favored Erin s crest be seen\\nThe flower she loves of emerald green\\nBut, lady, twine no wreath for me,\\nOr twine it of the cypress-tree.\\nStrike the wild harp while maids pre-\\npare\\nThe ivy meet for minstrel s hair;\\nAnd, while his crown of laurel-leaves\\nWith bloody hand the victor weaves, 360\\nLet the loud trump his triumph tell\\nBut when you hear the passing-bell,\\nThen, lady, twine a wreath for me,\\nAnd twine it of the cypress-tree.\\nYes twine for me the cypress-bough;\\nBut, O Matilda, twine not now\\nStay till a few brief months are past,\\nAnd I have looked and loved my last\\nWhen villagers my shroud bestrew\\nWith pansies, rosemary, and rue, 370", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0298.jp2"}, "297": {"fulltext": "CANTO I^IFTH\\n267\\nThen, lady, weave a wreath for me,\\nAnd weave it of the cypress-tree.\\nXIV\\nO Neale observed the starting tear,\\nAnd spoke with kind and blithesome\\ncheer\\nNo, noble Wilfrid ere the day\\nWhen mourns the land thy silent lay,\\nShall many a wreath be freely wove\\nBy hand of friendship and of love.\\nI would not wish that rigid Fate\\nHad doomed thee to a captive s state, 380\\nWhose hands are bound by honor s law,\\nWho wears a sword he must not draw;\\nBut were it so, in minstrel pride\\nThe land together would we ride\\nOn prancing steeds, like harpers old,\\nBound for the halls of barons bold;\\nEach lover of the lyre we d seek\\nFrom Michael s Mount to Skiddaw s Peak,\\nSurvey wild Albin s mountain strand,\\nAnd roam green Erin s lovely land, 390\\nWhile thou the gentler souls should move\\nWith lay of pity and of love,\\nAnd I, thy mate, in rougher strain\\nWould sing of war and warriors slain.\\nOld England s bards were vanquished\\nthen,\\nAnd Scotland s vaunted Hawthornden,\\nAnd, silenced on Iernian shore,\\nM Curtin s harp should charm no more\\nIn lively mood he spoke to wile\\nFrom Wilfrid s woe worn cheek a\\nsmile. 400\\nBut, said Matilda, ere thy name,\\nGood Redmond, gain its destined fame,\\nSay, wilt thou kindly deign to call\\nThy brother-minstrel to the hall\\nBid all the household too attend,\\nEach in his rank a humble friend;\\nI know their faithful hearts will grieve\\nWhen their poor mistress takes her leave\\nSo let the horn and beaker flow\\nTo mitigate their parting woe. 410\\nThe harper came in youth s first prime\\nHimself; in mode of olden time\\nHis garb was fashioned, to express\\nThe ancient English minstrel s dress,\\nA seemly gown of Kendal green\\nWith gorget closed of silver sheen\\nHis harp in silken scarf was slung,\\nAnd by his side an anlace hung.\\nIt seemed some masquer s quaint array\\nFor revel or for holiday. 420\\nXVI\\nHe made obeisance with a free\\nYet studied air of courtesy.\\nEach look and accent framed to please\\nSeemed to affect a playful ease;\\nHis face was of that doubtful kind\\nThat wins the eye, but not the mind;\\nYet harsh it seemed to deem amiss\\nOf brow so young and smooth as this.\\nHis was the subtle look and sly\\nThat, spying all, seems nought to spy; 430\\nRound all the group his glances stole,\\nUnmarked themselves, to mark the whole.\\nYet sunk beneath Matilda s look,\\nNor could the eye of Redmond brook.\\nTo the suspicious or the old\\nSubtle and dangerous and bold\\nHad seemed this self-invited guest;\\nBut young our lovers, and the rest,\\nWrapt in their sorrow and their fear\\nAt parting of their Mistress dear, 440\\nTear-blinded to the castle-hall\\nCame as to bear her funeral pall.\\nXVII\\nAll that expression base was gone\\nWhen waked the guest his minstrel tone;\\nIt fled at inspiration s call,\\nAs erst the demon fled from Saul.\\nMore noble glance he cast around,\\nMore free-drawn breath inspired the sound,\\nHis pulse beat bolder and more high\\nIn all the pride of minstrelsy 450\\nAlas too soon that pride was o er,\\nSunk with the lay that bade it soar\\nHis soul resumed with habit s chain\\nIts vices wild and follies vain,\\nAnd gave the talent with him born\\nTo be a common curse and scorn.\\nSuch was the youth whom Rokeby s maid\\nWith condescending kindness prayed\\nHere to renew the strains she loved,\\nAt distance heard and well approved. 460\\nXVIII\\nSONG\\nTHE HARP\\nI was a wild and wayward boy,\\nMy childhood scorned each childish toy;", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0299.jp2"}, "298": {"fulltext": "268\\nROKEBY\\nRetired from all, reserved and coy,\\nTo musing prone,\\nI wooed my solitary joy,\\nMy Harp alone.\\nMy youth with bold ambition s mood\\nDespised the humble stream and wood\\nWhere my poor father s cottage stood,\\nTo fame unknown; 470\\nWhat should my soaring views make good\\nMy Harp alone\\nLove came with all his frantic fire,\\nAnd wild romance of vain desire\\nThe baron s daughter heard my lyre\\nAnd praised the tone\\nWhat could presumptuous hope inspire\\nMy Harp alone\\nAt manhood s touch the bubble burst,\\nAnd manhood s pride the vision curst, 480\\nAnd all that had my folly nursed\\nLove s sway to own;\\nYet spared the spell that lulled me first,\\nMy Harp alone\\nWoe came with war, and want with woe,\\nAnd it was mine to undergo\\nEach outrage of the rebel foe:\\nCan aught atone\\nMy fields laid waste, my cot laid low\\nMy Harp alone 490\\nAmbition s dreams I ve seen depart,\\nHave rued of penury the smart,\\nHave felt of love the venomed dart,\\nWhen hope was flown;\\nYet rests one solace to my heart,\\nMy Harp alone\\nThen over mountain, moor, and hill,\\nMy faithful Harp, I 11 bear thee still;\\nAnd when this life of want and ill\\nIs wellnigh gone, 500\\nThy strings mine elegy shall thrill,\\nMy Harp alone\\nA pleasing lay Matilda said;\\nBut Harpool shook his old gray head,\\nAnd took his baton and his torch\\nTo seek his guard-room in the porch.\\nEdmund observed with sudden change\\nAmong the strings his fingers range,\\nUntil they waked a bolder glee\\nOf military melody; 5IO\\nThen paused amid the martial sound,\\nAnd looked with well feigned fear\\naround;\\n1 None to this noble house belong,\\nHe said, that would a minstrel wrong\\nWhose fate has been through good and ill\\nTo love his Royal Master still,\\nAnd with your honored leave would fain\\nRejoice you with a royal strain.\\nThen, as assured by sign and look,\\nThe warlike tone again he took; S2 o\\nAnd Harpool stopped and turned to hear\\nA ditty of the Cavalier.\\nXX\\nSONG\\nTHE CAVALIER\\nWhile the dawn on the mountain was misty\\nand gray,\\nMy true love has mounted his steed and\\naway,\\nOver hill, over valley, o er dale, and o er\\ndown;\\nHeaven shield the brave gallant that fights\\nfor the Crown\\nHe has doffed the silk doublet the breast-\\nplate to bear,\\nHe has placed the steel-cap o er his long-\\nflowing hair,\\nFrom his belt to his stirrup his broadsword\\nhangs down,\\nHeaven shield the brave gallant that fights\\nfor the Crown 530\\nFor the rights of fair England that broad-\\nsword he draws,\\nHer King is his leader, her Church is his\\ncause;\\nHis watchword is honor, his pay is re-\\nnown,\\nGod strike with the gallant that strikes for\\nthe Crown\\nThey may boast of their Fairfax, their\\nWaller, and all\\nThe roundheaded rebels of Westminster\\nHall;\\nBut tell these bold traitors of London s\\nproud town,\\nThat the spears of the North have encir-\\ncled the Crown.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0300.jp2"}, "299": {"fulltext": "I There s Derby and Cavendish, dread of\\ntheir foes;\\nThere s Erin s high Ormond and Scotland s\\nMontrose 540\\nWould you match the base Skippon, and\\nMassey, and Brown,\\nWith the Barons of England that fight for\\nthe Crown\\nNow joy to the crest of the brave Cava-\\nlier!\\nBe his banner unconquered, resistless his\\nspear,\\nTill in peace and in triumph his toils he\\nmay drown,\\nIn a pledge to fair England, her Church,\\nand her Crown.\\nXXI\\nAlas Matilda said, that strain,\\ntGood harper, now is heard in vain\\nThe time has been at such a sound\\nWhen Rokeby s vassals gathered round, 550\\nAn hundred manly hearts would bound;\\nBut now, the stirring verse we hear\\nLike trump in dying soldier s ear\\nListless and sad the notes we own,\\nThe power to answer them is flown.\\nYet not without his meet applause\\nBe he that sings the rightful cause,\\nEven when the crisis of its fate\\nTo human eye seems desperate.\\nWhile Rokeby s heir such power retains, 560\\n\u00c2\u00bbLet this slight guerdon pay thy pains:\\nAnd lend thy harp; I fain would try\\nIf my poor skill can aught supply,\\nEre yet I leave my fathers hall,\\nTo mourn the cause in which we fall.\\nThe harper with a downcast look\\nAnd trembling hand her bounty took.\\nAs yet the conscious pride of art\\nHad steeled him in his treacherous part;\\nA powerful spring of force unguessed 570\\nThat hath each gentler mood suppressed,\\nAnd reigned in many a human breast,\\nFrom his that plans the red campaign\\nTo his that wastes the woodland reign.\\nThe failing wing, the blood-shot eye\\nThe sportsman marks with apathy,\\nEach feeling of his victim s ill\\nDrowned in his own successful skill.\\nThe veteran, too, who now no more\\nAspires to head the battle s roar, 5 8o\\nCANTO FIFTH\\n269\\nLoves still the triumph of his art,\\nAnd traces on the pencilled chart\\nSome stern invader s destined way\\nThrough blood and ruin to his prey;\\nPatriots to death, and towns to flame\\nHe dooms, to raise another s name,\\nAnd shares the guilt, though not the fame.\\nWhat pays him for his span of time\\nSpent in premeditating crime\\nWhat against pity arms his heart 590\\nIt is the conscious pride of art.\\nXXIII\\nBut principles in Edmund s mind\\nWere baseless, vague, and undefined.\\nHis soul, like bark with rudder lost,\\nOn passion s changeful tide was tost;\\nNor vice nor virtue had the power\\nBeyond the impression of the hour;\\nAnd O, when passion rules, how rare\\nThe hours that fall to Virtue s share\\nYet now she roused her for the pride 600\\nThat lack of sterner guilt supplied\\nCould scarce support him when arose\\nThe lay that mourned Matilda s woes.\\nSONG\\nTHE FAREWELL\\nThe sound of Rokeby s woods I hear,\\nThey mingle with the song:\\nDark Greta s voice is in mine ear,\\nI must not hear them long.\\nFrom every loved and native haunt\\nThe native heir must stray,\\nAnd, like a ghost whom sunbeams daunt, 610\\nMust part before the day.\\nSoon from the halls my fathers reared,\\nTheir scutcheons may descend,\\nA line so long beloved and feared\\nMay soon obscurely end.\\nNo longer here Matilda s tone\\nShall bid these echoes swell;\\nYet shall they hear her proudly own\\nThe cause in which we fell.\\nThe lady paused, and then again\\nResumed the lay in loftier strain.\\n620\\nXXIV\\nLet our halls and towers decay,\\nBe our name and line forgot,\\nLands and manors pass away,\\nWe but share our monarch s lot.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0301.jp2"}, "300": {"fulltext": "270\\nROKEBY\\nIf no more our annals show\\nBattles won and banners taken,\\nStill in death, defeat, and woe,\\nOurs be loyalty unshaken\\nConstant still in danger s hour, 630\\nPrinces owned our fathers aid;\\nLands and honors, wealth and power,\\nWell their loyalty repaid.\\nPerish wealth and power and pride,\\nMortal boons by mortals given\\nBut let constancy abide,\\nConstancy s the gift of Heaven.\\nxxv\\nWhile thus Matilda s lay was heard,\\nA thousand thoughts in Edmund stirred.\\nIn peasant life he might have known 640\\nAs fair a face, as sweet a tone;\\nBut village notes could ne er supply\\nThat rich and varied melody,\\nAnd ne er in cottage maid was seen\\nThe easy dignity of mien,\\nClaiming respect yet waiving state,\\nThat marks the daughters of the great.\\nYet not perchance had these alone\\nHis scheme of purposed guilt o erthrown;\\nBut while her energy of mind 650\\nSuperior rose to griefs combined,\\nLending its kindling to her eye,\\nGiving her form new majesty,\\nTo Edmund s thought Matilda seemed\\nThe very object he had dreamed\\nWhen, long ere guilt his soul had known,\\nIn Winston bowers he mused alone,\\nTaxing his fancy to combine\\nThe face, the air, the voice divine,\\nOf princess fair by cruel fate 660\\nHeft of her honors, power, and state,\\nTill to her rightful realm restored\\nBy destined hero s conquering sword.\\nXXVI\\nSuch was my vision Edmund thought;\\nAnd have I then the ruin wrought\\nOf such a maid that fancy ne er\\nIn fairest vision formed her peer\\nWas it my hand that could unclose\\nThe postern to her ruthless foes\\nFoes lost to honor, law, and faith, 670\\nTheir kindest mercy sudden death\\nHave I done this I, who have swore\\nThat if the globe such angel bore,\\nI would have traced its circle broad\\nTo kiss the ground on which she trode\\nAnd now O, would that earth would rive\\nAnd close upon me while alive\\nIs there no hope is all then lost\\nBertram s already on his post\\nEven now beside the hall s arched door 680\\nI saw his shadow cross the floor\\nHe was to wait my signal strain\\nA little respite thus we gain:\\nBy what I heard the menials say,\\nYoung Wycliff e s troop are on their way\\nAlarm precipitates the crime\\nMy harp must wear away the time.\\nAnd then in accents faint and low\\nHe faltered forth a tale of woe. 689\\nXXVII\\nBALLAD\\nAnd whither would you lead me then\\nQuoth the friar of orders gray;\\nAnd the ruffians twain replied again,\\nBy a dying woman to pray.\\nI see, he said, a lovely sight,\\nA sight bodes little harm,\\nA lady as a lily bright\\nWith an infant on her arm.\\nThen do thine office, friar gray,\\nAnd see thou shrive her free\\nElse shall the sprite that parts to-night 700\\nFling all its guilt on thee.\\nLet mass be said and trentals read\\nWhen thou rt to convent gone,\\nAnd bid the bell of Saint Benedict\\nToll out its deepest tone.\\n1 The shrift is done, the friar is gone,\\nBlindfolded as he came\\nNext morning all in Littlecot Hall\\nWere weeping for their dame.\\nWild Darrell is an altered man, 710\\nThe village crones can tell;\\nHe looks pale as clay and strives to pray,\\nIf he hears the convent bell.\\nIf prince or peer cross Darrell s way,\\nHe 11 beard him in his pride\\nIf he meet a friar of orders gray,\\nHe droops and turns aside.\\nXXVIII\\nHarper methinks thy magic lays,\\nMatilda said, can goblins raise", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0302.jp2"}, "301": {"fulltext": "CANTO FIFTH\\n271\\nr ellnigh my fancy can discern 720\\nNear the dark porch a visage stern;\\nen now in yonder shadowy nook\\nsee it Redmond, Wilfrid, look\\nhuman form distinct and clear\\nrod, for thy mercy It draws near\\nme saw too true. Stride after stride,\\n^he centre of that chamber wide\\nierce Bertram gained; then made a\\nstand\\nAnd, proudly waving with his hand, 729\\nThundered Be still, upon your lives\\nHe bleeds who speaks, he dies who strives.\\nBehind their chief the robber crew,\\nForth from the darkened portal drew\\nIn silence save that echo dread\\nReturned their heavy measured tread.\\nThe lamp s uncertain lustre gave\\nTheir arms to gleam, their plumes to wave\\nFile after file in order pass,\\nLike forms on Banquo s mystic glass.\\nThen, halting at their leader s sign, 740\\nAt once they formed and curved their line,\\nHemming within its crescent drear\\nTheir victims like a herd of deer.\\nAnother sign, and to the aim\\nLevelled at once their muskets came,\\nAs waiting but their chieftain s word\\nTo make their fatal volley heard.\\nXXIX\\nBack in a heap the menials drew;\\nYet, even in mortal terror true,\\nTheir pale and startled group oppose 750\\nBetween Matilda and the foes.\\nO, haste thee, Wilfrid Redmond cried;\\n4 Undo that wicket by thy side\\nBear hence Matilda gain the wood\\nThe pass may be awhile made good\\nThy band ere this must sure be nigh\\nO speak not dally not but fly\\nWhile yet the crowd their motions hide,\\nThrough the low wicket door they glide.\\nThrough vaulted passages they wind, 760\\nIn Gothic intricacy twined\\nWilfrid half led and half he bore\\nMatilda to the postern door,\\nAnd safe beneath the forest tree,\\nThe lady stands at liberty.\\nThe moonbeams, the fresh gale s caress,\\nRenewed suspended consciousness;\\nWhere s Redmond eagerly she cries:\\nThou answer st not he dies he dies\\nAnd thou hast left him all bereft 770\\nOf mortal aid with murderers left\\nI know it well he would not yield\\nHis sword to man his doom is sealed\\nFor my scorned life, which thou hast\\nbought\\nAt price of his, I thank thee not.\\nxxx\\nThe unjust reproach, the angry look,\\nThe heart of Wilfrid could not brook.\\nLady, he said, my band so near,\\nIn safety thou mayst rest thee here. 779\\nFor Redmond s death thou shalt not mourn,\\nIf mine can buy his safe return.\\nHe turned away his heart throbbed high,\\nThe tear was bursting from his eye;\\nThe sense of her injustice pressed\\nUpon the maid s distracted breast,\\nStay, Wilfrid, stay all aid is vain\\nHe heard but turned him not again\\nHe reaches now the postern door,\\nNow enters and is seen no more.\\nWith all the agony that e er 79 o\\nWas gendered twixt suspense and fear,\\nShe watched the line of windows tall\\nWhose Gothic lattice lights the Hall,\\nDistinguished by the paly red\\nThe lamps in dim reflection shed,\\nWhile all beside in wan moonlight\\nEach grated casement glimmered white.\\nNo sight of harm, no sound of ill,\\nIt is a deep and midnight still. 799\\nWho looked upon the scene had guessed\\nAll in the castle were at rest\\nWhen sudden on the windows shone\\nA lightning flash just seen and gone\\nA shot is heard again the flame\\nFlashed thick and fast a volley came\\nThen echoed wildly from within\\nOf shout and scream the mingled din,\\nAnd weapon-clash and maddening cry,\\nOf those who kill and those who die\\nAs filled the hall with sulphurous smoke,\\nMore red, more dark, the death-flash broke,\\nAnd forms were on the lattice cast 812\\nThat struck or struggled as they past.\\nXXXII\\nWhat sounds upon the midnight wind\\nApproach so rapidly behind\\nIt is, it is, the tramp of steeds,\\nMatilda hears the sound, she speeds,\\nSeizes upon the leader s rein\\nO, haste to aid ere aid be vain", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0303.jp2"}, "302": {"fulltext": "272\\nROKEBY\\nFly to the postern gain the hall 820\\nFrom saddle spring the troopers all;\\nTheir gallant steeds at liberty\\nRun wild along the moonlight lea.\\nBut ere they burst upon the scene\\nFull stubborn had the conflict been.\\nWhen Bertram marked Matilda s flight,\\nIt gave the signal for the fight;\\nAnd Rokeby s veterans, seamed with scars\\nOf Scotland s and of Erin s wars,\\nTheir momentary panic o er, 830\\nStood to the arms which then they bore\\nFor they were weaponed and prepared\\nTheir mistress on her way to guard.\\nThen cheered them to the fight O Neale,\\nThen pealed the shot, and clashed the\\nsteel;\\nThe war-smoke soon with sable breath\\nDarkened the scene of blood and death,\\nWhile on the few defenders close\\nThe bandits with redoubled blows,\\nAnd, twice driven back, yet fierce and\\nfell 840\\nRenew the charge with frantic yell.\\nXXXIII\\nWilfrid has fallen but o er him stood\\nYoung Redmond soiled with smoke and\\nblood,\\nCheering his mates with heart and hand\\nStill to make good their desperate stand:\\nUp, comrades, up In Rokeby halls\\nNe er be it said our courage falls.\\nWhat faint ye for their savage cry,\\nOr do the smoke-wreaths daunt your eye\\nThese rafters have returned a shout 850\\nAs loud at Rokeby s wassail rout,\\nAs thick a smoke these hearths have given\\nAt Hallow-tide or Christmas-even.\\nStand to it yet renew the fight\\nFor Rokeby s and Matilda s right\\nThese slaves they dare not hand to hand\\nBide buffet from a true man s brand.\\nImpetuous, active, fierce, and young,\\nUpon the advancing foes he sprung.\\nWoe to the wretch at whom is bent 860\\nHis brandished falchion s sheer descent\\nBackward they scattered as he came,\\nLike wolves before the levin flame,\\nWhen, mid their howling conclave driven,\\nHath glanced the thunderbolt of heaven.\\nBertram rushed on but Harpool clasped\\nHis knees, although in death he gasped,\\nHis falling corpse before him flung,\\nAnd round the trammelled ruffian clung.\\nJust then the soldiers filled the dome, 870\\nAnd shouting charged the felons home\\nSo fiercely that in panic dread\\nThey broke, they yielded, fell, or fled,\\nBertram s stern voice they heed no more,\\nThough heard above the battle s roar;\\nWhile, trampling down the dying man,\\nHe strove with volleyed threat and ban\\nIn scorn of odds, in fate s despite,\\nTo rally up the desperate fight.\\nxxxiv\\nSoon murkier clouds the hall enfold 880\\nThan e er from battle-thunders rolled,\\nSo dense the combatants scarce know\\nTo aim or to avoid the blow.\\nSmothering and blindfold grows the\\nfight\\nBut soon shall dawn a dismal light\\nMid cries and clashing arms there came\\nThe hollow sound of rushing flame;\\nNew horrors on the tumult dire\\nArise the castle is on fire\\nDoubtful if chance had cast the brand 890\\nOr frantic Bertram s desperate hand,\\nMatilda saw for frequent broke\\nFrom the dim casements gusts of smoke,\\nYon tower, which late so clear defined\\nOn the fair hemisphere reclined\\nThat, pencilled on its azure pure,\\nThe eye could count each embrasure,\\nNow, swathed within the sweeping cloud,\\nSeems giant-spectre in his shroud;\\nTill, from each loop-hole flashing light, 90c\\nA spout of fire shines ruddy bright,\\nAnd, gathering to united glare,\\nStreams high into the midnight air;\\nA dismal beacon, far and wide\\nThat wakened Greta s slumbering side.\\nSoon all beneath, through gallery long\\nAnd pendent arch, the fire flashed strong,\\nSnatching whatever could maintain,\\nRaise, or extend its furious reign;\\nStartling with closer cause of dread 910\\nThe females who the conflict fled,\\nAnd now rushed forth upon the plain,\\nFilling the air with clamors vain.\\nxxxv\\nBut ceased not yet the hall within\\nThe shriek, the shout, the carnage-din,\\nTill bursting lattices give proof\\nThe flames have caught the raftered roof~\\nWhat wait they till its beams amain\\nCrash on the slayers and the slain", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0304.jp2"}, "303": {"fulltext": "CANTO SIXTH\\n273\\nThe alarm is caught the drawbridge\\nfalls, 920\\nThe warriors hurry from the walls,\\nBut by the conflagration s light\\nUpon the lawn renew the fight.\\nEach straggling felon down was hewed,\\nNot one could gain the sheltering wood;\\nBut forth the affrighted harper sprung,\\nAnd to Matilda s robe he clung.\\nHer shriek, entreaty, and command\\nStopped the pursuer s lifted hand.\\nDenzil and he alive were ta en; 930\\nThe rest save Bertram all are slain.\\nAnd where is Bertram Soaring high,\\nThe general flame ascends the sky;\\nIn gathered group the soldiers gaze\\nUpon the broad and roaring blaze,\\nWhen, like infernal demon, sent\\nRed from his penal element,\\nTo plague and to pollute the air,\\nHis face all gore, on fire his hair,\\nForth from the central mass of smoke 940\\nThe giant form of Bertram broke\\nHis brandished sword on high he rears,\\nThen plunged among opposing spears;\\nRound his left arm his mantle trussed,\\nReceived and foiled three lances thrust;\\nNor these his headlong course withstood,\\nLike reeds he snapped the tough ashwood.\\nIn vain his foes around him clung;\\nWith matchless force aside he flung\\nTheir boldest, as the bull at bay 950\\nTosses the ban-dogs from his way,\\nThrough forty foes his path he made,\\nAnd safely gained the forest glade.\\nXXXVII\\nScarce was this final conflict o er\\nWhen from the postern Redmond bore\\nWilfrid, who, as of life bereft,\\nHad in the fatal hall been left,\\nDeserted there by all his train;\\nBut Redmond saw and turned again.\\nBeneath an oak he laid him down 960\\nThat in the blaze gleamed ruddy brown,\\nAnd then his mantle s clasp undid;\\nMatilda held his drooping head,\\nTill, given to breathe the freer air,\\nReturning life repaid their care.\\nHe gazed on them with heavy sigh,\\nI could have wished even thus to die\\nNo more he said, for now with speed\\nEach trooper had regained his steed\\nThe ready palfreys stood arrayed 97 o\\nFor Redmond and for Rokeby s maid;\\nTwo Wilfrid on his horse sustain,\\nOne leads his charger by the rein.\\nBut oft Matilda looked behind,\\nAs up the vale of Tees they wind,\\nWhere far the mansion of her sires\\nBeaconed the dale with midnight fires.\\nIn gloomy arch above them spread,\\nThe clouded heaven lowered bloody red;\\nBeneath in sombre light the flood 980\\nAppeared to roll in waves of blood.\\nThen one by one was heard to fall\\nThe tower, the donjon-keep, the hall.\\nEach rushing down with thunder sound\\nA space the conflagration drowned;\\nTill gathering strength again it rose,\\nAnnounced its triumph in its close,\\nShook wide its light the landscape o er,\\nThen sunk and Rokeby was no more I\\nCANTO SIXTH\\nThe summer sun, whose early power\\nWas wont to gild Matilda s bower\\nAnd rouse her with his matin ray\\nHer duteous orisons to pay,\\nThat morning sun has three times seen\\nThe flowers unfold on Rokeby green,\\nBut sees no more the slumbers fly\\nFrom fair Matilda s hazel eye;\\nThat morning sun has three times broke\\nOn Rokeby s glades of elm and oak, 10\\nBut, rising from their sylvan screen,\\nMarks no gray turrets glance between.\\nA shapeless mass lie keep and tower,\\nThat, hissing to the morning shower,\\nCan but with smouldering vapor pay\\nThe early smile of summer day.\\nThe peasant, to his labor bound,\\nPauses to view the blackened mound,\\nStriving amid the ruined space\\nEach well-remembered spot to trace. 20\\nThat length of frail and fire-scorched wall\\nOnce screened the hospitable hall;\\nWhen yonder broken arch was whole,\\nT was there was dealt the weekly dole\\nAnd where yon tottering columns nod\\nThe chapel sent the hymn to God.\\nSo flits the world s uncertain span\\nNor zeal for God nor love for man\\nGives mortal monuments a date\\nBeyond the power of Time and Fate. 30", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0305.jp2"}, "304": {"fulltext": "274\\nROKEBY\\nThe towers must share the builder s doom;\\nRuin is theirs, and his a tomb:\\nBut better boon benignant Heaven\\nTo Faith and Charity has given,\\nAnd bids the Christian hope sublime\\nTranscend the bounds of Fate and Time.\\nNow the third night of summer came\\nSince that which witnessed Rokeby s flame.\\nOn Brignall cliffs and Scargill brake\\nThe owlet s homilies awake, 40\\nThe bittern screamed from rush and flag,\\nThe raven slumbered on his crag,\\nForth from his den the otter drew,\\nGrayling and trout their tyrant knew,\\nAs between reed and sedge he peers,\\nWith fierce round snout and sharpened\\nOr prowling by the moonbeam cool\\nWatches the stream or swims the pool;\\nPerched on his wonted eyrie high,\\nSleep sealed the tercelet s wearied eye, 50\\nThat all the day had watched so well\\nThe cushat dart across the dell.\\nIn dubious beam reflected shone\\nThat lofty cliff of pale gray stone\\nBeside whose base the secret cave\\nTo rapine late a refuge gave.\\nThe crag s wild crest of copse and yew\\nOn Greta s breast dark shadows threw,\\nShadows that met or shunned the sight\\nWith every change of fitful light, 60\\nAs hope and fear alternate chase\\nOur course through life s uncertain race.\\nin\\nGliding by crag and copse wood green,\\nA solitary form was seen\\nTo trace with stealthy pace the wold.\\nLike fox that seeks the midnight fold,\\nAnd pauses oft, and cowers dismayed\\nAt every breath that stirs the shade.\\nHe passes now the ivy bush,\\nThe owl has seen him and is hush; 70\\nHe passes now the doddered oak,\\nHe heard the startled raven croak;\\nLower and lower he descends,\\nRustle the leaves, the brushwood bends;\\nThe otter hears him tread the shore,\\nAud dives and is beheld no more;\\nAnd by the cliff of pale gray stone\\nThe midnight wanderer stands alone.\\nMethinks that by the moon we trace\\nA well-remembered form and face 80\\nThat stripling shape, that cheek so pale,\\nCombine to tell a rueful tale,\\nOf powers misused, of passion s force,\\nOf guilt, of grief, and of remorse\\nT is Edmund s eye at every sound\\nThat flings that guilty glance around;\\nT is Edmund s trembling haste divides\\nThe brushwood that the cavern hides;\\nAnd when its narrow porch lies bare\\nT is Edmund s form that enters there. 90\\nIV\\nHis flint and steel have sparkled bright,\\nA lamp hath lent the cavern light.\\nFearful and quick his eye surveys\\nEach angle of the gloomy maze.\\nSince last he left that stern abode,\\nIt seemed as none its floor had trode;\\nUntouched appeared the various spoil,\\nThe purchase of his comrades toil;\\nMasks and disguises grimed with mud,\\nArms broken and defiled with blood, 100\\nAnd all the nameless tools that aid\\nNight-felons in their lawless trade,\\nUpon the gloomy walls were hung\\nOr lay in nooks obscurely flung.\\nStill on the sordid board appear\\nThe relics of the noontide cheer:\\nFlagons and emptied flasks were there,\\nAnd bench o erthrown and shattered chair;\\nAnd all around the semblance showed,\\nAs when the final revel glowed, no\\nWhen the red sun was setting fast\\nAnd parting pledge Guy Denzil past.\\nTo Rokeby treasure vaults they\\nquaffed,\\nAnd shouted loud and wildly laughed,\\nPoured maddening from the rocky door,\\nAnd parted to return no more\\nThey found in Rokeby vaults their doom,\\nA bloody death, a burning tomb\\nThere his own peasant dress he spies,\\nDoffed to assume that quaint disguise, i2\\nAnd shuddering thought upon his glee\\nWhen pranked in garb of minstrelsy.\\n1 O, be the fatal art accurst,\\nHe cried, that moved my folly first,\\nTill, bribed by bandits base applause,\\nI burst through God s and Nature s laws\\nThree summer days are scantly past\\nSince I have trod this cavern last,\\nA thoughtless wretch, and prompt to err\\nBut O, as yet no murderer i3", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0306.jp2"}, "305": {"fulltext": "CANTO SIXTH\\n275\\nEven now I list my comrades cheer,\\nThat general laugh is in mine ear\\nWhich raised my pulse and steeled my\\nheart,\\nAs I rehearsed my treacherous part\\nAnd would that all since then could seem\\nThe phantom of a fever s dream\\nBut fatal memory notes too well\\nThe horrors of the dying yell\\nFrom my despairing mates that broke\\nWhen flashed the fire and rolled the\\nsmoke, 140\\nWhen the avengers shouting came\\nAnd hemmed us twixt the sword and\\nflame\\nMy frantic flight the lifted brand\\nThat angel s interposing hand\\nIf for my life from slaughter freed\\nI yet could pay some grateful meed\\nPerchance this object of my quest\\nMay aid he turned nor spoke the rest.\\nVI\\nDue northward from the rugged hearth\\nWith paces five he meets the earth, 150\\nThen toiled with mattock to explore\\nThe entrails of the cavern floor,\\nNor paused till deep beneath the ground\\nHis search a small steel casket found.\\nJust as he stooped to loose its hasp\\nHis shoulder felt a giant grasp\\nHe started and looked up aghast,\\nThen shrieked T was Bertram held\\nhim fast.\\nFear not he said but who could\\nhear\\nThat deep stern voice and cease to\\nfear 160\\nFear not By heaven, he shakes as much\\nAs partridge in the falcon s clutch:\\nHe raised him and unloosed his hold,\\nWhile from the opening casket rolled\\nA chain and reliquaire of gold.\\nBertram beheld it with surprise,\\nGazed on its fashion and device,\\nThen, cheering Edmund as he could,\\nSomewhat he smoothed his rugged mood,\\nFor still the youth s half-lifted eye 170\\nQuivered with terror s agony,\\nAnd sidelong glanced as to explore\\nIn meditated flight the door.\\nSit, Bertram said, from danger free:\\nThou canst not and thou shalt not flee.\\nChance brings me hither; hill and plain\\nI ve sought for refuge-place in vain.\\nAnd tell me now, thou aguish boy,\\nWhat makest thou here what means this\\ntoy?\\nDenzil and thou, I marked, were ta en; 180\\nWhat lucky chance unbound your chain\\nI deemed, long since on Baliol s tower,\\nYour heads were warped with sun and\\nshower.\\nTell me the whole and mark nought\\ne er\\nChafes me like falsehood or like fear.\\nGathering his courage to his aid\\nBut trembling still, the youth obeyed.\\nVII\\nDenzil and I two nights passed o er\\nIn fetters on the dungeon floor.\\nA guest the third sad morrow brought; 190\\nOur hold, dark Oswald Wycliffe sought,\\nAnd eyed my comrade long askance\\nWith fixed and penetrating glance.\\nGuy Denzil art thou called The\\nsame.\\nAt Court who served wild Buckinghame;\\nThence banished, won a keeper s place,\\nSo Villiers willed, in Mar wood-chase;\\nThat lost I need not tell thee why\\nThou madest thy wit thy wants supply,\\nThen fought for Rokeby: have I\\nMy prisoner right At thy be-\\nhest.\\nHe paused awhile, and then went on\\nWith low and confidential tone\\nMe, as I judge, not then he saw\\nClose nestled in my couch of straw.\\nList to me, Guy. Thou know st the great\\nHave frequent need of what they hate\\nHence, in their favor oft we see\\nUnscrupled, useful men like thee.\\nWere I disposed to bid thee live, 210\\nWhat pledge of faith hast thou to give\\nVIII\\nThe ready fiend who never yet\\nHath failed to sharpen Denzil s wit\\nPrompted his lie His only child\\nShould rest his pledge. The baron\\nsmiled,\\nAnd turned to me Thou art his son\\nI bowed our fetters were undone,\\nAnd we were led to hear apart\\nA dreadful lesson of his art.\\nWilfrid, he said, his heir and son, 220\\nHad fair Matilda s favor won;", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0307.jp2"}, "306": {"fulltext": "276\\nROKEBY\\nAnd long since had their union been\\nBut for her father s bigot spleen,\\nWhose brute and blindfold party-rage\\nWould, force perforce, her hand engage\\nTo a base kern of Irish earth,\\nUnknown his lineage and his birth,\\nSave that a dying ruffian bore\\nThe infant brat to Rokeby door.\\nGentle restraint, he said, would lead 230\\nOld Rokeby to enlarge his creed;\\nBut fair occasion he must find\\nFor such restraint well meant and kind,\\nThe knight being rendered to his charge\\nBut as a prisoner at large.\\nIX\\nHe schooled us in a well-forged tale\\nOf scheme the castle walls to scale,\\nTo which was leagued each Cavalier\\nThat dwells upon the Tyne and Wear,\\nThat Rokeby, his parole forgot, 240\\nHad dealt with us to aid the plot.\\nSuch was the charge which Denzil s zeal\\nOf hate to Rokeby and O Neale\\nProffered as witness to make good,\\nEven though the forfeit were their blood.\\nI scrupled until o er and o er\\nHis prisoners safety Wycliffe swore;\\nAnd then alas what needs there more\\nI knew I should not live to say\\nThe proffer I refused that day; 250\\nAshamed to live, yet loath to die,\\nI soiled me with their infamy\\nPoor youth said Bertram, wavering\\nstill,\\nUnfit alike for good or ill\\nBut what fell next Soon as at large\\nWas scrolled and signed our fatal charge,\\nThere never yet on tragic stage\\nWas seen so well a painted rage\\nAs Oswald s showed With loud alarm\\nHe called his garrison to arm; 260\\nFrom tower to tower, from post to post,\\nHe hurried as if all were lost;\\nConsigned to dungeon and to chain\\nThe good old knight and all his train;\\nWarned each suspected Cavalier\\nWithin his limits to appear\\nTo-morrow at the hour of noon\\nIn the high church of Eglistone.\\nOf Eglistone Even now I\\nSaid Bertram, as the night closed fast; 270\\nTorches and cressets gleamed around,\\nI heard the saw and hammer sound,\\nAnd I could mark they toiled to raise\\nA scaffold, hung with sable baize,\\nWhich the grim headsman s scene dis-\\nplayed,\\nBlock, axe, and sawdust ready laid.\\nSome evil deed will there be done\\nUnless Matilda wed his son;\\nShe loves him not t is shrewdly guessed\\nThat Redmond rules the damsel s breast. 280\\nThis is a turn of Oswald s skill;\\nBut I may meet, and foil him still\\nHow earnest thou to thy freedom\\n1 There\\nLies mystery more dark and rare.\\nIn midst of Wycliffe s well-feigned rage,\\nA scroll was offered by a page,\\nWho told a muffled horseman late\\nHad left it at the Castle-gate.\\nHe broke the seal his cheek showed\\nchange,\\nSudden, portentous, wild, and strange; 290\\nThe mimic passion of his eye\\nWas turned to actual agony;\\nHis hand like summer sapling shook,\\nTerror and guilt were in his look.\\nDenzil he judged in time of need\\nFit counsellor for evil deed\\nAnd thus apart his counsel broke,\\nWhile with a ghastly smile he spoke:\\n1 As in the pageants of the stage\\nThe dead awake in this wild age,\\nMortham whom all men deemed decreed\\nIn his own deadly snare to bleed,\\nSlain by a bravo whom o er sea\\nHe trained to aid in murdering me,\\nMortham has scaped The coward shot\\nThe steed but harmed the rider not.\\nHere with an execration fell\\nBertram leaped up and paced the cell:\\nThine own gray head or bosom dark,\\nHe muttered, may be surer mark 310\\nThen sat and signed to Edmund, pale\\nWith terror, to resume his tale.\\nWycliffe went on Mark with what\\nflights\\nOf wildered reverie he writes:\\nTHE LETTER\\nRuler of Mortham s destiny\\nThough dead, thy victim lives to thee.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0308.jp2"}, "307": {"fulltext": "CANTO SIXTH\\n277\\nOnce had he all that binds to life,\\nA lovely child, a lovelier wife;\\nWealth, fame, and friendship were his\\nown\\nThou gavest the word and they are flown.\\nMark how he pays thee: to thy hand 321\\nHe yields his honors and his land,\\nOne boon premised; restore his child\\nAnd, from his native land exiled,\\nMortham no more returns to claim\\nHis lands, his honors, or his name;\\nRefuse him this and from the slain\\nThou shalt see Mortham rise again.\\nThis billet while the baron read,\\nHis faltering accents showed his dread; 330\\nHe pressed his forehead with his palm,\\nThen took a scornful tone and calm;\\nWild as the winds, as billows wild\\nWhat wot I of his spouse or child\\nHither he brought a joyous dame,\\nUnknown her lineage or her name:\\nHer in some frantic fit he slew;\\nThe nurse and child in fear withdrew.\\nHeaven be my witness, wist I where\\nTo find this youth, my kinsman s heir, 340\\nUnguerdoned I would give with joy\\nThe father s arms to fold his boy,\\nAnd Mortham s lands and towers resign\\nTo the just heirs of Mortham s line.\\nThou know st that scarcely e en his fear\\nSuppresses Denzil s cynic sneer;\\nThen happy is thy vassal s part,\\nHe said, to ease his patron s heart\\nIn thine own jailer s watchful care\\nLies Mortham s just and rightful heir; 350\\nThy generous wish is fully won,\\nRedmond O Neale is Mortham s son.\\ni Up starting with a frenzied look,\\nHis clenched hand the baron shook:\\nIs Hell at work or dost thou rave,\\nOr darest thou palter with me, slave\\nPerchance thou wot st not, Barnard s tow-\\ners\\nHave racks of strange and ghastly pow-\\ners.\\nDenzil, who well his safety knew,\\nFirmly rejoined, I tell thee true. 360\\nThy racks could give thee but to know\\nThe proofs which I, untortured, show.\\nIt chanced upon a winter night\\nWhen early snow made Stanmore white,\\nThat very night when first of all\\nRedmond O Neale saw Rokeby-hall,\\nIt was my goodly lot to gain\\nA reliquary and a chain,\\nTwisted and chased of massive gold.\\nDemand not how the prize I hold 370\\nIt was not given nor lent nor sold.\\nGilt tablets to the chain were hung\\nWith letters in the Irish tongue.\\nI hid my spoil, for there was need\\nThat I should leave the land with speed,\\nNor then I deemed it safe to bear\\nOn mine own person gems so rare.\\nSmall heed I of the tablets took,\\nBut since have spelled them by the book\\nWhen some sojourn in Erin s land 380\\nOf their wild speech had given command.\\nBut darkling was the sense; the phrase\\nAnd language those of other days,\\nInvolved of purpose, as to foil\\nAn interloper s prying toil.\\nThe words but not the sense I knew,\\nTill fortune gave the guiding clue.\\nXIV\\nThree days since, was that clue re-\\nvealed\\nIn Thorsgill as I lay concealed,\\nAnd heard at full when Rokeby s maid 390\\nHer uncle s history displayed;\\nAnd now I can interpret well\\nEach syllable the tablets tell.\\nMark, then: fair Edith was the joy\\nOf old O Neale of Clandeboy;\\nBut from her sire and country fled\\nIn secret Mortham s lord to wed.\\nO JSTeale, his first resentment o er,\\nDespatched his son to Greta s shore, 399\\nEnjoining he should make him known\\nUntil his farther will were shown\\nTo Edith, but to her alone.\\nWhat of their ill-starred meeting fell\\nLord Wy cliff e knows, and none so well.\\nXV\\nO Neale it was who in despair\\nRobbed Mortham of his infant heir;\\nHe bred him in their nurture wild,\\nAnd called him murdered Connel s child.\\nSoon died the nurse; the clan believed 409\\nWhat from their chieftain they received.\\nHis purpose was that ne er again\\nThe boy should cross the Irish main,\\nBut, like his mountain sires, enjoy\\nThe woods and wastes of Clandeboy.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0309.jp2"}, "308": {"fulltext": "278\\nROKEBY\\nThen on the land wild troubles came,\\nAnd stronger chieftains urged a claim,\\nAnd wrested from the old man s hands\\nHis native towers, his father s lands.\\nUnable then amid the strife\\nTo guard young Redmond s rights or\\nlife, 420\\nLate and reluctant he restores\\nThe infant to his native shores,\\nWith goodly gifts and letters stored,\\nWith many a deep conjuring word,\\nTo Mortham and to Rokeby s lord.\\nNought knew the clod of Irish earth,\\nWho was the guide, of Redmond s birth,\\nBut deemed his chief s commands were\\nlaid\\nOn both, by both to be obeyed.\\nHow he was wounded by the way 430\\nI need not, and I list not say.\\nXVI\\nA wondrous tale and, grant it true,\\nWhat, Wycliffe answered, might I do\\nHeaven knows, as willingly as now\\nI raise the bonnet from my brow,\\nWould I my kinsman s manors fair\\nRestore to Mortham or his heir;\\nBut Mortham is distraught O Neale\\nHas drawn for tyranny his steel,\\nMalignant to our rightful cause 440\\nAnd trained in Rome s delusive laws.\\nHark thee apart They whispered long,\\nTill Denzil s voice grew bold and strong:\\nMy proofs I never will, he said,\\nShow mortal man where they are laid.\\nNor hope discovery to foreclose\\nBy giving me to feed the crows\\nFor I have mates at large who know\\nWhere I am wont such toys to stow.\\nFree me from peril and from band, 450\\nThese tablets are at thy command\\nNor were it hard to form some train,\\nTo wile old Mortham o er the main.\\nThen, lunatic s nor papist s hand\\nShould wrest from thine the goodly land.\\nI like thy wit, said Wycliffe, well;\\nBut here in hostage shalt thou dwell.\\nThy son, unless my purpose err,\\nMay prove the trustier messenger.\\nA scroll to Mortham shall he bear 460\\nFrom me, and fetch these tokens rare.\\nGold shalt thou have, and that good store,\\nAnd freedom, his commission o er;\\nBut if his faith should chance to fail,\\nThe gibbet frees thee from the jail.\\n1 Meshed in the net himself had twined,\\nWhat subterfuge could Denzil find\\nHe told me with reluctant sigh\\nThat hidden here the tokens lie,\\nConjured my swift return and aid, 47c\\nBy all he scoffed and disobeyed,\\nAnd looked as if the noose were tied\\nAnd I the priest who left his side.\\nThis scroll for Mortham Wycliffe gave,\\nWhom I must seek by Greta s wave,\\nOr in the hut where chief he hides,\\nWhere Thorsgill s forester resides.\\nThence chanced it, wandering in the glade^\\nThat he descried our ambuscade.\\nI was dismissed as evening fell, 480\\nAnd reached but now this rocky cell.\\n1 Give Oswald s letter. Bertram read,\\nAnd tore it fiercely shred by shred:\\nAll lies and villany to blind\\nHis noble kinsman s generous mind,\\nAnd train him on from day to day,\\nTill he can take his life away.\\nAnd now, declare thy purpose, youth,\\nNor dare to answer, save the truth;\\nIf aught I mark of Denzil s art, 49c\\nI 11 tear the secret from thy heart\\nXVIII\\nIt needs not. I renounce, he said,\\n1 My tutor and his deadly trade.\\nFixed was my purpose to declare\\nTo Mortham, Redmond is his heir;\\nTo tell him in what risk he stands,\\nAnd yield these tokens to his hands.\\nFixed was my purpose to atone,\\nFar as I may, the evil done;\\nAnd fixed it rests if I survive 50c\\nThis night, and leave this cave alive.\\nAnd Denzil Let them ply the rack,\\nEven till his joints and sinews crack\\nIf Oswald tear him limb from limb,\\nWhat ruth can Denzil claim from him\\nWhose thoughtless youth he led astray\\nAnd damned to this unhallowed way\\nHe schooled me, faith and vows were vain\\nNow let my master reap his gain. 509\\n1 True, answered Bertram, t is his meed;\\nThere s retribution in the deed.\\nBut thou thou art not for our course,\\nHast fear, hast pity, hast remorse;\\nAnd he with us the gale who braves\\nMust heave such cargo to the waves,\\nOr lag with overloaded prore\\nWhile barks unburdened reach the shore/", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0310.jp2"}, "309": {"fulltext": "CANTO SIXTH\\n279\\nXIX\\nHe paused and, stretching him at length,\\nSeemed to repose his bulky strength.\\nCommuning with his secret mind, 520\\nAs half he sat and half reclined,\\nOne ample hand his forehead pressed,\\nAnd one was dropped across his breast.\\nThe shaggy eyebrows deeper came\\nAbove his eyes of swarthy flame;\\nHis lip of pride awhile forebore\\nThe haughty curve till then it wore;\\nThe unaltered fierceness of his look\\nA shade of darkened sadness took,\\nFor dark and sad a presage pressed 530\\nResistlessly on Bertram s breast,\\nAnd when he spoke, his wonted tone,\\nSo fierce, abrupt, and brief, was gone.\\nHis voice was steady, low, and deep,\\nLike distant waves when breezes sleep;\\nAnd sorrow mixed with Edmund s fear,\\nIts low unbroken depth to hear.\\nxx\\nEdmund, in thy sad tale I find\\nThe woe that warped my patron s mind;\\nT would wake the fountains of the eye 540\\nIn other men, but mine are dry.\\nMortham must never see the fool\\nThat sold himself base Wycliffe s tool,\\nYet less from thirst of sordid gain\\nThan to avenge supposed disdain.\\nSay Bertram rues his fault a word\\nTill now from Bertram never heard:\\nSay, too, that Mortham s lord he prays\\nTo think but on their former days;\\nOn Quariana s beach and rock, 550\\nOn Cayo s bursting battle-shock,\\nOn Darien s sands and deadly dew,\\nAnd on the dart Tlatzeca threw;\\nPerchance my patron yet may hear\\nMore that may grace his comrade s bier,\\nMy soul hath felt a secret weight,\\nA warning of approaching fate\\nA priest had said, Return, repent\\nAs well to bid that rock be rent.\\nFirm as that flint I face mine end; 560\\nMy heart may burst but cannot bend.\\nXXI\\nThe dawning of my youth with awe\\nAnd prophesy the Dalesmen saw;\\nFor over Redesdale it came,\\nAs bodeful as their beacon-flame.\\nEdmund, thy years were scarcely mine\\nWhen, challenging the Clans of Tyne\\nTo bring their best my brand to prove,\\nO er Hexham s altar hung my glove\\nBut Tynedale, nor in tower nor town, 570\\nHeld champion meet to take it down.\\nMy noontide India may declare;\\nLike her fierce sun, I fired the air\\nLike him, to wood and cave bade fly\\nHer natives from mine angry eye.\\nPanama s maids shall long look pale\\nWhen Risingham inspires the tale;\\nChili s dark matrons long shall tame\\nThe froward child with Bertram s name.\\nAnd now, my race of terror run, 580\\nMine be the eve of tropic sun\\nNo pale gradations quench his ray,\\nNo twilight dews his wrath allay;\\nWith disk like battle-target red\\nHe rushes to his burning bed,\\nDyes the wide wave with bloody light,\\nThen sinks at once and all is night.\\nNow to thy mission, Edmund. Fly,\\nSeek Mortham out, and bid him hie 589\\nTo Richmond where his troops are laid,\\nAnd lead his force to Redmond s aid.\\nSay till he reaches Eglistone\\nA friend will watch to guard his son.\\nNow, fare -thee -well; for night draws\\non,\\nAnd I would rest me here alone.\\nDespite his ill-dissembled fear,\\nThere swam in Edmund s eye a tear;\\nA tribute to the courage high\\nWhich stooped not in extremity,\\nBut strove, irregularly great, 600\\nTo triumph o er approaching fate\\nBertram beheld the dew-drop start,\\nIt almost touched his iron heart:\\n4 1 did not think there lived, he said,\\n1 One who would tear for Bertram shed.\\nHe loosened then his baldric s hold,\\nA buckle broad of massive gold;\\nOf all the spoil that paid his pains\\nBut this with Risingham remains;\\nAnd this, dear Edmund, thou shalt take, 610\\nAnd wear it long for Bertram s sake.\\nOnce more to Mortham speed amain;\\nFarewell and turn thee not again.\\nXXIII\\nThe night has yielded to the morn,\\nAnd far the hours of prime are worn.\\nOswald, who since the dawn of day\\nHad cursed his messenger s delay,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0311.jp2"}, "310": {"fulltext": "28o\\nROKEBY\\nImpatient questioned now his train,\\nWas Denzil s son returned again?\\nIt chanced there answered of the crew 620\\nA menial who young Edmund knew:\\nNo son of Denzil this, he said;\\nA peasant boy from Winston glade,\\nFor song and minstrelsy renowned\\nAnd knavish pranks the hamlets round.\\nNot Denzil s son from Winston vale\\nThen it was false, that specious tale\\nOr worse he hath despatched the youth\\nTo show to Mortham s lord its truth.\\nFool that I was But t is too late 630\\nThis is the very turn of fate\\nThe tale, or true or false, relies\\nOn Denzil s evidence He dies\\nHo Provost Marshal instantly\\nLead Denzil to the gallows-tree\\nAllow him not a parting word;\\nShort be the shrift and sure the cord\\nThen let his gory head appall\\nMarauders from the castle-wall.\\nLead forth thy guard, that duty done, 640\\nWith best despatch to Eglistone.\\nBasil, tell Wilfrid he must straight\\nAttend me at the castle-gate.\\nAlas the old domestic said,\\nAnd shook his venerable head,\\nAlas, my lord full ill to-day\\nMay my young master brook the way\\nThe leech has spoke with grave alarm\\nOf unseen hurt, of secret harm,\\nOf sorrow lurking at the heart, 650\\nThat mars and lets his healing art.\\nTush tell not me Romantic boys\\nPine themselves sick for airy toys,\\nI will find cure for Wilfrid soon;\\nBid him for Eglistone be boune,\\nAnd quick I hear the dull death-drum\\nTell Denzil s hour of fate is come.\\nHe paused with scornful smile, and then\\nResumed his train of thought agen.\\nNow comes my fortune s crisis near 660\\nEntreaty boots not instant fear,\\nNought else, can bend Matilda s pride\\nOr win her to be Wilfrid s bride.\\nBut when she sees the scaffold placed,\\nWith axe and block and headsman graced,\\nAnd when she deems that to deny\\nDooms Redmond and her sire to die,\\nShe must give way. Then, were the\\nline\\nOf Rokeby once combined with mine,\\nI gain the weather-gage of fate 670\\nIf Mortham come, he comes too late,\\nWhile I, allied thus and prepared,\\nBid him defiance to his beard.\\nIf she prove stubborn, shall I dare\\nTo drop the axe Soft pause we there.\\nMortham still lives yon youth may tell\\nHis tale and Fairfax loves him well;\\nElse, wherefore should I now delay\\nTo sweep this Redmond from my way\\nBut she to piety perforce 680\\nMust yield. Without there Sound to\\nhorse\\nxxv\\nT was bustle in the court below,\\nMount, and march forward Forth they\\ngo;\\nSteeds neigh and trample all around,\\nSteel rings, spears glimmer, trumpets\\nsound.\\nJust then was sung his parting hymn;\\nAnd Denzil turned his eyeballs dim,\\nAnd, scarcely conscious what he sees,\\nFollows the horsemen down the Tees;\\nAnd scarcely conscious what he hears, 690\\nThe trumpets tingle in his ears.\\nO er the long bridge they re sweeping now,\\nThe van is hid by greenwood bough;\\nBut ere the rearward had passed o er\\nGuy Denzil heard and saw no more\\nOne stroke upon the castle bell\\nTo Oswald rung his dying knell.\\nO, for that pencil, erst profuse\\nOf chivalry s emblazoned hues,\\nThat traced of old in Woodstock bower 700\\nThe pageant of the Leaf and Flower,\\nAnd bodied forth the tourney high\\nHeld for the hand of Emily\\nThen might I paint the tumult broad\\nThat to the crowded abbey flowed,\\nAnd poured, as with an ocean s sound,\\nInto the church s ample bound\\nThen might I show each varying mien,\\nExulting, woful, or serene;\\nIndifference, with his idiot stare, 710\\nAnd Sympathy, with anxious air;\\nPaint the dejected Cavalier,\\nDoubtful, disarmed, and sad of cheer;\\nAnd his proud foe, whose formal eye\\nClaimed conquest now and mastery\\nAnd the brute crowd, whose envious zeal\\nHuzzas each turn of Fortune s wheel,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0312.jp2"}, "311": {"fulltext": "CANTO SIXTH\\n2 8r\\nAnd loudest shouts when lowest lie\\nExalted worth and station high.\\nYet what may such a wish avail 720\\nT is mine to tell an onward tale,\\nHurrying, as best I can, along\\nThe hearers and the hasty song;\\nLike traveller when approaching home,\\nWho sees the shades of evening come,\\nAnd must not now his course delay,\\nOr choose the fair but winding way:\\nNay, scarcely may his pace suspend,\\nWhere o er his head the wildings bend,\\nTo bless the breeze that cools his brow 730\\nOr snatch a blossom from the bough.\\nThe reverend pile lay wild and waste,\\nProfaned, dishonored, and defaced.\\nThrough storied lattices no more\\nIn softened light the sunbeams pour,\\nGilding the Gothic sculpture rich\\nOf shrine and monument and niche.\\nThe civil fury of the time\\nMade sport of sacrilegious crime;\\nFor dark fanaticism rent\\nAltar and screen and ornament,\\nAnd peasant hands the tombs o erthrew\\nOf Bowes, of Rokeby, and Fitz-Hugh.\\nAnd now was seen, unwonted sight,\\nIn holy walls a scaffold dight\\nWhere once the priest of grace divine\\nDealt to his flock the mystic sign,\\nThere stood the block displayed, and there\\nThe headsman grim his hatchet bare,\\nAnd for the word of hope and faith 750\\nResounded loud a doom of death.\\nThrice the fierce trumpet s breath was\\nheard,\\nAnd echoed thrice the herald s word,\\n740\\nDooming, for breach of martial laws\\nAnd treason to the Commons cause,\\nThe Knight of Rokeby, and O Neale,\\nTo stoop their heads to block and steel.\\nThe trumpets flourished high and shrill,\\nThen was a silence dead and still;\\nAnd silent prayers to Heaven were cast, 760\\nAnd stifled sobs were bursting fast,\\nTill from the crowd begun to rise\\nMurmurs of sorrow or surprise,\\nAnd from the distant isles there came\\nDeep muttered threats with Wycliffe s\\nXXVIII\\nBut Oswald, guarded by his band,\\nPowerful in evil, waved his hand,\\nAnd bade sedition s voice be dead,\\nOn peril of the murmurer s head.\\nThen first his glance sought Rokeby s\\nKnight, 770\\nWho gazed on the tremendous sight\\nAs calm as if he came a guest\\nTo kindred baron s feudal feast,\\nAs calm as if that trumpet-call\\nWere summons to the bannered hall;\\nFirm in his loyalty he stood,\\nAnd prompt to seal it with his blood.\\nWith downcast look drew Oswald nigh,\\nHe durst not cope with Rokeby s eye\\nAnd said with low and faltering breath, 780\\nThou know st the terms of life and\\ndeath.\\nThe knight then turned and sternly smiled:\\nThe maiden is mine only child,\\nYet shall my blessing leave her head\\nIf with a traitor s son she wed.\\nThen Redmond spoke The life of one\\nMight thy malignity atone,\\nOn me be flung a double guilt\\nSpare Rokeby s blood, let mine be spilt\\nWycliffe had listened to his suit, 790\\nBut dread prevailed and he was mute.\\nXXIX\\nAnd now he pours his choice of fear\\nIn secret on Matilda s ear;\\nAn union formed with me and mine\\nEnsures the faith of Rokeby s line.\\nConsent, and all this dread array\\nLike morning dream shall pass away;\\nRefuse, and by my duty pressed\\nI give the word thou know st the rest.\\nMatilda, still and motionless, 8o\u00c2\u00bb\\nWith terror heard the dread address,\\nPale as the sheeted maid who dies\\nTo hopeless love a sacrifice;\\nThen wrung her hands in agony,\\nAnd round her cast bewildered eye,\\nNow on the scaffold glanced, and now\\nOn Wycliffe s unrelenting brow.\\nShe veiled her face, and with a voice\\nScarce audible, I make my choice\\nSpare but their lives for aught beside\\nLet Wilfrid s doom my fate decide. 8n\\nHe once was generous As she spoke,\\nDark Wycliffe s joy in triumph broke:\\nWilfrid, where loitered ye so late\\nWhy upon Basil rest thy weight\\nArt spell-bound by enchanter s wand\\nKneel, kneel, and take her yielded hand;\\nThank her with raptures, simple boy\\nShould tears and trembling speak thy joy", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0313.jp2"}, "312": {"fulltext": "282\\nROKEBY\\nO hush, my sire To prayer and tear 820\\nOf mine thou hast refused thine ear;\\nBut now the awful hour draws on\\nWhen truth must speak in loftier tone.\\nHe took Matilda s hand: Dear maid,\\nCouldst thou so injure me, he said,\\nOf thy poor friend so basely deem\\nAs blend with him this barbarous scheme\\nAlas my efforts made in vain\\nMight well have saved this added pain.\\nBut now, bear witness earth and heaven 830\\nThat ne er was hope to mortal given\\nSo twisted with the strings of life\\nAs this to call Matilda wife\\nI bid it now forever part,\\nAnd with the effort bursts my heart.\\nHis feeble frame was worn so low,\\nWith wounds, with watching, and with\\nwoe\\nThat nature could no more sustain\\nThe agony of mental pain.\\nHe kneeled his lip her hand had\\npressed, 840\\nJust then he felt the stern arrest.\\nLower and lower sunk his head,\\nThey raised him, but the life was fled\\nThen first alarmed his sire and train\\nTried every aid, but tried in vain.\\nThe soul, too soft its ills to bear,\\nHad left our mortal hemisphere,\\nAnd sought in better world the meed\\nTo blameless life by Heaven decreed.\\nXXXI\\n850\\nThe wretched sire beheld aghast\\nWith Wilfrid all his projects past,\\nAll turned and centred on his son,\\nOn Wilfrid all and he was gone.\\nAnd I am childless now, he said;\\nChildless, through that relentless maid\\nA lifetime s arts in vain essayed\\nAre bursting on their artist s head\\nHere lies my Wilfrid dead and there\\nComes hated Mortham for his heir,\\nEager to knit in happy band 860\\nWith Rokeby s heiress Redmond s hand.\\nAnd shall their triumph soar o er all\\nThe schemes deep-laid to work their fall\\nNo deeds which prudence might not\\ndare\\nAppall not vengeance and despair.\\nThe murderess weeps upon his bier\\nI 11 change to real that feigned tear I\\nThey all shall share destruction s shock;\\nHo lead the captives to the block\\nBut ill his provost could divine 870\\nHis feelings, and forbore the sign.\\n1 Slave to the block or I or they\\nShall face the judgment-seat this day\\nXXXII\\nThe outmost crowd have heard a sound\\nLike horse s hoof on hardened ground;\\nNearer it came, and yet more near,\\nThe very death s-men paused to hear.\\nT is in the churchyard now the tread\\nHath waked the dwelling of the dead\\nFresh sod and old sepulchral stone 880\\nReturn the tramp in varied tone.\\nAll eyes upon the gateway hung,\\nWhen through the Gothic arch there sprung\\nA horseman armed at headlong speed\\nSable his cloak, his plume, his steed.\\nFire from the flinty floor was spurned,\\nThe vaults unwonted clang returned\\nOne instant s glance around he threw,\\nFrom saddlebow his pistol drew.\\nGrimly determined was his look 1 890\\nHis charger with the spurs he strook\\nAll scattered backward as he came,\\nFor all knew Bertram Risingham\\nThree bounds that noble courser gave;\\nThe first has reached the central nave,\\nThe second cleared the chancel wide,\\nThe third he was at Wycliffe s side.\\nFull levelled at the baron s head,\\nRung the report the bullet sped\\nAnd to his long account and last\\nWithout a groan dark Oswald past\\nAll was so quick that it might seem\\nA flash of lightning or a dream.\\nXXXIII\\nWhile yet the smoke the deed conceals,\\nBertram his ready charger wheels\\nBut floundered on the pavement-floor\\nThe steed and down the rider bore,\\nAnd, bursting in the headlong sway,\\nThe faithless saddle-girths gave way.\\nT was while he toiled him to be freed, 910\\nAnd with the rein to raise the steed,\\nThat from amazement s iron trance\\nAll Wycliffe s soldiers waked at once.\\nSword, halberd, musket-butt, their blows\\nHailed upon Bertram as he rose;\\nA score of pikes with each a wound\\nBore down and pinned him to the\\nground", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0314.jp2"}, "313": {"fulltext": "INTRODUCTORY NOTE\\n283\\nBut still his struggling force he rears,\\nGainst hacking brands and stabbing spears,\\nThrice from assailants shook him free, 920\\nOnce gained his feet and twice his knee.\\nBy tenfold odds oppressed at length,\\nDespite his struggles and his strength,\\nHe took a hundred mortal wounds\\nAs mute as fox mongst mangling hounds;\\nAnd when he died his parting groan\\nHad more of laughter than of moan\\nThey gazed as when a lion dies,\\nAnd hunters scarcely trust their eyes,\\nBut bend their weapons on the slain 930\\nLest the grim king should rouse again\\nThen blow and insult some renewed,\\nAnd from the trunk the head had hewed,\\nBut Basil s voice the deed forbade;\\nA mantle o er the corse he laid:\\nFell as he was in act and mind,\\nHe left no bolder heart behind:\\nThen, give him, for a soldier meet,\\nA soldier s cloak for winding sheet.\\nxxxiv\\nNo more of death and dying pang, 940\\nNo more of trump and bugle clang,\\nThough through the sounding woods there\\ncome\\nBanner and bugle, trump and drum.\\nArmed with such powers as well had\\nfreed\\nYoung Redmond at his utmost need,\\nAnd backed with such a band of horse\\nAs might less ample powers enforce,\\nPossessed of every proof and sign\\nThat gave an heir to Mortham s line,\\nAnd yielded to a father s arms 950\\nAn image of his Edith s charms,\\nMortham is come, to hear and see\\nOf this strange morn the history.\\nWhat saw he not the church s floor,\\nCumbered with dead and stained with gore;\\nWhat heard he not the clamorous\\ncrowd,\\nThat shout their gratulations loud:\\nRedmond he saw and heard alone,\\nClasped him and sobbed, My son my\\nson\\nxxxv\\nThis chanced upon a summer morn, 960\\nWhen yellow waved the heavy corn:\\nBut when brown August o er the land\\nCalled forth the reaper s busy band,\\nA gladsome sight the sylvan road\\nFrom Eglistone to Mortham showed.\\nAwhile the hardy rustic leaves\\nThe task to bind and pile the sheaves,\\nAnd maids their sickles fling aside\\nTo gaze on bridegroom and on bride,\\nAnd childhood s wondering group draws\\nnear, 97 o\\nAnd from the gleaner s hands the ear\\nDrops while she folds them for a prayer\\nAnd blessing on the lovely pair.\\nT was then the Maid of Rokeby gave\\nHer plighted troth to Redmond brave\\nAnd Teesdale can remember yet\\nHow Fate to Virtue paid her debt,\\nAnd for their troubles bade them prove\\nA lengthened life of peace and love.\\nTime and Tide had thus their sway, 980\\nYielding, like an April day,\\nSmiling noon for sullen morrow,\\nYears of joy for hours of sorrow\\nTHE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN\\nINTRODUCTORY NOTE\\nOne of the projects which grew out of the\\nenterprise of the Ballantynes, when Scott was\\ndrawn into the toils, was the establishment of\\nthe Edinburgh Annual Register, which was to\\nbe conducted in opposition to Constable s Edin-\\nburgh Review. It was to be mainly historical\\nand annalistic, and the Quarterly Review es-\\ntablished shortly after more completely served\\nthe purpose of an antagonist of the Review,\\nbut Scott infused a little literary spirit into\\nthe Register, and amongst other contributions\\ninserted in the first volume, for 1809, some\\nimitations of living poets, one of them taking\\nScott himself for its model\\nMeanwhile Rokeby had been started on the\\nstocks and Scott, who in the ebullition of his\\nactive fancy liked to keep two or three varied\\ntasks on hand, bethought himself of one of\\nthese fragments, The Vision of Triermain, and\\nconceived the notion of expanding it into a\\npoem, to be published anonymously at the\\nsame time with Rokeby, and fathered upon", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0315.jp2"}, "314": {"fulltext": "284\\nTHE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN\\nsome one of his friends, to complete the mys-\\ntification. The fragment taken is nearly\\nidentical with Canto First of the Bridal, di-\\nvisions I.- VIII. He hoped especially hy this\\nscheme to draw Jeffrey, and elicit from him\\na criticism which would he unencumbered\\nby the reviewer s relations with the real au-\\nthor.\\nAs Erskine had generally been credited\\nwith the authorship of the anonymous frag-\\nments in the Register, he was asked by Scott to\\nplay his part in the plot, and good naturedly\\nlent his aid. I shall be very much amused,\\nhe wrote to Scott, if the secret is kept and the\\nknowing ones taken in. To prevent any dis-\\ncovery from your prose, what think you of\\nputting down your ideas of what the preface\\nought to contain, and allowing me to write it\\nover And perhaps a quizzing review might\\nbe concocted. Scott took the hint, and the\\nIntroduction to The Bridal of Triermain given\\nbelow is a mixture of Scott and Erskine, the\\nlatter s quotations from the Greek being es-\\npecially adapted to throwing off the scent\\nthose who might naturally attribute the poem\\nto Scott. In his Introduction to The Lord of\\nthe Isles, written in 1830, when the secret had\\nlong been out, Scott wrote Being much\\nurged by my intimate friend, now unhappily no\\nmore, William Erskine (a Scottish judge, by\\nthe title of Lord Kinedder), I agreed to write\\nthe little romantic tale called The Bridal of\\nTriermain but it was on the condition that he\\nshould make no serious effort to disown the\\ncomposition, if report should lay it at his door.\\nAs he was more than suspected of a taste for\\npoetry, and as I took care, in several places, to\\nmix something which might resemble (as far\\nas was in my power) my friend s feeling and\\nmanner, the train easily caught, and two large\\neditions were sold. A third being called for,\\nLord Kinedder became unwilling to aid any\\nlonger a deception which was going farther\\nthan he expected or desired, and the real au-\\nthor s name was given. 1\\nScott had taken Morritt into his confidence,\\nbut apparently he had not thus treated his in-\\ntimate correspondent, Lady Louisa Stuart, or\\nLady Abercorn. With both of these clever\\nwomen he kept up a bit of fencing, though it\\nis not quite certain that one or the other did\\nnot have an inkling of the truth, and so amused\\nherself with playing a like game of hoodwink-\\ning. The little book was published almost on\\nthe same day as Rokeby, and Scott wrote to\\nMorritt, March 9, 1813 I wish you would\\ngive the said author of Triermain a hoist to\\nnotice, by speaking of him now and then in\\nthose parts where a word spoken is sure to\\n1 A statement somewhat at variance with Scott s to\\nMorritt on occasion of a fourth edition. See below.\\nhave a hundred echoes. I hear Jeffrey\\nhas really bestowed great praise on the poem r\\nand means to give it a place in his review. It\\nhas not, he says, my great artery, but there is\\nmore attention to style, more elegance and or-\\nnament, etc., etc. We will see, however, what\\nhe really will say to it in his review, for there\\nis no sure augury from his private conversa-\\ntion. A few days later, when writing to Lady\\nAbercorn, Scott threw in a reference to the\\npoem in a careless fashion. He is sending her\\nsome books The first and most interesting\\nis a spirited imitation of my manner called The\\nBridal of Triermain. The author is unknown,\\nbut it makes some noise among us. The other\\nis a little novel, and so on with a reference\\nshortly to his own Rokeby. A month later,\\nwriting the same lady again, he says, paren-\\nthetically, as it were, The Bridal of Triermain\\nis the book which has excited the most inter-\\nest here. Jeffrey lauds it highly, I am in-\\nformed, and is one day to throw it at my\\nhead. Lady Louisa Stuart on her side inti-\\nmates that she suspects Scott to have written\\nthe Bridal, though she reports common rumor\\nto assign it to R. P. Gillies.\\nIt was some time before the authorship was,\\nrightly placed. Scott and Morritt were disap-\\npointed that Jeffrey did not fall into the trap\\nlaid for them, but though Scott s name was\\noften mentioned as that of the probable author,\\nthe secret was well kept. As late as January,\\n1814, Scott was writing to Morritt The\\nfourth edition is at press. The Empress-Dow-\\nager of Prussia has expressed such an interest\\nin it, that it will be inscribed to her, in some\\ndoggerel sonnet or other, by the unknown au-\\nthor. This is funny enough and again to the\\nsame friend As your conscience has very few\\nthings to answer for, you must still burthen it\\nwith the secret of the Bridal. It is spreading\\nvery rapidly, and I have one or two little faery\\nromances which will make a second volume,\\nand which I would wish published, but not\\nwith my name. The truth is that this sort of\\nmuddling work amuses me, and I am some-\\nthing in the condition of Joseph Surface, who\\nwas embarrassed by getting himself too good\\na reputation for many things would please\\npeople well enough anonymously, which, if\\nthey bore me on the title-page, would just\\ngive me that sort of ill-name which precedes\\nhanging, and that would be in many respects\\ninconvenient if I thought of again trying a\\ngrande opus. I will give you a hundred good\\nreasons when we meet for not owning the\\nBridal till I either secede entirely from the\\nfield of literature, or from that of life. It is\\nan amusing comment on Scott s willingness to\\nallow others to carry off his honors, when we\\nfind him writing in his Journal a dozen yeara", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0316.jp2"}, "315": {"fulltext": "AUTHOR S INTRODUCTION\\n285\\nlater A long letter from R. P. Gillies. I\\nwonder how ever he could ask me to announce\\nmyself as the author of Annotations on German\\nNovels which he is to write. The Introduc-\\ntion prefixed to the first edition, of March,\\n1813, here follows\\nINTRODUCTION\\nIn the Edinburgh Annual Register for the\\nyear 1809, Three Fragments were inserted,\\nwritten in imitation of Living Poets. It must\\nhave been apparent that by these prolusions\\nnothing burlesque or disrespectful to the au-\\nthors was intended, but that they were offered\\nto the public as serious, though certainly very\\nimperfect, imitations of that style of composi-\\ntion by which each of the writers is supposed\\nto be distinguished. As these exercises at-\\ntracted a greater degree of attention than the\\nauthor anticipated, he has been induced to\\ncomplete one of them and present it as a sep-\\narate publication.\\nIt is not in this place that an examination\\nof the works of the master whom he has here\\nadopted as his model, can, with propriety, be in-\\ntroduced since his general acquiescence in the\\nfavorable suffrage of the public must neces-\\nsarily be inferred from the attempt he has now\\nmade. He is induced, by the nature of his\\nsubject, to offer a few remarks on what has\\nbeen called romantic poetry the popularity of\\nwhich has been revived in the present day,\\nunder the auspices, and by the unparalleled\\nsuccess, of one individual.\\nThe original purpose of poetry is either re-\\nligious or historical, or, as must frequently\\nhappen, a mixture of both. To modern readers\\nthe poems of Homer have many of the feat-\\nures of pure romance but in the estimation of\\nhis contemporaries, they probably derived their\\nchief value from their supposed historical au-\\nthenticity. The same may be generally said\\nof the poetry of all early ages. The marvels\\nand miracles which the poet blends with his\\nsong do not exceed in number or extravagance\\nthe figments of the historians of the same period\\nof society and indeed, the difference betwixt\\npoetry and prose, as the vehicles of historical\\ntruth, is always of late introduction. Poets,\\nunder various denominations of Bards, Scalds,\\nChroniclers, and so forth, are the first histori-\\nans of all nations. Their intention is to relate\\nthe events they have witnessed, or the tradi-\\ntions that have reached them and they clothe\\nthe relation in rhyme, merely as the means\\nof rendering it more solemn in the narrative,\\nor more easily committed to memory. But as\\nthe poetical historian improves in the art of\\nconveying information, the authenticity of his\\nnarrative unavoidably declines. He is tempted\\nto dilate and dwell upon the events that are\\ninteresting to his imagination, and, conscious\\nhow indifferent his audience is to the naked\\ntruth of his poem, his history gradually be-\\ncomes a romance.\\nIt is in this situation that those epics are\\nfound, which have been generally regarded the\\nstandards of poetry and it has happened\\nsomewhat strangely that the moderns have\\npointed out as the characteristics and peculiar\\nexcellencies of narrative poetry, the very cir-\\ncumstances which the authors themselves\\nadopted, only because their art involved the\\nduties of thej historian as well as the poet. It\\ncannot be believed, for example, that Homer\\nselected the siege of Troy as the most appro-\\npriate subject for poetry his purpose was to\\nwrite the early history of his country the\\nevent he has chosen, though not very fruitful\\nin varied incident, nor perfectly well adapted\\nfor poetry, was nevertheless combined with\\ntraditionary and genealogical anecdotes ex-\\ntremely interesting to those who were to listen\\nto him and this he has adorned by the exer-\\ntions of a genius which, if it has been equalled,\\nhas certainly been never surpassed. It was\\nnot till comparatively a late period that the\\ngeneral accuracy of his narrative, or his pur-\\npose in composing it, was brought into ques-\\ntion. AoKet irpwros [o Aval-ay Spas] (icadd (ptjai\\nQafioplvos iv iravTodairrj laropia) t^\\\\v O/j/fipov\\n\u00e2\u0096\u00a0Ko tT]aiv airotp^vaffBai elvai irepi aperrjs Kal 8inat-\\noavvns. 1 But whatever theories might be\\nframed by speculative men, his work was of\\nan historical, not of an allegorical nature. Evav-\\ntIaAgto (xeTa. tov M^ureco Kal oirov kKaffrore\\nacpiitoiTo, iravra to. iirixupia SiepooraTO, Kal Iff-\\nropeow eirvvOdvero efabs Se fxiv l\\\\v Kal ixvnfioavwnv\\niravrcav ypdfieffOai. 2 Instead of recommend-\\ning the choice of a subject similar to that of\\nHomer, it was to be expected that critics\\nshould have exhorted the poets of these latter\\ndays to adopt or invent a narrative in itself\\nmore susceptible of poetical ornament, and to\\navail themselves of that advantage in order\\nto compensate, in some degree, the inferiority\\nof genius. The contrary course has been in-\\nculcated by almost all the writers upon the\\nEpopma with what success, the fate of\\nHomer s numerous imitators may best show.\\nThe ultimum supplicium of criticism was in-\\n1 Diogenes Laertius, lib. ii. Anaxag. Segm. II.\\n2 Homeri Vita, in Herod. Henr. Steph. 1570, p.\\n356.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0317.jp2"}, "316": {"fulltext": "2 86\\nTHE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN\\nflicted on the author if he did not choose a\\nsubject which at once deprived him of aE\\nclaim to originality, and placed him, if not in\\nactual contest, at least in fatal comparison,\\nwith those giants in the land whom it was\\nmost his interest to avoid. The celebrated\\nreceipt for writing an epic poem, which ap-\\npeared in The Guardian?- was the first instance\\nin which common sense was applied to this\\ndepartment of poetry and, indeed, if the ques-\\ntion be considered on its own merits, we must\\nbe satisfied that narrative poetry, if strictly\\nconfined to the great occurrences of history,\\nwould be deprived of the individual interest\\nwhich it is so well calculated to excite.\\nModern poets may therefore be pardoned in\\nseeking simpler subjects of verse, more inter-\\nesting in proportion to their simplicity. Two\\nor three figures, well grouped, suit the artist\\nbetter than a crowd, for whatever purpose\\nassembled. For the same reason, a scene im-\\nmediately presented to the imagination, and\\ndirectly brought home to the feelings, though\\ninvolving the fate of but one or two persons,\\nis more favorable for poetry than the political\\nstruggles and convulsions which influence the\\nfate of kingdoms. The former are within the\\nreach and comprehension of all, and, if depicted\\nwith vigor, seldom fail to fix attention The\\nother if more sublime, are more vague and\\ndistant, less capable of being distinctly under-\\nstood, and infinitely less capable of exciting\\nthose sentiments which it is the very purpose\\nof poetry to inspire. To generalize is always\\nto destroy effect. We would, for example, be\\nmore interested in the fate of an individual\\nsoldier in combat, than in the grand event of\\na general action with the happiness of two\\nlovers raised from misery and anxiety to peace\\nand union, than with the successful exertions\\nof a whole nation. From what causes this\\nmay originate, is a separate and obviously an\\nimmaterial consideration. Before ascribing\\nthis peculiarity to causes decidedly and\\nodiously selfish, it is proper to recollect that\\nwhile men see only a limited space, and while\\ni The Guardian, No. 78. Pope.\\ntheir affections and conduct are regulated, not\\nby aspiring to an universal good, but by exert-\\ning their power of making themselves and\\nothers happy within the limited scale allotted\\nto each individual, so long will individual his-\\ntory and individual virtue be the readier and\\nmore accessible road to general interest and\\nattention; and, perhaps, we may add, that it\\nis the more useful, as well as the more acces-\\nsible, inasmuch as it affords an example capa-\\nble of being easily imitated.\\nAccording to the author s idea of Romantic\\nPoetry, as distinguished from Epic, the former\\ncomprehends a fictitious narrative, framed and\\ncombined at the pleasure of the writer begin-\\nning and ending as he may judge best which\\nneither exacts nor refuses the use of supernat-\\nural machinery which is free from the tech-\\nnical rules of the Epee; and is subject only to\\nthose which good sense, good taste, and good\\nmorals apply to every species of poetry without\\nexception. The date may be in a remote age,\\nor in the present; the story may detail the\\nadventures of a prince or of a peasant. In a\\nword, the author is absolute master of his\\ncountry and its inhabitants, and everything is\\npermitted to him, excepting to be heavy or\\nprosaic, for which, free and unembarrassed as\\nhe is, he has no manner of apology. Those,\\nit is probable, will be found the peculiarities\\nof this species of composition and before\\njoining the outcry against the vitiated taste\\nthat fosters and encourages it, the justice and\\ngrounds of it ought to be made perfectly\\napparent. If the want of sieges and battles\\nand great military evolutions, in our poetry, is\\ncomplained of, let us reflect that the campaigns\\nand heroes of our days are perpetuated in a\\nrecord that neither requires nor admits of the\\naid of fiction and if the complaint refers to\\nthe inferiority of our bards, let us pay a just\\ntribute to their modesty, limiting them, as it\\ndoes, to subjects which, however indifferently\\ntreated, have still the interest and charm of\\nnovelty, and which thus prevents them from\\nadding insipidity to their other more insuper-\\nable defects.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0318.jp2"}, "317": {"fulltext": "THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN\\nOR\\nTHE VALE OF SAINT JOHN\\nA LOVER S TALE\\nINTRODUCTION\\nCome Lucy while t is morning hour\\nThe woodland brook we needs must\\npass;\\nSo ere the sun assume his power\\nWe shelter in our poplar bower,\\nWhere dew lies long upon the flower,\\nThough vanished from the velvet grass.\\nCurbing the stream, this stony ridge\\nMay serve us for a sylvan bridge;\\nFor here compelled to disunite,\\nRound petty isles the runnels glide, 10\\nAnd chafing off their puny spite,\\nThe shallow raurmurers waste their might,\\nYielding to footstep free and light\\nA dry-shod pass from side to side.\\nNay, why this hesitating pause\\nAnd, Lucy, as thy step withdraws,\\nWhy sidelong eye the streamlet s brim\\nTitania s foot without a slip,\\nLike thine, though timid, light, and slim,\\nFrom stone to stone might safely trip, 20\\nNor risk the glow-worm clasp to dip\\nThat binds her slipper s silken rim.\\nOr trust thy lover s strength; nor fear\\nThat this same stalwart arm of mine,\\nWhich could yon oak s prone trunk up-\\nrear,\\nShall shrink beneath the burden dear\\nOf form so slender, light, and fine.\\nSo now, the danger dared at last,\\nLook back and smile at perils past\\nin\\nAnd now we reach the favorite glade, 30\\nPaled in by copsewood, cliff, aDd stone,\\nWhere never harsher sounds invade\\nTo break affection s whispering tone\\nThan the deep breeze that waves the shade,\\nThan the small brooklet s feeble moan.\\nCome rest thee on thy wonted seat;.\\nMossed is the stone, the turf is green y\\nA place where lovers best may meet\\nWho would not that their love be seen.\\nThe boughs that dim the summer sky 40\\nShall hide us from each lurking spy\\nThat fain would spread the invidious\\ntale,\\nHow Lucy of the lofty eye,\\nNoble in birth, in fortunes high,\\nShe for whom lords and barons sigh,\\nMeets her poor Arthur in the dale.\\nIV\\nHow deep that blush how deep that\\nAnd why does Lucy shun mine eye\\nIs it because that crimson draws\\nIts color from some secret cause, 50\\nSome hidden movement of the breast,\\nShe would not that her Arthur guessed\\nO, quicker far is lovers ken\\nThan the dull glance of common men,\\nAnd by strange sympathy can spell\\nThe thoughts the loved one will not tell\\nAnd mine in Lucy s blush saw met\\nThe hue of pleasure and regret;\\nPride mingled in the sigh her voice,\\nAnd shared with Love the crimson\\nglow, 60\\nWell pleased that thou art Arthur s\\nchoice,\\nYet shamed thine own is placed so\\nlow:\\nThou turn st thy self-confessing cheek,\\nAs if to meet the breezes cooling;\\nThen, Lucy, hear thy tutor speak,\\nFor Love too has his hours of school-\\ning.\\nToo oft my anxious eye has spied\\nThat secret grief thou fain wouldst hide,\\nThe passing pang of humbled pride\\n287", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0319.jp2"}, "318": {"fulltext": "288\\nTHE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN\\nToo oft when through the splendid\\nhall, 7\u00c2\u00b0\\nThe loadstar of each heart and eye,\\nMy fair one leads the glittering ball,\\nWill her stolen glance on Arthur fall\\nWith such a blush and such a sigh\\nThou wouldst not yield for wealth or\\nrank\\nThe heart thy worth and beauty won,\\nNor leave me on this mossy bank\\nTo meet a rival on a throne:\\nWhy then should vain repinings rise,\\nThat to thy lover fate denies 80\\nA nobler name, a wide domain,\\nA baron s birth, a menial train,\\nSince Heaven assigned him for his part\\nA lyre, a falchion, and a heart\\nVI\\nMy sword its master must be dumb;\\nBut when a soldier names my name,\\nApproach, my Lucy fearless come,\\nNor dread to hear of Arthur s shame.\\nMy heart mid all yon courtly crew\\nOf lordly rank and lofty line, 90\\nIs there to love and honor true,\\nThat boasts a pulse so warm as mine\\nThey praised thy diamonds lustre rare\\nMatched with thine eyes, I thought it\\nfaded\\nThey praised the pearls that bound thy\\nhair\\nI only saw the locks they braided;\\nThey talked of wealthy dower and land,\\nAiid titles of high birth the token\\nI thought of Lucy s heart and hand,\\nNor knew the sense of what was\\nspoken. 100\\nAnd yet, if ranked in Fortune s roll,\\nI might have learned their choice un-\\nwise\\nWho rate the dower above the soul\\nAnd Lucy s diamonds o er her eyes.\\nVII\\nMy lyre it is an idle toy\\nThat borrows accents not its own,\\nLike warbler of Colombian sky\\nThat sings but in a mimic tone.\\nNe er did it sound o er sainted well,\\nNor boasts it aught of Border spell; no\\nIts strings no feudal slogan pour,\\nIts heroes draw no broad claymore;\\nNo shouting clans applauses raise\\nBecause it sung their fathers praise;\\nOn Scottish moor, or English down,\\nIt ne er was graced with fair renown;\\nNor won best meed to minstrel true\\nOne favoring smile from fair Buccleuch\\nBy one poor streamlet sounds its tone,\\nAnd heard by one dear maid alone. 120\\nVIII\\nBut, if thou bid st, these tones shall tell\\nOf errant knight, and damoselle;\\nOf the dread knot a wizard tied\\nIn punishment of maiden s pride,\\nIn notes of marvel and of fear\\nThat best may charm romantic ear\\nFor Lucy loves like Collins, ill-starred\\nname\\nWhose lay s requital was that tardy Fame,\\nWho bound no laurel round his living\\nhead,\\nShould hang it o er his monument when\\ndead, 130\\nFor Lucy loves to tread enchanted strand,\\nAnd thread like him the maze of Fairy-\\nland;\\nOf golden battlements to view the gleam,\\nAnd slumber soft by some Elysian stream;\\nSuch lays she loves and, such my Lucy s\\nchoice,\\nWhat other song can claim her Poet s\\nvoice\\nCANTO FIRST\\nWhere is the maiden of mortal strain\\nThat may match with the Baron of Trier-\\nmain\\nShe must be lovely and constant and kind,\\nHoly and pure and humble of mind,\\nBlithe of cheer and gentle of mood,\\nCourteous and generous and noble oJ\\nblood\\nLovely as the sun s first ray\\nWhen it breaks the clouds of an April\\nday;\\nConstant and true as the widowed dove,\\nKind as a minstrel that sings of love;\\nPure as the fountain in rocky cave\\nWhere never sunbeam kissed the wave;\\nHumble as maiden that loves in vain,\\nHoly as hermit s vesper strain;\\nGentle as breeze that but whispers and\\ndies,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0320.jp2"}, "319": {"fulltext": "CANTO FIRST\\n289\\nYet blithe as the light leaves that dance in\\nits sighs;\\nCourteous as monarch the morn he is\\ncrowned,\\nGenerous as spring-dews that bless the\\nglad ground;\\nNoble her blood as the currents that met 19\\nIn the veins of the noblest Plantagenet\\nSuch must her form be, her mood, and her\\nstrain,\\nThat shall match with Sir Roland of Trier-\\nmain.\\nSir Roland de Vaux he hath laid him to\\nsleep,\\nHis blood it was fevered, his breathing\\nwas deep.\\nHe had been pricking against the Scot,\\nThe foray was long and the skirmish hot;\\nHis dinted helm and his buckler s plight\\nBore token of a stubborn fight.\\nAll in the castle must hold them still,\\nHarpers must lull him to his rest 30\\nWith the slow soft tunes he loves the best\\nTill sleep sink down upon his breast,\\nLike the dew on a summer hill.\\nin\\nIt was the dawn of an autumn day;\\nThe sun was struggling with frost-fog gray\\nThat like a silvery crape was spread\\nRound Skiddaw s dim and distant head,\\nAnd faintly gleamed each painted pane\\nOf the lordly halls of Triermain,\\nWhen that baron bold awoke. 40\\nStarting he woke and loudly did call,\\nRousing his menials in bower and hall\\nWhile hastily he spoke.\\nIV\\nI Hearken, my minstrels Which of ye all\\nTouched his harp with that dying fall,\\nSo sweet, so soft, so faint,\\nIt seemed an angel s whispered call\\nTo an expiring saint\\nAnd hearken, my merry-men What time\\nor where\\nDid she pass, that maid with her heavenly\\nbrow, 50\\nWith her look so sweet and her eyes so fair,\\nAnd her graceful step and her angel air,\\nAnd the eagle plume in her dark-brown\\nhair,\\nThat passed from my bower e en now\\nAnswered him Richard de Bretville; he\\nWas chief of the baron s minstrelsy,\\nSilent, noble chieftain, we\\nHave sat since midnight close,\\nWhen such lulling sounds as the brooklet\\nsings\\nMurmured from our melting strings, 60\\nAnd hushed you to repose.\\nHad a harp-note sounded here,\\nIt had caught my watchful ear,\\nAlthough it fell as faint and shy\\nAs bashful maiden s half-formed sigh\\nWhen she thinks her lover near.\\nAnswered Philip of Fasthwaite tall;\\nHe kept guard in the outer-hall,\\nSince at eve our watch took post,\\nNot a foot has thy portal crossed; 70\\nElse had I heard the steps, though low\\nAnd light they fell as when earth receives\\nIn morn of frost the withered leaves\\nThat drop when no winds blow.\\nVI\\nThen come thou hither, Henry, my page,\\nWhom I saved from the sack of Hermitage,\\nWhen that dark castle, tower, and spire,\\nRose to the skies a pile of fire,\\nAnd reddened all the Nine-stane Hill, 79\\nAnd the shrieks of death, that wildly broke\\nThrough devouring flame and smothering\\nsmoke,\\nMade the warrior s heart-blood chill.\\nThe trustiest thou of all my train,\\nMy fleetest courser thou must rein,\\nAnd ride to Lyulph s tower,\\nAnd from the Baron of Triermain\\nGreet well that sage of power.\\nHe is sprung from Druid sires\\nAnd British bards that tuned their lyres\\nTo Arthur s and Pendragon s praise, 90\\nAnd his who sleeps at Dunmailraise.\\nGifted like his gifted race,\\nHe the characters can trace\\nGraven deep in elder time\\nUpon Hellvellyn s cliffs sublime;\\nSign and sigil well doth he know,\\nAnd can bode of weal and woe,\\nOf kingdoms fall and fate of wars,\\nFrom mystic dreams and course of stars.\\nHe shall tell if middle earth 100\\nTo that enchanting shape gave birth,\\nOr if t was but an airy thing\\nSuch as fantastic slumbers bring,\\nFramed from the rainbow s varying dyes", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0321.jp2"}, "320": {"fulltext": "290\\nTHE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN\\nOr fading tints of western skies.\\nFor, by the blessed rood I swear,\\nIf that fair form breathe vital air,\\nNo other maiden by my side\\nShall ever rest De Vaux s bride\\nVII\\nThe faithful page he mounts his steed, no\\nAnd soon he crossed green Irthing s mead,\\nDashed o er Kirkoswald s verdant plain,\\nAnd Eden barred bis course in vain.\\nHe passed red Penrith s Table Round,\\nFor feats of chivalry renowned,\\nLeft May burgh s mound and stones of\\npower,\\nBy Druids raised in magic hour,\\nAnd traced the Eamont s winding way\\nTill Ulfo s lake beneath him lay.\\nOnward he rode, the pathway still 120\\nWinding betwixt the lake and hill;\\nTill, on the fragment of a rock\\nStruck from its base by lightning shock,\\nHe saw the hoary sage:\\nThe silver moss and lichen twined,\\nWith fern and deer -hair checked and\\nlined,\\nA cushion fit for age;\\nAnd o er him shook the aspen-tree,\\nA restless rustling canopy.\\nThen sprung young Henry from his selle 130\\nAnd greeted Lyulph grave,\\nAnd then his master s tale did tell,\\nAnd then for counsel crave.\\nThe man of years mused long and deep,\\nOf time s lost treasures taking keep,\\nAnd then, as rousing from a sleep,\\nHis solemn answer gave.\\nThat maid is born of middle earth\\nAnd may of man be won,\\nThough there have glided since her birth 140\\nFive hundred years and one.\\nBut where s the knight in all the north\\nThat dare the adventure follow forth,\\nSo perilous to knightly worth,\\nIn the valley of Saint John\\nListen, youth, to what I tell,\\nAnd bind it on thy memory well;\\nNor muse that I commence the rhyme\\nFar distant mid the wrecks of time.\\nThe mystic tale by bard and sage 150\\nIs handed down from Merlin s age.\\nIiYULPH S TALE\\nKing Arthur has ridden from merry Car-\\nlisle\\nWhen Pentecost was o er:\\nHe journeyed like errant-knight the while,\\nAnd sweetly the summer sun did smile\\nOn mountain, moss, and moor.\\nAbove his solitary track\\nRose Glaramara s ridgy back,\\nAmid whose yawning gulfs the sun\\nCast umbered radiance red and dun, 160\\nThough never sunbeam could discern\\nThe surface of that sable tarn,\\nIn whose black mirror you may spy\\nThe stars while noontide lights the sky.\\nThe gallant king he skirted still\\nThe margin of that mighty hill;\\nRock upon rocks incumbent hung,\\nAnd torrents, down the gullies flung,\\nJoined the rude river that brawled on,\\nRecoiling now from crag and stone, 170\\nNow diving deep from human ken,\\nAnd raving down its darksome glen.\\nThe monarch judged this desert wild,\\nWith such romantic ruin piled,\\nWas theatre by Nature s hand\\nFor feat of high achievement planned.\\nO, rather he chose, that monarch bold,\\nOn venturous quest to ride\\nIn plate and mail by wood and wold\\nThan, with ermine trapped and cloth of\\ngold,\\nIn princely bower to bide;\\nThe bursting crash of a foeman s spear,\\nAs it shivered against his mail,\\nWas merrier music to his ear\\nThan courtier s whispered tale:\\nAnd the clash of Caliburn more dear,\\nWhen on the hostile casque it rung,\\nThan all the lays\\nTo the monarch s praise\\nThat the harpers of Reged sung.\\nHe loved better to rest by wood or river\\nThan in bower of his bride, Dame Guen-\\never,\\nFor he left that lady so lovely of cheer\\nTo follow adventures of danger and fear;\\nAnd the frank-hearted monarch full little\\ndid wot\\nThat she smiled in his absence on brave\\nLancelot.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0322.jp2"}, "321": {"fulltext": "CANTO FIRST\\n29:\\nHe rode till over down and dell\\nThe shade more broad and deeper fell;\\nAnd though around the mountain s head\\nFlowed streams of purple and gold and\\nred, 200\\nDark at the base, unblest by beam,\\nFrowned the black rocks and roared the\\nstream.\\nWith toil the king his way pursued\\nBy lonely Threlkeld s waste and wood,\\nTill on his course obliquely shone\\nThe narrow valley of Saint John,\\nDown sloping to the western sky\\nWhere lingering sunbeams love to lie.\\nRight glad to feel those beams again,\\nThe king drew up his charger s rein; 210\\nWith gauntlet raised he screened his sight,\\nAs dazzled with the level light,\\nAnd from beneath his glove of mail\\nScanned at his ease the lovely vale,\\nWhile gainst the sun his armor bright\\nGleamed ruddy like the beacon s light.\\nXIII\\nPaled in by many a lofty hill,\\nThe narrow dale lay smooth and still,\\nAnd, down its verdant bosom led,\\nA winding brooklet found its bed. 220\\nBut midmost of the vale a mound\\nArose with airy turrets crowned,\\nButtress, and rampire s circling bound,\\nAnd mighty keep and tower;\\nSeemed some primeval giant s hand\\nThe castle s massive walls had planned,\\nA ponderous bulwark to withstand\\nAmbitious Nimrod s power.\\nAbove the moated entrance slung,\\nThe balanced drawbridge trembling\\nm hung, 230\\nAs jealous of a foe;\\nWicket of oak, as iron hard,\\nWith iron studded, clenched, and barred,\\nAnd pronged portcullis, joined to guard\\nThe gloomy pass below.\\nBut the gray walls no banners crowned,\\nUpon the watchtower s airy round\\nNo warder stood his horn to sound,\\nNo guard beside the bridge was found,\\nAnd where the Gothic gateway frowned 240\\nGlanced neither bill nor bow.\\nBeneath the castle s gloomy pride,\\nIn ample round did Arthur ride\\nThree times; nor living thing he spied,\\nNor heard a living sound,\\nSave that, awakening from her dream,\\nThe owlet now began to scream\\nIn concert with the rushing stream\\nThat washed the battled mound.\\nHe lighted from his goodly steed, 250\\nAnd he left him to graze on bank and mead;\\nAnd slowly he climbed the narrow way\\nThat reached the entrance grim and gray,\\nAnd he stood the outward arch below,\\nAnd his bugle-horn prepared to blow\\nIn summons blithe and bold,\\nDeeming to rouse from iron sleep\\nThe guardian of this dismal keep,\\nWhich well he guessed the hold\\nOf wizard stern, or goblin grim, 260\\nOr pagan of gigantic limb,\\nThe tyrant of the wold.\\nThe ivory bugle s golden tip\\nTwice touched the monarch s manly lip,\\nAnd twice his hand withdrew.\\nThink not but Arthur s heart was good\\nHis shield was crossed by the blessed rood:\\nHad a pagan host before him stood,\\nHe had charged them through and\\nthrough\\nYet the silence of that ancient place 270\\nSunk on his heart, and he paused a space\\nEre yet his horn he blew.\\nBut, instant as its larum rung,\\nThe castle gate was open flung,\\nPortcullis rose with crashing groan\\nFull harshly up its groove of stone\\nThe balance-beams obeyed the blast,\\nAnd down the trembling drawbridge cast;\\nThe vaulted arch before him lay\\nWith nought to bar the gloomy way, 280\\nAnd onward Arthur paced with hand\\nOn Caliburn s resistless brand.\\nXVI\\nA hundred torches flashing bright\\nDispelled at once the gloomy night\\nThat loured along the walls,\\nAnd showed the king s astonished sight\\nThe inmates of the halls.\\nNor wizard stern, nor goblin grim,\\nNor giant huge of form and limb,\\nNor heathen knight, was there; 290\\nBut the cressets which odors flung aloft\\nShowed by their yellow light and soft\\nA band of damsels fair.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0323.jp2"}, "322": {"fulltext": "292\\nTHE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN\\nOnward they came, like summer wave\\nThat dances to the shore\\nAn hundred voices welcome gave,\\nAnd welcome o er and o er\\nAn hundred lovely hands assail\\nThe bucklers of the monarch s mail,\\nAnd busy labored to unhasp 300\\nRivet of steel and iron clasp.\\nOne wrapped him in a mantle fair,\\nAnd one flung odors on his hair;\\nHis short curled ringlets one smoothed\\ndown,\\nOne wreathed them with a myrtle crown.\\nA bride upon her wedding-day\\nWas tended ne er by troop so gay.\\nXVII\\nLoud laughed they all, the king in\\nvain\\nWith questions tasked the giddy train;\\nLet him entreat or crave or call, 310\\nT was one reply loud laughed they all.\\nThen o er him mimic chains they fling\\nFramed of the fairest flowers of spring;\\nWhile some their gentle force unite\\nOnward to drag the wondering knight,\\nSome bolder urge his pace with blows,\\nDealt with the lily or the rose.\\nBehind him were in triumph borne\\nThe warlike arms he late had worn.\\nFour of the train combined to rear 320\\nThe terrors of Tintagel s spear;\\nTwo, laughing at their lack of strength,\\nDragged Caliburn in cumbrous length;\\nOne, while she aped a martial stride,\\nPlaced on her brows the helmet s pride\\nThen screamed twixt laughter and sur-\\nprise\\nTo feel its depth o erwhelm her eyes.\\nWith revel-shout and triumph-song\\nThus gayly marched the giddy throng.\\nXVIII\\nThrough many a gallery and hall 330\\nThey led, I ween, their royal thrall;\\nAt length, beneath a fair arcade\\nTheir march and song at once they staid.\\nThe eldest maiden of the band\\nThe lovely maid was scarce eighteen\\nRaised with imposing air her hand,\\nAnd reverent silence did command\\nOn entrance of their Queen,\\nAnd they were mute. But as a glance\\nThey steal on Arthur s countenance 340\\nBewildered with surprise,\\n350\\nTheir smothered mirth again gan speak\\nIn archly dimpled chin and cheek\\nAnd laughter-lighted eyes.\\nXIX\\nThe attributes of those high days\\nNow only live in minstrel-lays;\\nFor Nature, now exhausted, still\\nWas then profuse of good and ill.\\nStrength was gigantic, valor high,\\nAnd wisdom soared beyond the sky,\\nAnd beauty had such matchless beam\\nAs lights not now a lover s dream.\\nYet e en in that romantic age\\nNe er were such charms by mortal seen\\nAs Arthur s dazzled eyes engage,\\nWhen forth on that enchanted stage\\nWith glittering train of maid and page\\nAdvanced the castle s queen\\nWhile up the hall she slowly passed,\\nHer dark eye on the king she cast 360\\nThat flashed expression strong;\\nThe longer dwelt that lingering look,\\nHer cheek the livelier color took,\\nAnd scarce the shame-faced king could\\nbrook\\nThe gaze that lasted long.\\nA sage who had that look espied,\\nWhere kindling passion strove with pride,\\nHad whispered, Prince, beware\\nFrom the chafed tiger rend the prey,\\nRush on the lion when at bay, 370\\nBar the fell dragon s blighted way,\\nBut shun that lovely snare\\nxx\\nAt once, that inward strife suppressed,\\nThe dame approached her warlike guest,\\nWith greeting in that fair degree\\nWhere female pride and courtesy\\nAre blended with such passing art\\nAs awes at once and charms the heart.\\nA courtly welcome first she gave,\\nThen of his goodness gan to crave 380\\nConstruction fair and true\\nOf her light maidens idle mirth,\\nWho drew from lonely glens their birth\\nNor knew to pay to stranger worth\\nAnd dignity their due;\\nAnd then she prayed that he would rest\\nThat night her castle s honored guest.\\nThe monarch meetly thanks expressed;\\nThe banquet rose at her behest,\\nWith lay and tale, and laugh and jest, 390\\nApace the evening flew.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0324.jp2"}, "323": {"fulltext": "CANTO SECOND\\n2 93\\nXXI\\nThe lady sate the monarch by,\\nNow in her turn abashed and shy,\\nAnd with indifference seemed to hear\\nThe toys he whispered in her ear.\\nHer bearing modest was and fair,\\nYet shadows of constraint were there\\nThat showed an over-cautious care\\nSome inward thought to hide;\\nOft did she pause in full reply, 400\\nAnd oft cast down her large dark eye,\\nOft checked the soft voluptuous sigh\\nThat heaved her bosom s pride.\\nSlight symptoms these, but shepherds\\nknow\\nHow hot the mid-day sun shall glow\\nFrom the mist of morning sky;\\nAnd so the wily monarch guessed\\nThat this assumed restraint expressed\\nMore ardent passions in the breast\\nThan ventured to the eye. 410\\nCloser he pressed while beakers rang,\\nWhile maidens laughed and minstrels sang,\\nStill closer to her ear\\nBut why pursue the common tale\\nOr wherefore show how knights prevail\\nWhen ladies dare to hear\\nOr wherefore trace from what slight cause\\nIts source one tyrant passion draws,\\nTill, mastering all within,\\nWhere lives the man that has not tried 420\\nHow mirth can into folly glide\\nAnd folly into sin\\nCANTO SECOND\\nlyulph s tale continued\\nAnother day, another day,\\nAnd yet another, glides away\\nThe Saxon stern, the pagan Dane,\\nMaraud on Britain s shores again.\\nArthur, of Christendom the flower,\\nLies loitering in a lady s bower;\\nThe horn that foemen wont to fear\\nSounds but to wake the Cumbrian deer,\\nAnd Caliburn, the British pride,\\nHangs useless by a lover s side.\\n1 Another day, another day,\\nAnd yet another, glides away.\\nHeroic plans in pleasure drowned,\\nHe thinks not of the Table Round;\\nIn lawless love dissolved his life,\\nHe thinks not of his beauteous wife:\\nBetter he loves to snatch a flower\\nFrom bosom of his paramour\\nThan from a Saxon knight to wrest\\nThe honors of his heathen crest; 20\\nBetter to wreathe mid tresses brown\\nThe heron s plume her hawk struck down\\nThan o er the altar give to flow\\nThe banners of a Paynim foe.\\nThus week by week and day by day\\nHis life inglorious glides away\\nBut she that soothes his dream with fear\\nBeholds his hour of waking near.\\nin\\nMuch force have mortal charms to stay\\nOur pace in Virtue s toilsome way; 30\\nBut Gwendolen s might far outshine\\nEach maid of merely mortal line.\\nHer mother was of human birth,\\nHer sire a Genie of the earth,\\nIn days of old deemed to preside\\nO er lovers wiles and beauty s pride,\\nBy youths and virgins worshipped long\\nWith festive dance and choral song,\\nTill, when the cross to Britain came,\\nOn heathen altars died the flame.\\nNow, deep in Wastdale solitude,\\nThe downfall of his rights he rued,\\nAnd born of his resentment heir,\\nHe trained to guile that lady fair,\\nTo sink in slothful sin and shame\\nThe champions of the Christian name.\\nWell skilled to keep vain thoughts alive,\\nAnd all to promise, nought to give,\\nThe timid youth had hope in store,\\nThe bold and pressing gained no more. 50\\nAs wildered children leave their home\\nAfter the rainbow s arch to roam,\\nHer lovers bartered fair esteem,\\nFaith, fame, and honor, for a dream.\\nHer sire s soft arts the soul to tame\\nShe practised thus till Arthur came\\nThen frail humanity had part,\\nAnd all the mother claimed her heart.\\nForgot each rule her father gave,\\nSunk from a princess to a slave, 60\\nToo late must Guendolen deplore,\\nHe that has all can hope no more\\nNow must she see her lover strain\\nAt every turn her feeble chain,\\n40", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0325.jp2"}, "324": {"fulltext": "294\\nTHE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN\\nWatch to new-bind each knot and shrink\\nTo view each fast-decaying link.\\nArt she invokes to Nature s aid,\\nHer vest to zone, her locks to braid;\\nEach varied pleasure heard her call,\\nThe feast, the tourney, and the ball: 7 o\\nHer storied lore she next applies,\\nTaxing her mind to aid her eyes;\\nNow more than mortal wise and then\\nIn female softness sunk again;\\nNow raptured with each wish complying,\\nWith feigned reluctance now denying;\\nEach charm she varied to retain\\nA varying heart and all in vain\\nThus in the garden s narrow bound\\nFlanked by some castle s Gothic round, 80\\nFain would the artist s skill provide\\nThe limits of his realms to hide.\\nThe walks in labyrinths he twines,\\nShade after shade with skill combines\\nWith many a varied flowery knot,\\nAnd copse and arbor, decks the spot,\\nTempting the hasty foot to stay\\nAnd linger on the lovely way\\nVain art vain hope t is fruitless all\\nAt length we reach the bounding wall 90\\nAnd, sick of flower and trim-dressed tree,\\nLong for rough glades and forest free.\\nVI\\nThree summer months had scantly flown\\nWhen Arthur in embarrassed tone\\nSpoke of his liegemen and his throne;\\nSaid all too long had been his stay,\\nAnd duties which a monarch sway,\\nDuties unknown to humbler men,\\nMust tear her knight from Guendolen.\\nShe listened silently the while, 100\\nHer mood expressed in bitter smile\\nBeneath her eye must Arthur quail\\nAnd oft resume the unfinished tale,\\nConfessing by his downcast eye\\nThe wrong he sought to justify.\\nHe ceased. A moment mute she gazed.\\nAnd then her looks to heaven she raised;\\nOne palm her temples veiled to hide\\nThe tear that sprung in spite of pride;\\nThe other for an instant pressed no\\nThe foldings of her silken vest\\nVII\\nAt her reproachful sign and look,\\nThe hint the monarch s conscience took.\\nEager he spoke No, lady, no\\nDeem not of British Arthur so,\\nNor think he can deserter prove\\nTo the dear pledge of mutual love.\\nI swear by sceptre and by sword,\\nAs belted knight and Britain s lord,\\nThat if a boy shall claim my care, 120\\nThat boy is born a kingdom s heir;\\nBut, if a maiden Fate allows,\\nTo choose that mate a fitting spouse,\\nA summer-day in lists shall strive\\nMy knights the bravest knights alive\\nAnd he, the best and bravest tried,\\nShall Arthur s daughter claim for bride.\\nHe spoke with voice resolved and high\\nThe lady deigned him not reply.\\nVIII\\nAt dawn of morn ere on the brake 130\\nHis matins did a warbler make\\nOr stirred his wing to brush away\\nA single dew-drop from the spray,\\nEre yet a sunbeam through the mist\\nThe castle-battlements had kissed,\\nThe gates revolve, the drawbridge falls,\\nAnd Arthur sallies from the walls.\\nDoffed his soft garb of Persia s loom,\\nAnd steel from spur to helmet plume,\\nHis Lybian steed full proudly trode, 140\\nAnd joyful neighed beneath his load.\\nThe monarch gave a passing sigh\\nTo penitence and pleasures by,\\nWhen, lo to his astonished ken\\nAppeared the form of Guendolen.\\nIX\\nBeyond the outmost wall she stood,\\nAttired like huntress of the wood:\\nSandalled her feet, her ankles bare,\\nAnd eagle-plumage decked her hair;\\nFirm was her look, her bearing bold, 150\\nAnd in her hand a cup of gold.\\nThou goest she said, and ne er again\\nMust we two meet in joy or pain.\\nFull fain would I this hour delay,\\nThough weak the wish yet wilt thou stay\\nNo thou look st forward. Still attend,\\nPart we like lover and like friend.\\nShe raised the cup Not this the juice\\nThe sluggish vines of earth produce;\\nPledge we at parting in the draught 160\\nWhich Genii love she said and\\nquaffed\\nAnd strange unwonted lustres fly\\nFrom her flushed cheek and sparkling eye.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0326.jp2"}, "325": {"fulltext": "CANTO SECOND\\n95\\nThe courteous monarch bent him low\\nAnd, stooping down from saddlebow,\\nLifted the cup in act to drink.\\nA drop escaped the goblet s brink\\nIntense as liquid fire from hell,\\nUpon the charger s neck it fell.\\nScreaming with agony and fright, 170\\nHe bolted twenty feet upright\\nThe peasant still can show the dint\\nWhere his hoofs lighted on. the flint.\\nFrom Arthur s hand the goblet flew,\\nScattering a shower of fiery dew\\nThat burned and blighted where it fell\\nThe frantic steed rushed up the dell,\\nAs whistles from the bow the reed;\\nNor bit nor rein could check his speed\\nUntil he gained the hill; 180\\nThen breath and sinew failed apace,\\nAnd, reeling from the desperate race,\\nHe stood exhausted, still.\\nThe monarch, breathless and amazed,\\nBack on the fatal castle gazed\\nNor tower nor donjon could he spy,\\nDarkening against the morning sky;\\nBut on the spot where once they frowned\\nThe lonely streamlet brawled around\\nA tufted knoll, where dimly shone 190\\nFragments of rock and rifted stone.\\nMusing on this strange hap the while,\\nThe king wends back to fair Carlisle;\\nAnd cares that cumber royal sway\\nWore memory of the past away.\\nFull fifteen years and more were sped,\\nEach brought new wreaths to Arthur s head.\\nTwelve bloody fields with glory fought\\nThe Saxons to subjection brought:\\nRython, the mighty giant, slain 200\\nBy his good brand, relieved Bretagne:\\nThe Pictish Gillamore in fight\\nAnd Roman Lucius owned his might;\\nAnd wide were through the world renowned\\nThe glories of his Table Round.\\nEach knight who sought adventurous fame\\nTo the bold court of Britain came,\\nAnd all who suffered causeless wrong,\\nFrom tyrant proud or faitour strong,\\nSought Arthur s presence to complain, 210\\nNor there for aid implored in vain.\\nFor this the king with pomp and pride\\nHeld solemn court at Whitsuntide,\\nAnd summoned prince and peer,\\nAll who owed homage for their land,\\nOr who craved knighthood from his hand,\\nOr who had succour to demand,\\nTo come from far and near.\\nAt such high tide were glee and game\\nMingled with feats of martial fame, 220\\nFor many a stranger champion came\\nIn lists to break a spear;\\nAnd not a knight of Arthur s host,\\nSave that he trode some foreign coast,\\nBut at this feast of Pentecost\\nBefore him must appear.\\nAh, minstrels when the Table Round\\nArose with all its warriors crowned,\\nThere was a theme for bards to sound\\nIn triumph to their string 1 230\\nFive hundred years are past and gone,\\nBut time shall draw his dying groan\\nEre he behold the British throne\\nBegirt with such a ring\\nXIII\\nThe heralds named the appointed spot,\\nAs Caerleon or Camelot,\\nOr Carlisle fair and free.\\nAt Penrith now the feast was set,\\nAnd in fair Eamont s vale were met\\nThe flower of chivalry. 240\\nThere Galaad sate with manly grace,\\nYet maiden meekness in his face;\\nThere Morolt of the iron mace,\\nAnd love-lorn Tristrem there;\\nAnd Dinadam with lively glance,\\nAnd Lanval with the fairy lance,\\nAnd Mordred with his look askance,\\nBrunor and Bevidere.\\nWhy should I tell of numbers more\\nSir Cay, Sir Bannier, and Sir Bore, 250\\nSir Carodac the keen,\\nThe gentle Gawain s courteous lore,\\nHector de Mares and Pellinore,\\nAnd Lancelot, that evermore\\nLooked stolen- wise on the queen.\\nWhen wine and mirth did most abound\\nAnd harpers played their blithest round,\\nA shrilly trumpet shook the ground\\nAnd marshals cleared the ring;\\nA maiden on a palfrey white, 260\\nHeading a band of damsels bright,\\nPaced through the circle to alight\\nAnd kneel before the king.\\nArthur with strong emotion saw", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0327.jp2"}, "326": {"fulltext": "296\\nTHE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN\\nHer graceful boldness checked by awe,\\nHer dress like huntress of the wold,\\nHer bow and baldric trapped with gold,\\nHer sandalled feet, her ankles bare,\\nAnd the eagle-plume that decked her hair.\\nGraceful her veil she backward flung 270\\nThe king, as from his seat he sprung,\\nAlmost cried, Guendolen\\nBut t was a face more frank and wild,\\nBetwixt the woman and the child,\\nWhere less of magic beauty smiled\\nThan of the race of men;\\nAnd in the forehead s haughty grace\\nThe lines of Britain s royal race,\\nPendragon s you might ken.\\nXV\\nFaltering, yet gracefully she said 280\\nGreat Prince behold an orphan maid,\\nIn her departed mother s name,\\nA father s vowed protection claim\\nThe vow was sworn in desert lone\\nIn the deep valley of Saint John.\\nAt once the king the suppliant raised,\\nAnd kissed her brow, her beauty praised;\\nHis vow, he said, should well be kept,\\nEre in the sea the sun was dipped,\\nThen conscious glanced upon his queen: 290\\nBut she, unruffled at the scene\\nOf human frailty construed mild,\\nLooked upon Lancelot and smiled.\\nUp up each knight of gallant crest\\nTake buckler, spear, and brand\\nHe that to-day shall bear him best\\nShall win my Gyneth s hand.\\nAnd Arthur s daughter when a bride\\nShall bring a noble dower,\\nBoth fair Strath-Clyde and Reged wide, 300\\nAnd Carlisle town and tower.\\nThen might you hear each valiant knight\\nTo page and squire that cried,\\nBring my armor bright and my courser\\nwight\\nT is not each day that a warrior s might\\nMay win a royal bride.\\nThen cloaks and caps of maintenance\\nIn haste aside they fling;\\nThe helmets glance and gleams the lance,\\nAnd the steel- weaved hauberks ring. 310\\nSmall care had they of their peaceful array,\\nThey might gather it that wolde;\\nFor brake and bramble glittered gay\\nWith pearls and cloth of gold.\\nXVII\\nWithin trumpet sound of the Table Round,\\nWere fifty champions free,\\nAnd they all arise to fight that prize,\\nThey all arise but three.\\nNor love s fond troth nor wedlock s oath\\nOne gallant could withhold, 320\\nFor priests will allow of a broken vow\\nFor penance or for gold.\\nBut sigh and glance from ladies bright\\nAmong the troop were thrown,\\nTo plead their right and true-love plight,\\nAnd plain of honor flown.\\nThe knights they busied them so fast\\nWith buckling spur and belt\\nThat sigh and look by ladies cast\\nWere neither seen nor felt. 33c\\nFrom pleading or upbraiding glance\\nEach gallant turns aside,\\nAnd only thought, If speeds my lance,\\nA queen becomes my bride\\nShe has fair Strath -Clyde and Reged\\nwide,\\nAnd Carlisle tower and town;\\nShe is the loveliest maid, beside,\\nThat ever heired a crown.\\nSo in haste their coursers they bestride\\nAnd strike their visors down. 34 o\\nThe champions, armed in martial sort,\\nHave thronged into the list,\\nAnd but three knights of Arthur s court\\nAre from the tourney missed.\\nAnd still these lovers fame survives\\nFor faith so constant shown,\\nThere were two who loved their neighbors\\nwives,\\nAnd one who loved his own.\\nThe first was Lancelot de Lac,\\nThe second Tristrem bold, 350\\nThe third was valiant Carodac,\\nWho won the cup of gold\\nWhat time, of all King Arthur s crew\\nThereof came jeer and laugh\\nHe, as the mate of lady true,\\nAlone the cup could quaff.\\nThough envy s tongue would fain surmise\\nThat, but for very shame,\\nSir Carodac to fight that prize\\nHad given both cup and dame, 360\\nYet, since but one of that fair court\\nWas true to wedlock s shrine,\\nBrand him who will with base report,\\nHe shall be free from mine.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0328.jp2"}, "327": {"fulltext": "CANTO SECOND\\n297\\nNow caracoled the steeds in air,\\nNow plumes and pennons wantoned fair,\\nAs all around the lists so wide\\nIn panoply the champions ride.\\nKing Arthur saw with startled eye\\nThe flower of chivalry march by, 370\\nThe bulwark of the Christian creed,\\nThe kingdom s shield in hour of need.\\nToo late he thought him of the woe\\nMight from their civil conflict flow;\\nFor well he knew they would not part\\nTill cold was many a gallant heart.\\nHis hasty vow he gan to rue,\\nAnd G-yneth then apart he drew;\\nTo her his leading-staff resigned,\\nBut added caution grave and kind. 380\\nXX\\nj Thou see st, my child, as promise-bound,\\nI bid the trump for tourney sound.\\nTake thou my warder as the queen\\nAnd umpire of the martial scene;\\nBut mark thou this: as Beauty bright\\nIs polar star to valiant knight,\\nAs at her word his sword he draws,\\nHis fairest guerdon her applause,\\nSo gentle maid should never ask\\nOf knighthood vain and dangerous task; 390\\nAnd Beauty s eyes should ever be\\nLike the twin stars that soothe the sea,\\nAnd Beauty s breath should whisper peace\\nAnd bid the storm of battle cease.\\nI tell thee this lest all too far\\nThese knights urge tourney into war.\\nBlithe at the trumpet let them go,\\nAnd fairly counter blow for blow;\\nNo striplings these, who succor need\\nFor a razed helm or falling steed. 400\\nBut, Gyneth, when the strife grows\\nwarm\\nAnd threatens death or deadly harm,\\nThy sire entreats, thy king commands,\\nThou drop the warder from thy hands.\\nTrust thou thy father with thy fate,\\nDoubt not he choose thee fitting mate;\\nNor be it said through Gyneth s pride\\nA rose of Arthur s chaplet died.\\nA proud and discontented glow\\nO ershadowed Gyneth s brow of snow; 410\\nShe put the warder by:\\nReserve thy boon, my liege, she said,\\nThus chaffered down and limited,\\nDebased and narrowed for a maid\\nOf less degree than I.\\nNo petty chief but holds his heir\\nAt a more honored price and rare\\nThan Britain s King holds me\\nAlthough the sun-burned maid for dower\\nHas but her father s rugged tower, 420\\nHis barren hill and lee.\\nKing Arthur swore, By crown and sword,\\nAs belted knight and Britain s lord,\\nThat a whole summer s day should strive\\nHis knights, the bravest knights alive\\nRecall thine oath and to her glen\\nPoor Gyneth can return agen;\\nNot on thy daughter will the stain\\nThat soils thy sword and crown remain.\\nBut think not she will e er be bride 430\\nSave to the bravest, proved and tried\\nPendragon s daughter will not fear\\nFor clashing sword or splintered spear,\\nNor shrink though blood should flow;\\nAnd all too well sad Guendolen\\nHath taught the faithlessness of men\\nThat child of hers should pity when\\nTheir meed they undergo.\\nXXII\\nHe frowned and sighed, the monarch\\nbold:\\nI give what I may not withhold; 440\\nFor, not for danger, dread, or death,\\nMust British Arthur break his faith.\\nToo late I mark thy mother s art\\nHath taught thee this relentless part.\\nI blame her not, for she had wroug,\\nBut not to these my faults belong.\\nUse then the warder as thou wilt;\\nBut trust me that, if life be spilt,\\nIn Arthur s love, in Arthur s grace,\\nGyneth shall lose a daughter s place. 450\\nWith that he turned his head aside,\\nNor brooked to gaze upon her pride,\\nAs with the truncheon raised she sate\\nThe arbitress of mortal fate;\\nNor brooked to mark in ranks disposed\\nHow the bold champions stood opposed,\\nFor shrill the trumpet-flourish fell\\nUpon his ear like passing bell\\nThen first from sight of martial fray\\nDid Britain s hero turn away. 460\\nXXIII\\nBut Gyneth heard the clangor high\\nAs hears the hawk the partridge cry.\\nO, blame her not the blood was hers", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0329.jp2"}, "328": {"fulltext": "298\\nTHE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN\\nThat at the trumpet s summons stirs\\nAnd e en the gentlest female eye\\nMight the brave strife of chivalry\\nAwhile untroubled view;\\nSo well accomplished was each knight\\nTo strike and to defend in fight,\\nTheir meeting was a goodly sight 470\\nWhile plate and mail held true.\\nThe lists with painted plumes were strown,\\nUpon the wind at random thrown,\\nBut helm and breastplate bloodless shone,\\nIt seemed their feathered crests alone\\nShould this encounter rue.\\nAnd ever, as the combat grows,\\nThe trumpet s cheery voice arose,\\nLike lark s shrill song the flourish flows,\\nHeard while the gale of April blows 480\\nThe merry greenwood through.\\nXXIV\\nBut soon to earnest grew their game,\\nThe spears drew blood, the swords struck\\nflame,\\nAnd, horse and man, to ground there\\ncame\\nKnights who shall rise no more\\nGone was the pride the war that graced,\\nGay shields were cleft and crests defaced,\\nAnd steel coats riven and helms unbraced,\\nAnd pennons streamed with gore.\\nGone too were fence and fair array, 490\\nAnd desperate strength made deadly way\\nAt random through the bloody fray,\\nAnd blows were dealt with headlong sway,\\nUnheeding where they fell;\\nAnd now the trumpet s clamors seem\\nLike the shrill sea-bird s wailing scream\\nHeard o er the whirlpool s gulfing stream,\\nThe sinking seaman s knell\\nXXV\\nSeemed in this dismal hour that Fate\\nWould Camlan s ruin antedate, 500\\nAnd spare dark Mordred s crime;\\nAlready gasping on the ground\\nLie twenty of the Table Round,\\nOf chivalry the prime.\\nArthur in anguish tore away\\nFrom head and beard his tresses gray,\\nAnd she, proud Gyneth, felt dismay\\nAnd quaked with ruth and fear;\\nBut still she deemed her mother s shade\\nHung o er the tumult, and forbade 510\\nThe sign that had the slaughter staid,\\nAnd chid the rising tear.\\n520\\nThen Brunor, Taulas, Mador, fell,\\nHelias the White, and Lionel,\\nAnd many a champion more;\\nRochemont and Dinadam are down,\\nAnd Ferrand of the Forest Brown\\nLies gasping in his gore.\\nVanoc, by mighty Morolt pressed\\nEven to the confines of the list,\\nYoung Vanoc of the beardless face\\nFame spoke the youth of Merlin s race\\nO erpowered at Gyneth s footstool bled,\\nHis heart s-blood dyed her sandals red.\\nBut then the sky was overcast,\\nThen howled at once a whirlwind s blast,\\nAnd, rent by sudden throes,\\nYawned in mid lists the quaking earth,\\nAnd from the gulf tremendous birth\\nThe form of Merlin rose. 53\\nXXVI\\nSternly the Wizard Prophet eyed\\nThe dreary lists with slaughter dyed,\\nAnd sternly raised his hand:\\nMadmen, he said, your strife for\\nbear\\nAnd thou, fair cause of mischief, hear\\nThe doom thy fates demand\\nLong shall close in stony sleep\\nEyes for ruth that would not weep;\\nIron lethargy shall seal\\nHeart that pity scorned to feel. 540\\nYet, because thy mother s art\\nWarped thine unsuspicious heart,\\nAnd for love of Arthur s race\\nPunishment is blent with grace,\\nThou shalt bear thy penance lone\\nIn the Valley of Saint John,\\nAnd this weird shall overtake thee;\\nSleep until a knight shall wake thee,\\nFor feats of arms as far renowned\\nAs warrior of the Table Round. 5\\nLong endurance of thy slumber\\nWell may teach the world to number\\nAll their woes from Gyneth s pride,\\nWhen the Red Cross champions died.\\nXXVII\\nAs Merlin speaks, on Gyneth s eye\\nSlumber s load begins to lie;\\nFear and anger vainly strive\\nStill to keep its light alive.\\nTwice with effort and with pause\\nO er her brow her hand she draws; 560\\nTwice her strength in vain she tries\\nFrom the fatal chair to rise;", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0330.jp2"}, "329": {"fulltext": "CANTO SECOND\\n299\\nMerlin s magic doom is spoken,\\nVanoc s death must now be wroken.\\nSlow the dark-fringed eyelids fall,\\nCurtaining each azure ball,\\nSlowly as on summer eves\\nViolets fold their dusky leaves.\\nThe weighty baton of command\\nNow bears down her sinking hand, 570\\nOn her shoulder droops her head;\\nNet of pearl and golden thread\\nBursting gave her locks to flow\\nO er her arm and breast of snow.\\nAnd so lovely seemed she there,\\nSpell-bound in her ivory chair,\\nThat her angry sire repenting,\\nCraved stern Merlin for relenting,\\nAnd the champions for her sake\\nWould again the contest wake; 580\\nTill in necromantic night\\nGyneth vanished from their sight.\\nXXVIII\\nStill she bears her weird alone\\nIn the Valley of Saint John;\\nAnd her semblance oft will seem,\\nMingling in a champion s dream,\\nOf her weary lot to plain\\nAnd crave his aid to burst her chain.\\nWhile her wondrous tale was new\\nWarriors to her rescue drew,\\nEast and west, and south and north\\nFrom the Liffy, Thames, and Forth.\\nMost have sought in vain the glen,\\nTower nor castle could they ken;\\nNot at every time or tide,\\nNor by every eye, descried.\\nFast and vigil must be borne,\\nMany a night in watching worn,\\nEre an eye of mortal powers\\nCan discern those magic towers. 600\\nOf the persevering few\\nSome from hopeless task withdrew\\nWhen they read the dismal threat\\nGraved upon the gloomy gate.\\nFew have braved the yawning door,\\nAnd those few returned no more.\\nIn the lapse of time forgot,\\nWellnigh lost is Gyneth s lot;\\nSound her sleep as in the tomb\\nTill wakened by the trump of doom. 610\\nEND OF LYULPH S TALE\\nHere pause, my tale for all too soon,\\nMy Lucy, comes the hour of noon.\\n590\\nAlready from thy lofty dome\\nIts courtly inmates gin to roam,\\nAnd each, to kill the goodly day\\nThat God has granted them, his way\\nOf lazy sauntering has sought;\\nLordlings and witlings not a few,\\nIncapable of doing aught,\\nYet ill at ease with nought to do. 620\\nHere is no longer place for me;\\nFor, Lucy, thou wouldst blush to see\\nSome phantom fashionably thin,\\nWith limb of lath and kerchiefed chin,\\nAnd lounging gape or sneering grin,\\nSteal sudden on our privacy.\\nAnd how should I, so humbly born,\\nEndure the graceful spectre s scorn\\nFaith ill, I fear, while conjuring wand\\nOf English oak is hard at hand. 630\\nOr grant the hour be all too soon\\nFor Hessian boot and pantaloon,\\nAnd grant the lounger seldom strays\\nBeyond the smooth and gravelled maze,\\nLaud we the gods that Fashion s train\\nHolds hearts of more adventurous strain.\\nArtists are hers who scorn to trace\\nTheir rules from Nature s boundless grace,\\nBut their right paramount assert\\nTo limit her by pedant art, 640\\nDamning whate er of vast and fair\\nExceeds a canvas three feet square.\\nThis thicket, for their gumption fit,\\nMay furnish such a happy bit.\\nBards too are hers, wont to recite\\nTheir own sweet lays by waxen light,\\nHalf in the salver s tingle drowned,\\nWhile the chasse-cafe glides around;\\nAnd such may hither secret stray\\nTo labor an extempore: 650\\nOr sportsman with his boisterous hollo\\nMay here his wiser spaniel follow,\\nOr stage-struck Juliet may presume\\nTo choose this bower for tiring-room;\\nAnd we alike must shun regard\\nFrom painter, player, sportsman, bard.\\nInsects that skim in fashion s sky,\\nWasp, blue-bottle, or butterfly,\\nLucy, have all alarms for us,\\nFor all can hum and all can buzz. 660\\nill\\nBut O, my Lucy, say how long\\nWe still must dread this trifling throng,\\nAnd stoop to hide with coward art\\nThe genuine feelings of the heart", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0331.jp2"}, "330": {"fulltext": "3\u00c2\u00b0\u00c2\u00b0\\nTHE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN\\nNo parents thine whose just command\\nShould rule their child s obedient hand;\\nThy guardians with contending voice\\nPress each his individual choice.\\nAnd which is Lucy s Can it be\\nThat puny fop, trimmed cap-a-pee, 670\\nWho loves in the saloon to show\\nThe arms that never knew a foe;\\nWhose sabre trails along the ground,\\nWhose legs in shapeless boots are drowned;\\nA new Achilles, sure the steel\\nFled from his breast to fence his heel;\\nOne, for the simple manly grace\\nThat wont to deck our martial race,\\nWho comes in foreign trashery\\nOf tinkling chain and spur, 680\\nA walking haberdashery\\nOf feathers, lace, and fur:\\nIn Rowley s antiquated phrase,\\nHorse-milliner of modern days\\nOr is it he, the wordy youth,\\nSo early trained for statesman s\\npart,\\nWho talks of honor, faith and truth,\\nAs themes that he has got by heart;\\nWhose ethics Chesterfield can teach,\\nWhose logic is from Single-speech; 690\\nWho scorns the meanest thought to vent\\nSave in the phrase of Parliament;\\nWho, in a tale of cat and mouse,\\nCalls order, and divides the house,\\nWho craves permission to reply,\\nWhose noble friend is in his eye\\nWhose loving tender some have reckoned\\nA motion you should gladly second\\nWhat, neither Can there be a third,\\nTo such resistless swains preferred 700\\nO why, my Lucy, turn aside\\nWith that quick glance of injured pride\\nForgive me, love, I cannot bear\\nThat altered and resentful air.\\nWere all the wealth of Russel mine\\nAnd all the rank of Howard s line,\\nAll would I give for leave to dry\\nThat dew-drop trembling in thine eye.\\nThink not I fear such fops can wile\\nFrom Lucy more than careless smile; 710\\nBut yet if wealth and high degree\\nGive gilded counters currency,\\nMust I not fear when rank and birth\\n720\\nStamp the pure ore of genuine worth\\nNobles there are whose martial fires\\nRival the fame that raised their sires,\\nAnd patriots, skilled through storms of\\nfate\\nTo guide and guard the reeling state.\\nSuch, such there are If such should\\ncome,\\nArthur must tremble and be dumb,\\nSelf-exiled seek some distant shore,\\nAnd mourn till life and grief are o er.\\nWhat sight, what signal of alarm,\\nThat Lucy clings to Arthur s arm\\nOr is it that the rugged way\\nMakes Beauty lean on lover s stay\\nO, no for on the vale and brake\\nNor sight nor sounds of danger wake,\\nAnd this trim sward of velvet green\\nWere carpet for the Fairy Queen.\\nThat pressure slight was but to tell\\nThat Lucy loves her Arthur well,\\nAnd fain would banish from his mind\\nSuspicious fear and doubt unkind.\\nBut wouldst thou bid the demons fly\\nLike mist before the dawning sky,\\nThere is but one resistless spell\\nSay, wilt thou guess or must I tell\\nT were hard to name in minstrel phrase\\nA landaulet and four blood-bays, 740\\nBut bards agree this wizard band\\nCan but be bound in Northern land.\\nTis there nay, draw not back thy\\nhand\\nT is there this slender finger round\\nMust golden amulet be bound,\\nWhich, blessed with many a holy prayer,\\nCan change to rapture lovers care,\\nAnd doubt and jealousy shall die,\\nAnd fears give place to ecstasy.\\nVIII\\nNow, trust me, Lucy, all too long\\nHas been thy lover s tale aud song.\\nO, why so silent, love, I pray\\nHave I not spoke the livelong day\\nAnd will not Lucy deign to say\\nOne word her friend to bless\\nI ask but one a simple sound,\\nWithin three little letters bound\\nO, let the word be YES\\n750", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0332.jp2"}, "331": {"fulltext": "CANTO THIRD: INTRODUCTION\\n301\\nCANTO THIRD\\nINTRODUCTION\\nLong loved, long wooed, and lately won,\\nMy life s best hope, and now mine own\\nDoth not this rude and Alpine glen\\nRecall our favorite haunts agen\\nA wild resemblance we can trace,\\nThough reft of every softer grace,\\nAs the rough warrior s brow may bear\\nA likeness to a sister fair.\\nFull well advised our Highland host\\nThat this wild pass on foot be crossed, 10\\nWhile round Ben-Cruaeh s mighty base\\nWheel the slow steeds and lingering\\nchase.\\nThe keen old carle, with Scottish pride\\nHe praised his glen and mountains wide;\\nAn eye he bears for nature s face,\\nAy, and for woman s lovely grace.\\nEven in such mean degree we find\\nThe subtle Scot s observing mind;\\nFor nor the chariot nor the train\\nCould gape of vulgar wonder gain, 20\\nBut when old Allan would expound\\nOf Beal-na-paish the Celtic sound,\\nHis bonnet doffed and bow applied\\nHis legend to my bonny bride;\\nWhile Lucy blushed beneath his eye,\\nCourteous and cautious, shrewd and sly.\\nEnough of him. Now, ere we lose,\\nPlunged in the vale, the distant views,\\nTurn thee, my love look back once\\nmore\\nTo the blue lake s retiring shore. 30\\nOn its smooth breast the shadows seem\\nLike objects in a morning dream,\\nWhat time the slumberer is aware\\nHe sleeps and all the vision s air:\\nEven so on yonder liquid lawn,\\nIn hues of bright reflection drawn,\\nDistinct the shaggy mountains lie,\\nDistinct the rocks, distinct the sky;\\nThe summer-clouds so plain we note\\nThat we might count each dappled spot: 40\\nWe gaze and we admire, yet know\\nThe scene is all delusive show.\\nSuch dreams of bliss would Arthur draw\\nWhen first his Lucy s form he saw,\\nYet sighed and sickened as he drew,\\nDespairing they could e er prove true\\nin\\nBut, Lucy, turn thee now to view\\nUp the fair glen our destined way:\\nThe fairy path that we pursue,\\nDistinguished but by greener hue, 50\\nWinds round the purple brae,\\nWhile Alpine flowers of varied dye\\nFor carpet serve or tapestry.\\nSee how the little runnels leap\\nIn threads of silver down the steep\\nTo swell the brooklet s moan\\nSeems that the Highland Naiad grieves,\\nFantastic while her crown she weaves\\nOf rowan, birch, and alder leaves,\\nSo lovely and so lone. 60\\nThere s no illusion there; these flowers,\\nThat wailing brook, these lovely bowers,\\nAre, Lucy, all our own;\\nAnd, since thine Arthur called thee wife,\\nSuch seems the prospect of his life,\\nA lovely path on-winding still\\nBy gurgling brook and sloping hill.\\nT is true that mortals cannot tell\\nWhat waits them in the distant dell;\\nBut be it hap or be it harm, 70\\nWe tread the pathway arm in arm.\\nAnd now, my Lucy, wot st thou why\\nI could thy bidding twice deny,\\nWhen twice you prayed I would again\\nResume the legendary strain\\nOf the bold knight of Triermain\\nAt length yon peevish vow you swore\\nThat you would sue to me no more,\\nUntil the minstrel fit drew near\\nAnd made me prize a listening ear. 80\\nBut, loveliest, when thou first didst pray\\nContinuance of the knightly lay,\\nWas it not on the happy day\\nThat made thy hand mine own\\nWhen, dizzied with mine ecstasy,\\nNought past, or present, or to be,\\nCould I or think on, hear, or see,\\nSave, Lucy, thee alone\\nA giddy draught my rapture was\\nAs ever chemist s magic gas. 90\\nAgain the summons I denied\\nIn yon fair capital of Clyde:\\nMy harp or let me rather choose\\nThe good old classic form my Muse\\nFor harp s an over-scutched phrase,\\nWorn out by bards of modern days", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0333.jp2"}, "332": {"fulltext": "302\\nTHE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN\\nMy Muse, then seldom will she wake,\\nSave by dim wood and silent lake;\\nShe is the wild and rustic maid\\nWhose foot unsandalled loves to tread ic\\nWhere the soft greensward is inlaid\\nWith varied moss and thyme;\\nAnd, lest the simple lily-braid,\\nThat coronets her temples, fade,\\nShe hides her still in greenwood shade\\nTo meditate her rhyme.\\nVI\\nAnd now she comes The murmur dear\\nOf the wild brook hath caught her ear,\\nThe glade hath won her eye;\\nShe longs to join with each blithe rill u\\nThat dances down the Highland hill\\nHer blither melody.\\nAnd now my Lucy s way to cheer\\nShe bids Ben-Cruach s echoes hear\\nHow closed the tale my love whilere\\nLoved for its chivalry.\\nList how she tells in notes of flame\\nChild Roland to the dark tower came\\nCANTO THIRD\\nBewcastle now must keep the hold,\\nSpeir-Adam s steeds must bide in stall,\\nOf Hartley-burn the bowmen bold\\nMust only shoot from battled wall;\\nAnd Liddesdale may buckle spur,\\nAnd Teviot now may belt the brand,\\nTarras and Ewes keep nightly stir,\\nAnd Eskdale foray Cumberland.\\nOf wasted fields and plundered flocks\\nThe Borderers bootless may complain; 10\\nThey lack the sword of brave De Vaux,\\nThere comes no aid from Triermain.\\nThat lord on high adventure bound\\nHath wandered forth alone,\\nAnd day and night keeps watchful round\\nIn the Valley of Saint John.\\nAVhen first began his vigil bold\\nThe moon twelve summer nights was old\\nAnd shone both fair and full;\\nHigh in the vault of cloudless blue, 2c\\nO er streamlet, dale, and rock, she threw\\nHer light composed and cool.\\nStretched on the brown hill s heathy breast,\\nSir Roland eyed the vale\\nChief where, distinguished from the rest,\\nThose clustering rocks upreared their\\ncrest,\\nThe dwelling of the fair distressed,\\nAs told gray Lyulph s tale.\\nThus as he lay, the lamp of night\\nWas quivering on his armor bright\\nIn beams that rose and fell,\\nAnd danced upon his buckler s boss\\nThat lay beside him on the moss\\nAs on a crystal well.\\nIll\\nEver he watched and oft he deemed,\\nWhile on the mound the moonlight\\nstreamed,\\nIt altered to his eyes;\\nFain would he hope the rocks gan change\\nTo buttressed walls their shapeless range,\\nFain think by transmutation strange 40\\nHe saw gray turrets rise.\\nBut scarce his heart with hope throbbed\\nhigh\\nBefore the wild illusions fly\\nWhich fancy had conceived,\\nAbetted by an anxious eye\\nThat longed to be deceived.\\nIt was a fond deception all,\\nSuch as in solitary hall\\nBeguiles the musing eye\\nWhen, gazing on the sinking fire, 50\\nBulwark, and battlement, and spire\\nIn the red gulf we spy.\\nFor, seen by moon of middle night,\\nOr by the blaze of noontide bright,\\nOr by the dawn of morning light,\\nOr evening s western flame,\\nIn every tide, at every hour,\\nIn mist, in sunshine, and in shower,\\nThe rocks remained the same.\\nIV\\nOft has he traced the charmed mound, 60\\nOft climbed its crest or paced it round,\\nYet nothing might explore,\\nSave that the crags so rudely piled,\\nAt distance seen, resemblance wild\\nTo a rough fortress bore.\\nYet still his watch the warrior keeps,\\nFeeds hard and spare, and seldom sleeps,\\nAnd drinks but of the well\\nEver by day he walks the hill,\\nAnd when the evening gale is chill 70\\nHe seeks a rocky cell,\\nLike hermit poor to bid his bead,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0334.jp2"}, "333": {"fulltext": "CANTO THIRD\\n303\\nAnd tell his Ave and his Creed,\\nInvoking every saint at need\\nFor aid to burst his spell.\\nAnd now the moon her orb has hid\\nAnd dwindled to a silver thread,\\nDim seen in middle heaven,\\nWhile o er its curve careering fast\\nBefore the fury of the blast 80\\nThe midnight clouds are driven.\\nThe brooklet raved, for on the hills\\nThe upland showers had swoln the rills\\nAnd down the torrents came;\\nMuttered the distant thunder dread,\\nAnd frequent o er the vale was spread\\nA sheet of lightning flame.\\nDe Vaux within his mountain cave\\nISTo human step the storm durst brave\\nTo moody meditation gave 90\\nEach faculty of soul,\\nTill, lulled by distant torrent sound\\nAnd the sad winds that whistled round,\\nUpon his thoughts in musing drowned\\nA broken slumber stole.\\nVI\\nT was then was heard a heavy sound\\nSound, strange and fearful there to hear,\\nMongst desert hills where leagues around\\nDwelt but the gorcock and the deer.\\nAs, starting from his couch of fern, 100\\nAgain he heard in clangor stern\\nThat deep and solemn swell,\\nTwelve times in measured tone it spoke,\\nLike some proud minster s pealing clock\\nOr city s larum-bell.\\nWhat thought was Roland s first when\\nfell\\nIn that deep wilderness the knell\\nUpon his startled ear\\nTo slander warrior were I loath,\\nYet must I hold my minstrel troth no\\nIt was a thought of fear.\\nBut lively was the mingled thrill\\nThat chased that momentary chill,\\nFor Love s keen wish was there,\\nAnd eager Hope, and Valor high,\\nAnd the proud glow of Chivalry\\nThat burned to do and dare.\\nForth from the cave the warrior rushed,\\nLong ere the mountain-voice was hushed\\nThat answered to the knell; 1\\nFor long and far the unwonted sound,\\nEddying in echoes round and round,\\nWas tossed from fell to fell\\nAnd Glaramara answer flung,\\nAnd Grisdale-pike responsive rung,\\nAnd Legbert heights their echoes swung\\nAs far as Derwent s dell.\\nVIII\\nForth upon trackless darkness gazed\\nThe knight, bedeafened and amazed,\\nTill all was hushed and still, 130\\nSave the swoln torrent s sullen roar,\\nAnd the night-blast that wildly bore\\nIts course along the hill.\\nThen on the northern sky there came\\nA light as of reflected flame,\\nAnd over Legbert-head,\\nAs if by magic art controlled,\\nA mighty meteor slowly rolled\\nIts orb of fiery red;\\nThou wouldst have thought some demon dire\\nCame mounted on that car of fire 14 1\\nTo do his errand dread.\\nFar on the sloping valley s course,\\nOn thicket, rock, and torrent hoarse,\\nShingle and Scrae, and Fell and Force,\\nA dusky light arose:\\nDisplayed, yet altered was the scene;\\nDark rock, and brook of silver sheen,\\nEven the gay thicket s summer green,\\nIn bloody tincture glows. 150\\nIX\\nDe Vaux had marked the sunbeams set\\nAt eve upon the coronet\\nOf that enchanted mound,\\nAnd seen but crags at random flung,\\nThat, o er the brawling torrent hung,\\nIn desolation frowned.\\nWhat sees he by that meteor s lour\\nA bannered castle, keep, and tower\\nReturn the lurid gleam,\\nWith battled walls and buttress fast, 160\\nAnd barbican and ballium vast,\\nAnd airy flanking towers that cast\\nTheir shadows on the stream.\\nT is no deceit distinctly clear\\nCrenell and parapet appear,\\nWhile o er the pile that meteor drear\\nMakes momentary pause;\\nThen forth its solemn path it drew,\\nAnd fainter yet and fainter grew\\nThose gloomy towers upon the view, 170\\nAs its wild light withdraws.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0335.jp2"}, "334": {"fulltext": "3\u00c2\u00b04\\nTHE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN\\nForth from the cave did Roland rush,\\nO er crag and stream, through brier and\\nbush;\\nYet far he had not sped\\nEre sunk was that portentous light\\nBehind the hills and utter night\\nWas on the valley spread.\\nHe paused perforce and blew his horn,\\nAnd, on the mountain-echoes borne,\\nWas heard an answering sound, 180\\nA wild and lonely trumpet note,\\nIn middle air it seemed to float\\nHigh o er the battled mound;\\nAnd sounds were heard as when a guard\\nOf some proud castle, holding ward,\\nPace forth their nightly round.\\nThe valiant Knight of Triermain\\nRung forth his challenge-blast again,\\nBut answer came there none;\\nAnd mid the mingled wind and rain 190\\nDarkling he sought the vale in vain,\\nUntil the dawning shone;\\nAnd when it dawned that wondrous\\nsight\\nDistinctly seen by meteor light,\\nIt all had passed away\\nAnd that enchanted mount once more\\nA pile of granite fragments bore\\nAs at the close of day.\\nXI\\nSteeled for the deed, De Yaux s heart\\nScorned from his vent rous quest to\\npart 200\\nHe walks the vale once more;\\nBut only sees by night or day\\nThat shattered pile of rocks so gray,\\nHears but the torrent s roar:\\nTill when, through hills of azure borne,\\nThe moon renewed her silver horn,\\nJust at the time her waning ray\\nHad faded in the dawning day,\\nA summer mist arose;\\nAdown the vale the vapors float, 210\\nAnd cloudy undulations moat\\nThat tufted mound of mystic note,\\nAs round its base they close.\\nAnd higher now the fleecy tide\\nAscends its stern and shaggy side,\\nUntil the airy billows hide\\nThe rock s majestic isle;\\nIt seemed a veil of filmy lawn,\\nBy some fantastic fairy drawn\\nAround enchanted pile. 220\\nThe breeze came softly down the brook,\\nAnd, sighing as it blew,\\nThe veil of silver mist it shook\\nAnd to De Vaux s eager look\\nRenewed that wondrous view.\\nFor, though the loitering vapor braved\\nThe gentle breeze, yet oft it waved\\nIts mantle s dewy fold;\\nAnd still when shook that filmy screen\\nWere towers and bastions dimly seen, 2\\nAnd Gothic battlements between\\nTheir gloomy length unrolled.\\nSpeed, speed, De Vaux, ere on thine eye\\nOnce more the fleeting vision die\\nThe gallant knight gan speed\\nAs prompt and light as, when the hound\\nIs opening and the horn is wound,\\nCareers the hunter s steed.\\nDown the steep dell his course amain\\nHath rivalled archer s shaft; 2\\nBut ere the mound he could attain\\nThe rocks their shapeless form regain,\\nAnd, mocking loud his labor vain,\\nThe mountain spirits laughed.\\nFar up the echoing dell was borne\\nTheir wild unearthly shout of scorn.\\nWroth waxed the warrior. Am I then\\nFooled by the enemies of men,\\nLike a poor hind whose homeward way\\nIs haunted by malicious fay 250\\nIs Triermain become your taunt,\\nDe Vaux your scorn False fiends,\\navaunt\\nA weighty curtal-axe he bare;\\nThe baleful blade so bright and square,\\nAnd the tough shaft of heben wood,\\nWere oft in Scottish gore imbrued.\\nBackward his stately form he drew,\\nAnd at the rocks the weapon threw\\nJust where one crag s projected crest\\nHung proudly balanced o er the rest. 260\\nHurled with main force the weapon s shock\\nRent a huge fragment of the rock.\\nIf by mere strength, t were hard to tell,\\nOr if the blow dissolved some spell,\\nBut down the headlong ruin came\\nWith cloud of dust and flash of flame.\\nDown bank, o er bush, its course was\\nborne,\\nCrushed lay the copse, the earth was torn,\\nTill staid at length the ruin dread\\nCumbered the torrent s rocky bed, 270", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0336.jp2"}, "335": {"fulltext": "CANTO THIRD\\n3o5\\nAnd bade the waters high-swoln tide\\nSeek other passage for its pride.\\nXIV\\nWhen ceased that thunder Triermain\\nSurveyed the mound s rude front again;\\nAnd lo the ruin had laid bare,\\nHewn in the stone, a winding stair\\nWhose mossed and fractured steps might\\nlend\\nThe means the summit to ascend;\\nAnd by whose aid the brave De Vaux\\nBegan to scale these magic rocks, 280\\nAnd soon a platform won\\nWhere, the wild witchery to close,\\nWithin three lances length arose\\nThe Castle of Saint John\\nNo misty phantom of the air,\\nNo meteor- blazoned show was there;\\nIn morning splendor full and fair\\nThe massive fortress shone.\\nEmbattled high and proudly towered,\\nShaded by ponderous flankers, lowered 290\\nThe portal s gloomy way.\\nThough for six hundred years and more\\nIts strength had brooked the tempest s\\nroar,\\nThe scutcheoned emblems which it bore\\nHad suffered no decay:\\nBut from the eastern battlement\\nA turret had made sheer descent,\\nAnd, down in recent ruin renO,\\nIn the mid torrent lay.\\nElse, o er the castle s brow sublime, 300\\nInsults of violence or of time\\nUnfelt had passed away.\\nIn shapeless characters of yore,\\nThe gate this stern inscription bore:\\nXVI\\nINSCRIPTION\\nPatience waits the destined day,\\nStrength can clear the cumbered way.\\nWarrior, who hast waited long,\\nFirm of soul, of sinew strong,\\nIt is given to thee to gaze\\nOn the pile of ancient days. 310\\nNever mortal builder s hand\\nThis enduring fabric planned;\\nSign and sigil, word of power,\\nFrom the earth raised keep and tower.\\nView it o er and pace it round,\\nRampart, turret, battled mound.\\nDare no more To cross the gate\\nWere to tamper with thy fate;\\nStrength and fortitude were vain,\\nView it o er and turn again. 320\\nXVII\\nThat would I, said the warrior bold,\\nIf that my frame were bent and old,\\nAnd my thin blood dropped slow and cold\\nAs icicle in thaw;\\nBut while my heart can feel it dance\\nBlithe as the sparkling wine of France,\\nAnd this good arm wields sword or lance,\\nI mock these words of awe\\nHe said; the wicket felt the sway\\nOf his strong hand and straight gave\\nway, 330\\nAnd with rude crash and jarring bray\\nThe rusty bolts withdraw\\nBut o er the threshold as he strode\\nAnd forward took the vaulted road,\\nAn unseen arm with force amain\\nThe ponderous gate flung close again,\\nAnd rusted bolt and bar\\nSpontaneous took their place once more\\nWhile the deep arch with sullen roar\\nReturned their surly jar. 34 o\\n1 Now closed is the gin and the prey within,\\nBy the Rood of Lanercost\\nBut he that would win the war-wolf s skin\\nMay rue him of his boast.\\nThus muttering on the warrior went\\nBy dubious light down steep descent.\\nXVIII\\nUnbarred, unlocked, unwatched, a port\\nLed to the castle s outer court:\\nThere the main fortress, broad and tall,\\nSpread its long range of bower and hall 350\\nAnd towers of varied size,\\nWrought with each ornament extreme\\nThat Gothic art in wildest dream\\nOf fancy could devise;\\nBut full between the warrior s way\\nAnd the main portal arch there lay\\nAn inner moat;\\nNor bridge nor boat\\nAffords De Vaux the means to cross\\nThe clear, profound, and silent fosse. 360\\nHis arms aside in haste he flings,\\nCuirass of steel and hauberk rings,\\nAnd down falls helm and down the shield,\\nRough with the dints of many a field.\\nFair was his manly form and fair", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0337.jp2"}, "336": {"fulltext": "306\\nTHE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN\\nHis keen dark eye and close curled hair,\\nWhen all unarmed save that the brand\\nOf well-proved metal graced his hand,\\nWith nought to fence his dauntless breast\\nBut the close gipon s under-vest, 370\\nWhose sullied buff the sable stains\\nOf hauberk and of mail retains,\\nRoland De Vaux upon the brim\\nOf the broad moat stood prompt to swim.\\nXIX\\nAccoutred thus he dared the tide,\\nAnd soon he reached the farther side\\nAnd entered soon the hold,\\nAnd paced a hall whose walls so wide\\nWere blazoned all with feats of pride\\nBy warriors done of old. 380\\nIn middle lists they countered here\\nWhile trumpets seemed to blow;\\nAnd there in den or desert drear\\nThey quelled gigantic foe,\\nBraved the fierce griffon in his ire,\\nOr faced the dragon s breath of fire.\\nStrange in their arms and strange in\\nface,\\nHeroes they seemed of ancient race,\\nWhose deeds of arms and race and name,\\nForgotten long by later fame, 390\\nWere here depicted to appall\\nThose of an age degenerate\\nWhose bold intrusion braved their fate\\nIn this enchanted hall.\\nFor some short space the venturous knight\\nWith these high marvels fed his sight,\\nThen sought the chamber s upper end\\nWhere three broad easy steps ascend\\nTo an arched portal door,\\nIn whose broad folding leaves of state 400\\nWas framed a wicket window-grate;\\nAnd ere he ventured more,\\nThe gallant knight took earnest view\\nThe grated wicket-window through.\\nxx\\nO, for his arms Of martial weed\\nHad never mortal knight such need\\nHe spied a stately gallery; all\\nOf snow-white marble was the wall,\\nThe vaulting, and the floor;\\nAnd, contrast strange on either hand 410\\nThere stood arrayed in sable band\\nFour maids whom Afric bore;\\nAnd each a Lybian tiger led,\\nHeld by as bright and frail a thread\\nAs Lucy s golden hair,\\nFor the leash that bound these monsters\\ndread\\nWas but of gossamer.\\nEach maiden s short barbaric vest\\nLeft all unclosed the knee and breast\\nAnd limbs of shapely jet; 420\\nWhite was their vest and turban s fold.\\nOn arms and ankles rings of gold\\nIn savage pomp were set;\\nA quiver on their shoulders lay,\\nAnd in their hand an assagay.\\nSuch and so silent stood they there\\nThat Roland wellnigh hoped\\nHe saw a band of statues rare,\\nStationed the gazer s soul to scare;\\nBut when the wicket oped\\nEach grisly beast gan upward draw,\\nRolled his grim eye, and spread his claw\\nScented the air, and licked his jaw;\\nWhile these weird maids in Moorish\\ntongue\\nA wild and dismal warning sung.\\nXXI\\nRash adventurer, bear thee back\\nDread the spell of Dahomay\\nFear the race of Zaharak;\\nDaughters of the burning day\\nWhen the whirlwind s gusts are wheeling,\\nOurs it is the dance to braid; 44 i\\nZarah s sands in pillars reeling\\nJoin the measure that we tread,\\nWhen the Moon has donned her cloak\\nAnd the stars are red to see,\\nShrill when pipes the sad Siroc,\\nMusic meet for such as we.\\nWhere the shattered columns lie,\\nShowing Carthage once had been,\\nIf the wandering Santon s eye\\nOur mysterious rites hath seen,\\nOft he cons the prayer of death,\\nTo the nations preaches doom,\\nAzrael s brand hath left the sheath,\\nMoslems, think upon the tomb\\nOurs the scorpion, ours the snake,\\nOurs the hydra of the fen,\\nOurs the tiger of the brake,\\nAll that plague the sons of men.\\nOurs the tempest s midnight wrack, 460\\nPestilence that wastes by day\\nDread the race of Zaharak\\nFear the spell of Dahomay", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0338.jp2"}, "337": {"fulltext": "CANTO THIRD\\n307\\nXXII\\nUncouth and strange the accents shrill\\nRung those vaulted roofs among,\\nLong it was ere faint and still\\nDied the far-resounding song.\\nWhile yet the distant echoes roll, t\\nThe warrior communed with his soul.\\nWhen first I took this venturous\\nquest, 470\\nI swore upon the rood\\nNeither to stop nor turn nor rest,\\nFor evil or for good.\\nMy forward path too well I ween\\nLies yonder fearful ranks between;\\nFor man unarmed t is bootless hope\\nWith tigers and with fiends to cope\\nYet, if I turn, what waits me there\\nSave famine dire and fell despair\\nOther conclusion let me try, 480\\nSince, choose howe er I list, I die.\\nForward lies faith and knightly fame;\\nBehind are perjury and shame.\\nIn life or death I hold my word\\nWith that he drew his trusty sword,\\nCaught down a banner from the wall,\\nAnd entered thus the fearful hall.\\nXXIII\\nOn high each wayward maiden threw\\nHer swarthy arm with wild halloo\\nOn either side a tiger sprung 49 o\\nAgainst the leftward foe he flung\\nThe ready banner to engage\\nWith tangling folds the brutal rage\\nThe right-hand monster in mid air\\nHe struck so fiercely and so fair\\nThrough gullet and through spinal bone\\nThe trenchant blade hath sheerly gone.\\nHis grisly brethren ramped and yelled,\\nBut the slight leash their rage withheld,\\nWhilst twixt their ranks the dangerous\\nroad 500\\nFirmly though swift the champion strode.\\nSafe to the gallery s bound he drew,\\nSafe passed an open portal through;\\nAnd when against pursuit he flung\\nThe gate, judge if the echoes rung\\nOnward his daring course he bore,\\nWhile, mixed with dying growl and roar,\\nWild jubilee and loud hurra\\nPursued him on his venturous way.\\nXXIV\\nHurra, hurra Our watch is done\\nWe hail once more the tropic sun.\\n510\\nPallid beams of northern day,\\nFarewell, farewell Hurra, hurra\\nFive hundred years o er this cold glen\\nHath the pale sun come round agen;\\nFoot of man till now hath ne er\\nDared to cross the Hall of Fear.\\nWarrior thou whose dauntless heart\\nGives us from our ward to part,\\nBe as strong in future trial 520\\nWhere resistance is denial.\\nNow for Afric s glowing sky,\\nZwenga wide and Atlas high,\\nZaharak and Dahomay\\nMount the winds Hurra, hurra\\nXXV\\nThe wizard song at distance died,\\nAs if in ether borne astray,\\nWhile through waste halls and chambers\\nwide\\nThe knight pursued his steady way\\nTill to a lofty dome he came 530\\nThat flashed with such a brilliant flame\\nAs if the wealth of all the world\\nWere there in rich confusion hurled.\\nFor here the gold in sandy heaps\\nWith duller earth incorporate sleeps;\\nWas there in ingots piled, and there\\nCoined badge of empery it bare;\\nYonder, huge bars of silver lay,\\nDimmed by the diamond s neighboring\\nray,\\nLike the pale moon in morning day; 540\\nAnd in the midst four maidens stand,\\nThe daughters of some distant land.\\nTheir hue was of the dark-red dye\\nThat fringes oft a thunder sky;\\nTheir hands palmetto baskets bare,\\nAnd cotton fillets bound their hair;\\nSlim was their form, their mien was\\nshy,\\nTo earth they bent the humbled eye,\\nFolded their arms, and suppliant kneeled,\\nAnd thus their proffered gifts revealed. 550\\nXXVI\\nCHORUS\\nSee the treasures Merlin piled,\\nPortion meet for Arthur s child.\\nBathe in Wealth s unbounded stream,\\nWealth that Avarice ne er could dream", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0339.jp2"}, "338": {"fulltext": "3 o8\\nTHE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN\\nFIRST MAIDEN\\nSee these clots of virgin gold\\nSevered from the sparry mould,\\nNature s mystic alchemy\\nIn the mine thus bade them lie;\\nAnd their orient smile can win\\nKings to stoop and saints to sin. 560\\nSECOND MADDEN\\nSee these pearls that long have slept;\\nThese were tears by Naiads wept\\nFor the loss of Marinel.\\nTritons in the silver shell\\nTreasured them till hard and white\\nAs the teeth of Amphitrite.\\nTHERD MADDEN\\nDoes a livelier hue delight\\nHere are rubies blazing bright,\\nHere the emerald s fairy green,\\nAnd the topaz glows between; 570\\nHere their varied hues unite\\nIn the changeful chrysolite.\\nFOURTH MADDEN\\nLeave these gems of poorer shine,\\nLeave them all and look on mine\\nWhile their glories I expand\\nShade thine eyebrows with thy hand.\\nMid-day sun and diamond s blaze\\nBlind the rash beholder s gaze.\\n1 Warrior, seize the splendid store\\nWould t were all our mountains bore 580\\nWe should ne er in future story\\nBead, Peru, thy perished glory\\nXXVII\\nCalmly and unconcerned the knight\\nWaved aside the treasures bright\\nGentle Maidens, rise, I pray\\nBar not thus my destined way.\\nLet these boasted brilliant toys\\nBraid the hair of girls and boys\\nBid your streams of gold expand\\nO er proud London s thirsty land. 590\\nDe Yaux of wealth saw never need\\nSave to purvey him arms and steed,\\nAnd all the ore he deigned to hoard\\nInlays his helm and hilts his sword.\\nThus gently parting from their hold,\\nHe left unmoved the dome of gold.\\nXXVIII\\nAnd now the morning sun was high,\\nDe Vaux was weary, faint, and dry;\\nWhen, lo a plashing sound he hears,\\nA gladsome signal that he nears 600\\nSome frolic water-run:\\nAnd soon he reached a courtyard square\\nWhere, dancing in the sultry air,\\nTossed high aloft a fountain fair\\nWas sparkling in the sun.\\nOn right and left a fair arcade\\nIn long perspective view displayed\\nAlleys and bowers for sun or shade\\nBut full in front a door,\\nLow browed and dark, seemed as it\\nled 610\\nTo the lone dwelling of the dead\\nWhose memory was no more.\\nXXIX\\nHere stopped De Vaux an instant s space\\nTo bathe his parched lips and face,\\nAnd marked with well-pleased eye,\\nRefracted on the fountain stream,\\nIn rainbow hues the dazzling beam\\nOf that gay summer sky.\\nHis senses felt a mild control,\\nLike that which lulls the weary soul, 620\\nFrom contemplation high\\nRelaxing, when the ear receives\\nThe music that the greenwood leaves\\nMake to the breezes sigh.\\nXXX\\nAnd oft in such a dreamy mood\\nThe half-shut eye can frame\\nFair apparitions in the wood,\\nAs if the Nymphs of field and flood\\nIn gay procession came.\\nAre these of such fantastic mould, 630\\nSeen distant down the fair arcade,\\nThese maids enlinked in sister-fold,\\nWho, late at bashful distance staid,\\nNow tripping from the greenwood shade,\\nNearer the musing champion draw,\\nAnd in a pause of seeming awe\\nAgain stand doubtful now\\nAh, that sly pause of witching powers\\nThat seems to say, To please be ours,\\nBe yours to tell us how. 640\\nTheir hue was of the golden glow\\nThat sons of Candahar bestow,\\nO er which in slight suffusion flows\\nA frequent tinge of paly rose;\\nTheir limbs were fashioned fair and free", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0340.jp2"}, "339": {"fulltext": "CANTO THIRD\\n309\\nIn nature s justest symmetry;\\nAnd, wreathed with flowers, with odors\\ngraced,\\nTheir raven ringlets reached the waist:\\nIn eastern pomp its gilding pale\\nThe henna lent each shapely nail, 650\\nAnd the dark sum ah gave the eye\\nMore liquid and more lustrous dye.\\nThe spotless veil of misty lawn,\\nIn studied disarrangement drawn\\nThe form and bosom o er,\\nTo win the eye or tempt the touch,\\nFor modesty showed all too much\\nToo much yet promised more.\\nXXXI\\nGentle knight, awhile delay,\\nThus they sung, thy toilsome way, 660\\nWhile we pay the duty due\\nTo our Master and to you.\\nOver Avarice, over Fear,\\nLove triumphant led thee here;\\nWarrior, list to us, for we\\nAre slaves to Love, are friends to thee.\\nThough no treasured gems have we\\nTo proffer on the bended knee,\\nThough we boast nor arm nor heart\\nFor the assagay or dart, 670\\nSwains allow each simple girl\\nRuby lip and teeth of pearl;\\nOr, if dangers more you prize,\\nFlatterers find them in our eyes.\\nStay, then, gentle warrior, stay,\\nRest till evening steal on day;\\nStay, O, stay in yonder bowers\\nWe will braid thy locks with flowers,\\nSpread the feast and fill the wine,\\nCharm thy ear with sounds divine, 680\\nWeave our dances till delight\\nYield to languor, day to night.\\nThen shall she you most approve\\nSing the lays that best you love,\\nSoft thy mossy couch shall spread,\\nWatch thy pillow, prop thy head,\\nTill the weary night be o er\\nGentle warrior, wouldst thou more.\\nWouldst thou more, fair warrior, she\\nIs slave to Love and slave to thee. 690\\nXXXII\\nO, do not hold it for a crime\\nIn the bold hero of my rhyme,\\nFor Stoic look\\nAnd meet rebuke\\nHe lacked the heart or time\\nAs round the band of sirens trip,\\nHe kissed one damsel s laughing lip,\\nAnd pressed another s proffered hand,\\nSpoke to them all in accents bland,\\nBut broke their magic circle through; 700\\nKind maids, he said, adieu, adieu\\nMy fate, my fortune, forward lies.\\nHe said and vanished from their eyes\\nBut, as he dared that darksome way,\\nStill heard behind their lovely lay:\\nFair Flower of Courtesy, depart\\nGo where the feelings of the heart\\nWith the warm pulse in concord move;\\nGo where Virtue sanctions Love\\nXXXIII\\nDownward De Vaux through darksome\\nways 710\\nAnd ruined vaults has gone,\\nTill issue from their wildered maze\\nOr safe retreat seemed none,\\nAnd e en the dismal path he strays\\nGrew worse as he went on.\\nFor cheerful sun, for living air,\\nFoul vapors rise and mine-fires glare,\\nWhose fearful light the dangers showed\\nThat dogged him on that dreadful road.\\nDeep pits and lakes of waters dun 720\\nThey showed, but showed not how to\\nshun.\\nThese scenes of desolate despair,\\nThese smothering clouds of poisoned air,\\nHow gladly had De Vaux exchanged,\\nThough t were to face yon tigers ranged\\nNay, soothful bards have said,\\nSo perilous his state seemed now\\nHe wished him under arbor bough\\nWith Asia s willing maid.\\nWhen, joyful sound at distance near 730\\nA trumpet flourished loud and clear,\\nAnd as it ceased a lofty lay\\nSeemed thus to chide his lagging way.\\nXXXIV\\nSon of Honor, theme of story,\\nThink on the reward before ye\\nDanger, darkness, toil despise;\\nT is Ambition bids thee rise.\\nHe that would her heights ascend,\\nMany a weary step must wend;\\nHand and foot and knee he tries; 740\\nThus Ambition s minions rise.\\nLag not now, though rough the way,\\nFortune s mood brooks no delay;", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0341.jp2"}, "340": {"fulltext": "3io\\nTHE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN\\nGrasp the boon that s spread before ye,\\nMonarch s power and Conqueror s glory\\nIt ceased. Advancing on the sound,\\nA steep ascent the wanderer found,\\nAnd then a turret stair:\\nNor climbed he far its steepy round\\nTill fresher blew the air, 750\\nAnd next a welcome glimpse was given\\nThat cheered him with the light of hea-\\nven.\\nAt length his toil had won\\nA lofty hall with trophies dressed,\\nWhere as to greet imperial guest\\nFour maidens stood whose crimson vest\\nWas bound with golden zone.\\nXXXV\\nOf Europe seemed the damsels all;\\nThe first a nymph of lively Gaul\\nWhose easy step and laughing eye 760\\nHer borrowed air of awe belie;\\nThe next a maid of Spain,\\nDark-eyed, dark-haired, sedate yet bold;\\nWhite ivory skin and tress of gold\\nHer shy and bashful comrade told\\nFor daughter of Almaine.\\nThese maidens bore a royal robe,\\nWith crown, with sceptre, and with globe,\\nEmblems of empery;\\nThe fourth a space behind them stood, 770\\nAnd leant upon a harp in mood\\nOf minstrel ecstasy.\\nOf merry England she, in dress\\nLike ancient British Druidess,\\nHer hair an azure fillet bound,\\nHer graceful vesture swept the ground,\\nAnd in her hand displayed\\nA crown did that fourth maiden hold,\\nBut unadorned with gems and gold,\\nOf glossy laurel made. 780\\nXXXVI\\nAt once to brave De Vaux knelt down\\nThese foremost maidens three,\\nAnd proffered sceptre, robe, and crown,\\nLiegedom and seignorie\\nO er many a region wide and fair,\\nDestined, they said, for Arthur s heir;\\nBut homage would he none:\\nRather, he said, De Vaux would ride,\\nA warden of the Border-side\\nIn plate and mail than, robed in pride, 790\\nA monarch s empire own;\\nRather, far rather, would he be\\nA free-born knight of England free\\nThan sit on despot s throne.\\nSo passed he on, when that fourth maid,\\nAs starting from a trance,\\nUpon the harp her finger laid;\\nHer magic touch the chords obeyed,\\nTheir soul awaked at once\\nSONG OF THE FOURTH MAIDEN\\nQuake to your foundations deep, 800\\nStately towers, and bannered keep,\\nBid your vaulted echoes moan,\\nAs the dreaded step they own.\\nFiends, that wait on Merlin s spell,\\nHear the foot-fall mark it well\\nSpread your dusky wings abroad,\\nBoune ye for your homeward road\\nIt is His, the first who e er\\nDared the dismal Hall of Fear;\\nHis, who hath the snares defied 810\\nSpread by Pleasure, Wealth, and Pride.\\nQuake to your foundations deep,\\nBastion huge, and turret steep\\nTremble, keep and totter, tower\\nThis is Gyneth s waking hour.\\nXXXVII\\nThus while she sung the venturous knight\\nHas reached a bower where milder light\\nThrough crimson curtains fell;\\nSuch softened shade the hill receives,\\nHer purple veil when twilight leaves 820\\nUpon its western swell.\\nThat bower, the gazer to bewitch,\\nHad wondrous store of rare and rich\\nAs e er was seen with eye\\nFor there by magic skill, iwis,\\nForm of each thing that living is\\nWas limned in proper dye.\\nAll seemed to sleep the timid hare\\nOn form, the stag upon his lair,\\nThe eagle in her eyrie fair 830\\nBetween the earth and sky.\\nBut what of pictured rich and rare\\nCould win De Vaux s eye-glance, where,\\nDeep slumbering in the fatal chair,\\nHe saw King Arthur s child\\nDoubt and anger and dismay\\nFrom her brow had passed away,\\nForgot was that fell tourney-day,\\nFor as she slept she smiled:", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0342.jp2"}, "341": {"fulltext": "CANTO THIRD\\n3 11\\nIt seemed that the repentant Seer\\nHer sleep of many a hundred year\\nWith gentle dreams beguiled.\\n840\\nXXXVIII\\nThat form of maiden loveliness,\\nTwixt childhood and twixt youth,\\nThat ivory chair, that sylvan dress,\\nThe arms and ankles bare, express\\nOf Lyulph s tale the truth.\\nStill upon her garment s hem\\nVanoc s blood made purple gem,\\nAnd the warder of command 850\\nCumbered still her sleeping hand;\\nStill her dark locks dishevelled flow\\nFrom net of pearl o er breast of snow;\\nAnd so fair the slumberer seems\\nThat De Vaux impeached his dreams,\\nVapid all and void of might,\\nHiding half her charms from sight.\\nMotionless awhile he stands,\\nFolds his arms and clasps his hands,\\nTrembling in his fitful joy, 860\\nDoubtful how he should destroy\\nLong-enduring spell;\\nDoubtful too, when slowly rise\\nDark-fringed lids of Gyneth s eyes,\\nWhat these eyes shall tell.\\nSaint George Saint Mary can it be\\nThat they will kindly look on me\\nxxxix\\nGently, lo the warrior kneels,\\nSoft that lovely hand he steals,\\nSoft to kiss and soft to clasp 870\\nBut the warder leaves her grasp;\\nLightning flashes, rolls the thunder\\nGyneth startles from her sleep,\\nTotters tower, and trembles keep,\\nBurst the castle-walls asunder\\nFierce and frequent were the shocks,\\nMelt the magic halls away;\\nBut beneath their mystic rocks,\\nIn the arms of bold De Vaux\\nSafe the princess lay; 880\\nSafe and free from magic power,\\nBlushing like the rose s flower\\nOpening to the day;\\nAnd round the champion s brows were\\nbound\\nThe crown that Druidess had wound\\nOf the green laurel-bay.\\nAnd this was what remained of all\\nThe wealth of each enchanted hall,\\nThe Garland and the Dame:\\nBut where should warrior seek the meed\\nDue to high worth for daring deed\\nExcept from Love and Fame\\nCONCLUSION\\nMy Lucy, when the maid is won\\nThe minstrel s task, thou know st, is done;\\nAnd to require of bard\\nThat to his dregs the tale should run\\nWere ordinance too hard.\\nOur lovers, briefly be it said,\\nWedded as lovers wont to wed,\\nWhen tale or play is o er;\\nLived long and blest, loved fond and true,\\nAnd saw a numerous race renew 10\\nThe honors that they bore.\\nKnow too that when a pilgrim strays\\nIn morning mist or evening maze\\nAlong the mountain lone,\\nThat fairy fortress often mocks\\nHis gaze upon the castled rocks\\nOf the Valley of Saint John;\\nBut never man since brave De Vaux\\nThe charmed portal won.\\nT is now a vain illusive show 20\\nThat melts whene er the sunbeams glow,\\nOr the fresh breeze hath blown.\\nBut see, my love, where far below\\nOur lingering wheels are moving slow,\\nThe whiles, up- gazing still,\\nOur menials eye our steepy way,\\nMarvelling perchance what whim can stay\\nOur steps when eve is sinking gray\\nOn this gigantic hill.\\nSo think the vulgar Life and time 30\\nRing all their joys in one dull chime\\nOf luxury and ease;\\nAnd O, beside these simple knaves,\\nHow many better born are slaves\\nTo such coarse joys as these,\\nDead to the nobler sense that glows\\nWhen nature s grander scenes unclose\\nBut, Lucy, we will love them yet,\\nThe mountain s misty coronet,\\nThe greenwood and the wold; 40\\nAnd love the more that of their maze\\nAdventure high of other days\\nBy ancient bards is told,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0343.jp2"}, "342": {"fulltext": "THE LORD OF THE ISLES\\nBringing perchance, like my poor tale,\\nSome moral truth in fiction s veil:\\nNor love them less that o er the hill\\nThe evening breeze as now comes chill;\\nMy love shall wrap her warm,\\nAnd, fearless of the slippery way\\nWhile safe she trips the heathy brae,\\nShall hang on Arthur s arm.\\nTHE LORD OF THE ISLES\\nA POEM IN SIX CANTOS\\nINTRODUCTORY NOTE\\nWhen The Lord of the Isles was published,\\nScott wrote of it to Lady Abercorn I think\\nit is my last poetical venture, at least upon a\\nlarge scale. I swear not, because I do not\\nmake any positive resolution, but I think I\\nhave written enough, and it is unlikely I shall\\nchange my opinion. With his healthy mind,\\nScott was not likely to misread the signs of\\nnature, or the movement which his intellect-\\nual interest was likely to take. When he\\nwrote these words he had published Waverley,\\nand was projecting Guy Mannering, and the\\nwider range which fiction could take to include\\nthe experiences of life which most appealed to\\nhim was too evident to permit him ever to re-\\nturn to any considerable poetic effort.\\nAs in the case of his earlier work, he drove\\ntwo horses abreast and was at work alternately\\non this poem and on the novel, whose early\\ndraft he stumbled on at this time. The poem,\\nindeed, had been projected earlier, before\\nHokeby was written, but in the final heat\\nit was despatched with great rapidity, for,\\nbegun at Abbotsford in the autumn of 1814,\\nit was ended at Edinburgh the 16th of Decem-\\nber, and published January 2, 1815. It may\\nbe mentioned, says the anonymous editor of\\nthe British Poets Edition, that those parts of\\nthe poem which were written at Abbotsford,\\nwere composed almost all in the presence of\\nSir Walter Scott s family, and many in that of\\ncasual visitors also the original cottage which\\nhe then occupied not affording him any means\\nof retirement. Neither conversation nor music\\nseemed to disturb him. When he was in the\\nmidst of his work, he wrote to Morritt My\\nliterary tormentor is a certain Lord of the Isles,\\nfamed for his tyranny of yore, and not unjustly.\\nI am bothering some tale of him I have had\\nlong by me into a sort of romance. I think\\n^\u00e2\u0096\u00a0u\\nyou will like it it is Scottified up to the teeth\\nand somehow I feel myself like the liberated\\nchiefs of the Rolliad, who boast their na-\\ntive philabeg restored. I believe the frolics\\none can cut in this loose garb are all set down\\nby you Sassenachs to the real agility of the\\nwearer, and not the brave, free, and independ-\\nent character of his clothing. It is, in a word,\\nthe real Highland fling, and no one is supposed\\nable to dance it but a native. The poem bore\\nthis advertisement when it was printed.\\nADVERTISEMENT\\nThe Scene of this Poem lies, at first, in the\\nCastle of Artornish, on the coast of Argyleshire\\nand, afterwards, in the Islands of Skye and\\nArran, and upon the coast of Ayrshire. Finally\\nit is laid near Stirling. The story opens in the\\nspring of the year 1307, when Bruce, who had\\nbeen driven out of Scotland by the English,\\nand the Barons who adhered to that foreign\\ninterest, returned from the Island of Bachrin\\non the coast of Ireland, again to assert his claims\\nto the Scottish crown. Many of the personages\\nand incidents introduced are of historical ce-\\nlebrity. The authorities used are chiefly those\\nof the venerable Lord Hailes, as well entitled\\nto be called the restorer of Scottish history, as\\nBruce the restorer of Scottish Monarchy and\\nof Archdeacon Barbour a correct edition of\\nwhose Metrical History of Robert Bruce will\\nsoon, I trust, appear, under the care of my\\nlearned friend, the Rev. Dr. Jamieson.\\nAbbotsford, 10th December, 1814.\\nThe edition of 1833 had the following in-\\ntroduction, those passages being omitted here\\nwhich relate to The Bridal of Triermain and\\nHarold the Dauntless, since they are printed in\\nconnection with those poems.\\nINTRODUCTION\\nI could hardly have chosen a subject more\\npopular in Scotland than anything connected\\nwith the Bruce s history, unless I had attempted\\nthat of Wallace. But I am decidedly of opin-\\nion that a popular, or what is called a taking,\\ntitle, though well qualified to ensure the pub-", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0344.jp2"}, "343": {"fulltext": "CANTO FIRST\\n3i3\\nlishers against loss, and clear their shelves of\\nthe original impression, is rather apt to he\\nhazardous than otherwise to the reputation of\\nthe author. He who attempts a subject of dis-\\ntinguished popularity has not the privilege of\\nawakening the enthusiasm of his audience on\\nthe contrary, it is already awakened, and glows,\\nit may he, more ardently than that of the author\\nhimself. In this case the warmth of the author\\nis inferior to that of the party whom he ad-\\ndresses, who has therefore little chance of be-\\ning, in Bayes s phrase, elevated and surprised\\nby what he has thought of with more enthusi-\\nasm than the writer. The sense of this risk,\\njoined to the consciousness of striving against\\nwind and tide, made the task of composing the\\nproposed Poem somewhat heavy and hopeless\\nout, like the prize-fighter in As You Like It,\\nI was to wrestle for my reputation, and not\\nneglect any advantage. In a most agreeable\\npleasure-voyage, which I have tried to com-\\nmemorate in the Introduction to the new\\nedition of the Pirate, I visited, in social and\\nfriendly company, the coasts and islands of\\nScotland, and made myself acquainted with\\nthe localities of which I meant to treat. But\\nthis voyage, which was in every other effect so\\ndelightful, was in its conclusion saddened by\\none of those strokes of fate which so often\\nmingle themselves with our pleasures. The\\naccomplished and excellent person who had\\nrecommended to me the subject for The Lay of\\nthe Last Minstrel, [Harriet, Duchess of Buc-\\ncleuch] and to whom I proposed to inscribe\\nwhat I already suspected might be the close\\nof my poetical labors, was unexpectedly re-\\nmoved from the world, which she seemed only\\nto have visited for purposes of kindness and\\nbenevolence. It is needless to say how the\\nauthor s feelings, or the composition of his\\ntrifling work, were affected by a circumstance\\nwhich occasioned so many tears and so much\\nsorrow. True it is, that The Lord of the Isles\\nwas concluded, unwillingly and in haste, under\\nthe painful feeling of one who has a task which\\nmust be finished, rather than with the ardor\\nof one who endeavors to perform that task\\nwell. Although the Poem cannot be said to\\nhave made a favorable impression on the pub-\\nlic, the sale of fifteen thousand copies enabled\\nthe Author to retreat from the field with the\\nhonors of war.\\nIn the mean time, what was necessarily to\\nbe considered as a failure was much reconciled\\nto my feelings by the success attending my\\nattempt in another species of composition.\\nWaverley had, under strict incognito, taken its\\nflight from the press, just before I set out upon\\nthe voyage already mentioned; it had now\\nmade its way to popularity, and the success\\nof that work and the volumes which followed\\nwas sufficient to have satisfied a greater ap-\\npetite for applause than I have at any time\\nAbbotspord, April,\\nCANTO FIRST\\nAutumn departs but still his mantle s fold\\nRests on the groves of noble Somerville,\\nBeneath a shroud of russet drooped with gold\\nTweed and his tributaries mingle still;\\nHoarser the wind and deeper sounds the rill,\\nYet lingering notes of sylvan music swell,\\nThe deep-toned cushat and the redbreast shrill;\\nAnd yet some tints of summer splendor tell\\nWhen the broad sun sinks down on Ettrick s western fell.\\nAutumn departs from Gala s fields no more\\nCome rural sounds our kindred banks to cheer;\\nBlent with the stream and gale that wafts it o er,\\nNo more the distant reaper s mirth we hear.\\nThe last blithe shout hath died upon our ear,\\nAnd harvest-home hath hushed the clanging wain,\\nOn the waste hill no forms of life appear,\\nSave where, sad laggard of the autumnal strain,\\nSome age-struck wanderer gleans few ears of scattered grain.\\nDeem st thou these saddened scenes have pleasure still,\\nLov st thou through Autumn s fading realms to stray,\\nTo see the heath-flower withered on the hill,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0345.jp2"}, "344": {"fulltext": "3 J 4\\nTHE LORD OF THE ISLES\\nTo listen to the woods expiring lay,\\nTo note the red leaf shivering on the spray,\\nTo mark the last bright tints the mountain stain,\\nOn the waste fields to trace the gleaner s way,\\nAnd moralize on mortal joy and pain\\nO, if such scenes thou lov st, scorn not the minstrel strain\\nNo do not scorn, although its hoarser note\\nScarce with the cushat s homely song can vie,\\nThough faint its beauties as the tints remote\\nThat gleam through mist in autumn s evening sky,\\nAnd few as leaves that tremble, sear and dry,\\nWhen wild November hath his bugle wound;\\nNor mock my toil a lonely gleaner I\\nThrough fields time-wasted, on sad inquest bound\\nWhere happier bards of yore have richer harvest found.\\nSo shalt thou list, and haply not unmoved,\\nTo a wild tale of Albyn s warrior day;\\nIn distant lands, by the rough West reproved,\\nStill live some relics of the ancient lay.\\nFor, when on Coolin s hills the lights decay,\\nWith such the Seer of Skye the eve beguiles;\\nT is known amid the pathless wastes of Reay,\\nIn Harries known and in Iona s piles,\\nWhere rest from mortal coil the Mighty of the Isles.\\nV\\nWake, Maid of Lorn the minstrels\\nsung.\\nThy rugged halls, Artornish, rung,\\nAnd the dark seas thy towers that lave\\nHeaved on the beach a softer wave,\\nAs mid the tuneful choir to keep 50\\nThe diapason of the deep.\\nLulled were the winds on Inninmore\\nAnd green Loch-Alliue s woodland shore,\\nAs if wild woods and waves had pleasure\\nIn listing to the lovely measure.\\nAnd ne er to symphony more sweet\\nGave mountain echoes answer meet\\nSince, met from mainland and from isle,\\nRoss, Arran, Islay, and Argyle,\\nEach minstrel s tributary lay 60\\nPaid homage to the festal day.\\nDull and dishonored were the bard,\\nWorthless of guerdon and regard,\\nDeaf to the hope of minstrel fame,\\nOr lady s smiles, his noblest aim,\\nWho on that morn s resistless call\\nWas silent in Artornish hall.\\nWake, Maid of Lorn t was thus\\nthey sung,\\nAnd yet more proud the descant rung, 69\\nWake, Maid of Lorn high right is ours\\nTo charm dull sleep from Beauty s bowers;\\nEarth, ocean, air, have nought so shy\\nBut owns the power of minstrelsy.\\nIn Lettermore the timid deer\\nWill pause the harp s wild chime to hear;\\nRude Heiskar s seal through surges dark\\nWill long pursue the minstrel s bark;\\nTo list his notes the eagle proud\\nWill poise him on Ben-Cailliach s cloud;\\nThen let not maiden s ear disdain\\nThe summons of the minstrel train,\\nBut while our harps wild music make,\\nEdith of Lorn, awake, awake\\nin\\nO, wake while Dawn with dewy shine\\nWakes nature s charms to vie with thine\\nShe bids the mottled thrush rejoice\\nTo mate thy melody of voice;\\nThe dew that on the violet lies\\nMocks the dark lustre of thine eyes\\nBut, Edith, wake, and all we see\\nOf sweet and fair shall yield to thee\\nShe comes not yet, gray Ferrand cried;\\nBrethren, let softer spell be tried,\\nThose notes prolonged, that soothing\\ntheme,\\nWhich best may mix with Beauty s dream,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0346.jp2"}, "345": {"fulltext": "CANTO FIRST\\n3i5\\nAnd whisper with their silvery tone\\nThe hope she loves yet fears to own.\\nHe spoke, and on the harp-strings died\\nThe strains of flattery and of pride;\\nMore soft, more low, more tender fell 100\\nThe lay of love he bade them tell.\\nIV\\nI Wake, Maid of Lorn the moments fly\\nWhich yet that maiden-name allow;\\nWake, Maiden, wake the hour is nigh\\nWhen love shall claim a plighted vow.\\nBy Fear, thy bosom s fluttering guest,\\nBy Hope, that soon shall fears remove,\\nWe bid thee break the bonds of rest,\\nAnd wake thee at the call of Love\\nWake, Edith, wake in yonder bay no\\nLies many a galley gayly manned,\\nWe hear the merry pibroch s play,\\nWe see the streamers silken band.\\nWhat chieftain s praise these pibrochs swell,\\nWhat crest is on these banners wove,\\nThe harp, the minstrel, dare not tell\\nThe riddle must be read by Love\\nRetired her maiden train among,\\nEdith of Lorn received the song, n 9\\nBut tamed the minstrel s pride had been\\nThat had her cold demeanor seen;\\nFor not upon her cheek awoke\\nThe glow of pride when Flattery spoke,\\nNor could their tenderest numbers bring\\nOne sigh responsive to the string.\\nAs vainly had her maidens vied\\nIn skill to deck the princely bride.\\nHer locks in dark-brown length arrayed,\\nCathleen of Ulne, t was thine to braid;\\nYoung Eva with meet reverence drew 130\\nOn the light foot the silken shoe,\\nWhile on the ankle s slender round\\nThose strings of pearl fair Bertha wound\\nThat, bleached Lochryan s depths within,\\nSeemed dusky still on Edith s skin.\\nBut Einion, of experience old,\\nHad weightiest task the mantle s fold\\nIn many an artful plait she tied\\nTo show the form it seemed to hide,\\nTill on the floor descending rolled 140\\nIts waves of crimson blent with gold.\\nVI\\nO, lives there now so cold a maid,\\nWho thus in beauty s pomp arrayed,\\nIn beauty s proudest pitch of power,\\nAnd conquest won the bridal hour\\nWith every charm that wins the heart,\\nBy Nature given, enhanced by Art,\\nCould yet the fair reflection view\\nIn the bright mirror pictured true,\\nAnd not one dimple on her cheek 150\\nA telltale consciousness bespeak\\nLives still such maid Fair damsels, say,\\nFor further vouches not my lay\\nSave that such lived in Britain s isle\\nWhen Lorn s bright Edith scorned to\\nsmile.\\nVII\\nBut Morag, to whose fostering care\\nProud Lorn had given his daughter fair,\\nMorag, who saw a mother s aid\\nBy all a daughter s love repaid\\nStrict was that bond, most kind of all, 160\\nInviolate in Highland hall\\nGray Morag sate a space apart,\\nIn Edith s eyes to read her heart.\\nIn vain the attendant s fond appeal\\nTo Morag s skill, to Morag s zeal;\\nShe marked her child receive their care,\\nCold as the image sculptured fair\\nForm of some sainted patroness\\nWhich cloistered maids combine to dress;\\nShe marked and knew her nursling s\\nheart i 70\\nIn the vain pomp took little part.\\nWistful awhile she gazed then pressed\\nThe maiden to her anxious breast\\nIn finished loveliness and led\\nTo where a turret s airy head,\\nSlender and steep and battled round,\\nO erlooked, dark Mull, thy mighty Sound,\\nWhere thwarting tides with mingled roar\\nPart thy swarth hills from Morven s shore.\\nVIII\\nDaughter, she said, these seas behold, 180\\nRound twice a hundred islands rolled,\\nFrom Hirt that hears their northern roar\\nTo the green Hay s fertile shore;\\nOr mainland turn where many a tower\\nOwns thy bold brother s feudal power,\\nEach on its own dark cape reclined\\nAnd listening to its own wild wind,\\nFrom where Mingarry sternly placed\\nO erawes the woodland and the waste, 189\\nTo where Dunstaffnage hears the raging\\nOf Connal with its rocks engaging.\\nThink st thou amid this ample round", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0347.jp2"}, "346": {"fulltext": "316\\nTHE LORD OF THE ISLES\\nA single brow but thine has frowned,\\nTo sadden this auspicious morn\\nThat bids the daughter of high Lorn\\nImpledge her spousal faith to wed\\nThe heir of mighty Somerled\\nRonald, from many a hero sprung,\\nThe fair, the valiant, and the young,\\nLokd of the Isles, whose lofty name 200\\nA thousand bards have given to fame,\\nThe mate of monarchs, and allied\\nOn equal terms with England s pride.\\nFrom chieftain s tower to bondsman s\\ncot,\\nWho hears the tale, and triumphs not\\nThe damsel dons her best attire,\\nThe shepherd lights his beltane fire,\\nJ\u00c2\u00b0y j\u00c2\u00b0y each warder s horn hath sung,\\nJ\u00c2\u00b0y j\u00c2\u00b0y eacn m atin bell hath rung;\\nThe holy priest says grateful mass, 210\\nLoud shouts each hardy galla-glass,\\nNo mountain den holds outcast boor\\nOf heart so dull, of soul so poor,\\nBut he hath flung his task aside,\\nAnd claimed this morn for holy-tide;\\nYet, empress of this joyful day,\\nEdith is sad while all are gay.\\nProud Edith s soul came to her eye,\\nResentment checked the struggling sigh.\\nHer hurrying hand indignant dried 220\\nThe burning tears of injured pride\\nMorag, forbear or lend thy praise\\nTo swell yon hireling harpers lays;\\nMake to yon maids thy boast of power,\\nThat they may waste a wondering hour\\nTelling of banners proudly borne,\\nOf pealing bell and bugle horn,\\nOr, theme more dear, of robes of price,\\nCrownlets and gauds of rare device.\\nBut thou, experienced as thou art, 230\\nThink st thou with these to cheat the heart\\nThat, bound in strong affection s chain,\\nLooks for return and looks in vain\\nNo sum thine Edith s wretched lot\\nIn these brief words He loves her not\\nDebate it not too long I strove\\nTo call his cold observance love,\\nAll blinded by the league that styled\\nEdith of Lorn while yet a child\\nShe tripped the heath by Morag s\\nside 240\\nThe brave Lord Ronald s destined bride.\\nEre yet I saw him, while afar\\nHis broadsword blazed in Scotland s war,\\nTrained to believe our fates the same,\\nMy bosom throbbed when Ronald s name\\nCame gracing Fame s heroic tale,\\nLike perfume on the summer gale.\\nWhat pilgrim sought our halls nor told\\nOf Ronald s deeds in battle bold;\\nWho touched the harp to heroes praise 250\\nBut his achievements swelled the lays\\nEven Morag not a tale of fame\\nWas hers but closed with Ronald s name.\\nHe came and all that had been told\\nOf his high worth seemed poor and cold,\\nTame, lifeless, void of energy,\\nUnjust to Ronald and to me\\nXI\\nSince then, what thought had Edith s\\nheart\\nAnd gave not plighted love its part\\nAnd what requital cold delay 260\\nExcuse that shunned the spousal day.\\nIt dawns and Ronald is not here\\nHunts he Bentalla s nimble deer,\\nOr loiters he in secret dell\\nTo bid some lighter love farewell,\\nAnd swear that though he may not scorn\\nA daughter of the House of Lorn,\\nYet. when these formal rites are o er,\\nAgain they meet to part no more\\nHush, daughter, hush thy doubts re-\\nmove, 2;\\nMore nobly think of Ronald s love.\\nLook, where beneath the castle gray\\nHis fleet unmoor from Aros bay\\nSee st not each galley s topmast bend\\nAs on the yards the sails ascend\\nHiding the dark-blue land they rise,\\nLike the white clouds on April skies;\\nThe shouting vassals man the oars,\\nBehind them sink Mull s mountain shores.\\nOnward their merry course they keep 280\\nThrough whistling breeze and foaming\\ndeep.\\nAnd mark the headmost, seaward cast,\\nStoop to the freshening gale her mast,\\nAs if she veiled its bannered pride\\nTo greet afar her prince s bride\\nThy Ronald comes, and while in speed\\nHis galley mates the flying steed,\\nHe chides her sloth Fair Edith sighed\\nBlushed, sadly smiled, and thus replied:", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0348.jp2"}, "347": {"fulltext": "CANTO FIRST\\n317\\nXIII\\nSweet thought, but vain No, Morag\\nmark, 290\\nType of his course, yon lonely bark,\\nThat oft hath shifted helm and sail\\nTo win its way against the gale.\\nSince peep of morn my vacant eyes\\nHave viewed by fits the course she tries;\\nNow, though the darkening scud comes\\non,\\nAnd dawn s fair promises be gone,\\nAnd though the weary crew may see\\nOur sheltering haven on their lee,\\nStill closer to the rising wind 300\\nThey strive her shivering sail to bind,\\nStill nearer to the shelves dread verge\\nAt every tack her course they urge,\\nAs if they feared Artornish more\\nThan adverse winds and breakers roar.\\nXIV\\nSooth spoke the maid. Amid the tide\\nThe skiff she marked lay tossing sore,\\nAnd shifted oft her stooping side,\\nIn weary tack from shore to shore.\\nYet on her destined course no more 3 10\\nShe gained of forward way\\nThan what a minstrel may compare\\nTo the poor meed which peasants share\\nWho toil the livelong day;\\nAnd such the risk her pilot braves\\nThat oft, before she wore,\\nHer boltsprit kissed the broken waves\\nWhere in white foam the ocean raves\\nUpon the shelving shore.\\nYet, to their destined purpose true, 320\\nUndaunted toiled her hardy crew,\\nNor looked where shelter lay,\\nNor for Artornish Castle drew,\\nNor steered for Aros bay.\\nxv\\nThus while they strove with wind and seas,\\nBorne onward by the willing breeze,\\nLord Ronald s fleet swept by,\\nStreamered with silk and tricked with\\ngold,\\nManned with the noble and the bold\\nOf Island chivalry. 330\\nAround their prows the ocean roars,\\nAnd chafes beneath their thousand oars,\\nYet bears them on their way:\\nSo chafes the war-horse in his might\\nThat fieldward bears some valiant knight,\\nChamps till both bit and boss are white,\\nBut foaming must obey.\\nOn each gay deck they might behold\\nLances of steel and crests of gold,\\nAnd hauberks with their burnished fold 340\\nThat shimmered fair and free\\nAnd each proud galley as she passed\\nTo the wild cadence of the blast\\nGave wilder minstrelsy.\\nFull many a shrill triumphant note\\nSaline and Scallastle bade float\\nTheir misty shores around;\\nAnd Morven s echoes answered well,\\nAnd Duart heard the distant swell\\nCome down the darksome Sound. 350\\nSo bore they on with mirth and pride,\\nAnd if that laboring bark they spied,\\nT was with such idle eye\\nAs nobles cast on lowly boor\\nWhen, toiling in his task obscure,\\nThey pass him careless by.\\nLet them sweep on with heedless eyes\\nBut had they known what mighty prize\\nIn that frail vessel lay,\\nThe famished wolf that prowls the wold 360\\nHad scathless passed the unguarded fold,\\nEre, drifting by these galleys bold,\\nUnchallenged were her way\\nAnd thou, Lord Ronald, sweep thou on\\nWith mirth and pride and minstrel tone\\nBut hadst thou known who sailed so\\nnigh,\\nFar other glance were in thine eye\\nFar other flush were on thy brow,\\nThat, shaded by the bonnet, now\\nAssumes but ill the blithesome cheer 370\\nOf bridegroom when the bride is near\\nXVII\\nYes, sweep they on We will not leave,\\nFor them that triumph, those who grieve.\\nWith that armada gay\\nBe laughter loud and jocund shout,\\nAnd bards to cheer the wassail rout\\nWith tale, romance, and lay;\\nAnd of wild mirth each clamorous art,\\nWhich, if it cannot cheer the heart,\\nMay stupefy and stun its smart 380\\nFor one loud busy day.\\nYes, sweep they on But with that skiff\\nAbides the minstrel tale,\\nWhere there was dread of surge and cliff,\\nLabor that strained each sinew stiff,\\nAnd one sad maiden s wail.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0349.jp2"}, "348": {"fulltext": "3i\u00c2\u00bb\\nTHE LORD OF THE ISLES\\nXVIII\\nAll day with fruitless strife they toiled,\\nWith eve the ebbing currents boiled\\nMore fierce from strait and lake;\\nAnd midway through the channel met 390\\nConflicting tides that foam and fret,\\nAnd high their mingled billows jet,\\nAs spears that in the battle set\\nSpring upward as they break.\\nThen too the lights of eve were past,\\nAnd louder sung the western blast\\nOn rocks of Inninmore;\\nRent was the sail, and strained the mast,\\nAnd many a leak was gaping fast,\\nAnd the pale steersman stood aghast 400\\nAnd gave the conflict o er.\\nT was then that One whose lofty look\\nNor labor dulled nor terror shook\\nThus to the leader spoke\\nBrother, how hop st thou to abide\\nThe fury of this wildered tide,\\nOr how avoid the rock s rude side\\nUntil the day has broke\\nDidst thou not mark the vessel reel 409\\nWith quivering planks and groaning keel\\nAt the last billow s shock\\nYet how of better counsel tell,\\nThough here thou see st poor Isabel\\nHalf dead with want and fear;\\nFor look on sea, or look on land,\\nOr yon dark sky, on every hand\\nDespair and death are near.\\nFor her alone I grieve on me\\nDanger sits light by land and sea,\\nI follow where thou wilt; 420\\nEither to bide the tempest s lour,\\nOr wend to yon unfriendly tower,\\nOr rush amid their naval power,\\nWith war-cry wake their wassail-hour,\\nAnd die with hand on hilt.\\nXX\\nThat elder leader s calm reply\\nIn steady voice was given,\\nIn man s most dark extremity\\nOft succor dawns from heaven.\\nEdward, trim thou the shattered sail, 430\\nThe helm be mine, and down the gale\\nLet our free course be driven;\\nSo shall we scape the western bay,\\nThe hostile fleet, the unequal fray,\\nSo safely hold our vessel s way\\nBeneath the castle wall;\\nFor if a hope of safety rest,\\nT is on the sacred name of guest,\\nWho seeks for shelter storm-distressed\\nWithin a chieftain s hall.\\nIf not it best beseems our worth,\\nOur name, our right, our lofty birth,\\nBy noble hands to fall.\\nThe helm, to his strong arm consigned,\\nGave the reefed sail to meet the wind,\\nAnd on her altered way\\nFierce bounding forward sprung the ship,\\nLike greyhound starting from the slip\\nTo seize his flying prey.\\nAwaked before the rushing prow 45\\nThe mimic fires of ocean glow,\\nThose lightnings of the wave;\\nWild sparkles crest the broken tides,\\nAnd flashing round the vessel s sides\\nWith elfish lustre lave,\\nWhile far behind their livid light\\nTo the dark billows of the night\\nA gloomy splendor gave,\\nIt seems as if old Ocean shakes\\nFrom his dark brow the lucid flakes\\nIn envious pageantry,\\nTo match the meteor-light that streaks\\nGrim Hecla s midnight sky.\\nXXII\\nNor lacked they steadier light to keep\\nTheir course upon the darkened deep;-\\nArtornish, on her frowning steep\\nTwixt cloud and ocean hung,\\nGlanced with a thousand lights of glee,\\nAnd landward far, and far to sea\\nHer festal radiance flung.\\nBy that blithe beacon-light they steered,\\nWhose lustre mingled well\\nWith the pale beam that now appeared,\\nAs the cold moon her head upreared\\nAbove the eastern fell.\\nXXIII\\nThus guided, on their course they bore\\nUntil they neared the mainland shore,\\nWhen frequent on the hollow blast\\nWild shouts of merriment were cast,\\nAnd wind and wave and sea-birds cry 480\\nWith wassail sounds in concert vie,\\nLike funeral shrieks with revelry,\\nOr like the battle-shout\\nBy peasants heard from cliffs on high", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0350.jp2"}, "349": {"fulltext": "CANTO FIRST\\n3i9\\nWhen Triumph, Rage, and Agony-\\nMadden the fight and rout.\\nNow nearer yet through mist and storm\\nDimly arose the castle s form\\nAnd deepened shadow made,\\nFar lengthened on the main below, 49\u00c2\u00b0\\nWhere dancing in reflected glow\\nA hundred torches played,\\nSpangling the wave with lights as vain\\nAs pleasures in this vale of pain,\\nThat dazzle as they fade.\\nXXIV\\nBeneath the castle s sheltering lee\\nThey staid their course in quiet sea.\\nHewn in the rock, a passage there\\nSought the dark fortress by a stair,\\nSo strait, so high, so steep, 500\\nWith peasant s staff one valiant hand\\nMight well the dizzy pass have manned\\nGainst hundreds armed with spear and\\nbrand\\nAnd plunged them in the deep.\\nHis bugle then the helmsman wound:\\nLoud answered every echo round\\nFrom turret, rock, and bay;\\nThe postern s hinges crash and groan,\\nAnd soon the warder s cresset shone\\nOn those rude steps of slippery stone, 510\\nTo light the upward way.\\nThrice welcome, holy Sire he said;\\nr Full long the spousal train have staid,\\nAnd, vexed at thy delay,\\nFeared lest amidst these wildering seas\\nThe darksome night and freshening breeze\\nHad driven thy bark astray.\\nXXV\\nj Warder, the younger stranger said,\\nThine erring guess some mirth had made\\nIn mirthful hour; but nights like these, 520\\nWhen the rough winds wake western seas,\\nBrook not of glee. We crave some aid\\nAnd needful shelter for this maid\\nUntil the break of day;\\nFor to ourselves the deck s rude plank\\nIs easy as the mossy bank\\nThat s breathed upon by May.\\nAnd for our storm-tossed skiff we seek\\nShort shelter in this leeward creek, 529\\nPrompt when the dawn the east shall streak\\nAgain to bear away.\\nAnswered the warder, In what name\\nAssert ye hospitable claim\\nWhence come or whither bound\\nHath Erin seen your parting sails,\\nOr come ye on Norweyan gales\\nAnd seek ye England s fertile vales,\\nOr Scotland s mountain ground\\nXXVI\\nWarriors for other title none\\nFor some brief space we list to own, 540\\nBound by a vow warriors are we\\nIn strife by land and storm by sea\\nWe have been known to fame;\\nAnd these brief words have import dear,\\nWhen sounded in a noble ear,\\nTo harbor safe and friendly cheer\\nThat gives us rightful claim.\\nGrant us the trivial boon we seek,\\nAnd we in other realms will speak\\nFair of your courtesy; 550\\nDeny and be your niggard hold\\nScorned by the noble and the bold,\\nShunned by the pilgrim on the wold\\nAnd wanderer on the lea\\nXXVII\\nBold stranger, no gainst claim like\\nthine\\nNo bolt revolves by hand of mine,\\nThough urged in tone that more expressed\\nA monarch than a suppliant guest.\\nBe what ye will, Artornish Hall\\nOn this glad eve is free to all. 560\\nThough ye had drawn a hostile sword\\nGainst our ally, great England s Lord,\\nOr mail upon your shoulders borne\\nTo battle with the Lord of Lorn,\\nOr outlawed dwelt by greenwood tree\\nWith the fierce Knight of Ellerslie,\\nOr aided even the murderous strife\\nWhen Comyn fell beneath the knife\\nOf that fell homicide the Bruce,\\nThis night had been a term of truce. 570\\nHo, vassals give these guests your care,\\nAnd show the narrow postern stair.\\nXXVIII\\nTo land these two bold brethren leapt\\nThe weary crew their vessel kept\\nAnd, lighted by the torches flare\\nThat seaward flung their smoky glare,\\nThe younger knight that maiden bare\\nHalf lifeless up the rock;\\nOn his strong shoulder leaned her head,\\nAnd down her long dark tresses shed, 580\\nAs the wild vine in tendrils spread\\nDroops from the mountain oak.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0351.jp2"}, "350": {"fulltext": "320\\nTHE LORD OF THE ISLES\\nHim followed close that elder lord,\\nAnd in his hand a sheathed sword\\nSuch as few arms could wield;\\nBut when he bouned him to such task\\nWell could it cleave the strongest casque\\nAnd rend the surest shield.\\nXXIX\\nThe raised portcullis arch they pass,\\nThe wicket with its bars of brass, 590\\nThe entrance long and low,\\nFlanked at each turn by loop-holes strait,\\nWhere bowmen might in ambush wait\\nIf force or fraud should burst the gate\\nTo gall an entering foe.\\nBut every jealous post of ward\\nWas now defenceless and unbarred,\\nAnd all the passage free\\nTo one low-browed and vaulted room\\nWhere squire and yeoman, page and\\ngroom, 600\\nPlied their loud revelry.\\nAnd Rest ye here, the warder bade,\\nTill to our lord your suit is said.\\nAnd, comrades, gaze not on the maid\\nAnd on these men who ask our aid,\\nAs if ye ne er had seen\\nA damsel tired of midnight bark\\nOr wanderers of a moulding stark\\nAnd bearing martial mien.\\nBut not for Eachin s reproof 610\\nWould page or vassal stand aloof,\\nBut crowded on to stare,\\nAs men of courtesy untaught,\\nTill Fiery Edward roughly caught\\nFrom one the foremost there\\nHis chequered plaid, and in its shroud,\\nTo hide her from the vulgar crowd,\\nInvolved his sister fair.\\nHis brother, as the clansman bent\\nHis sullen brow in discontent, 620\\nMade brief and stern excuse:\\nVassal, were thine the cloak of pall\\nThat decks thy lord in bridal hall,\\nT were honored by her use.\\nXXXI\\nProud was his tone but calm; his eye\\nHad that compelling dignity,\\nHis mien that bearing haught and high,\\nWhich common spirits fear;\\nNeeded nor word nor signal more,\\nNod, wink, and laughter, all were o er; 630\\nUpon each other back they bore\\nAnd gazed like startled deer.\\nBut now appeared the seneschal,\\nCommissioned by his lord to call\\nThe strangers to the baron s hall,\\nWhere feasted fair and free\\nThat Island Prince in nuptial tide\\nWith Edith there his lovely bride,\\nAnd her bold brother by her side,\\nAnd many a chief, the flower and pride 640\\nOf Western land and sea.\\nHere pause we, gentles, for a space;\\nAnd, if our tale hath won your grace,\\nGrant us brief patience and again\\nWe will renew the minstrel strain.\\nCANTO SECOND\\nFill the bright goblet, spread the festive\\nboard\\nSummon the gay, the noble, and the\\nfair\\nThrough the loud hall in joyous concert\\npoured,\\nLet mirth and music sound the dirge of\\nCare\\nBut ask thou not if Happiness be there,\\nIf the loud laugh disguise convulsive\\nthroe,\\nOr if the brow the heart s true livery\\nwear;\\nLift not the festal mask enough to\\nknow,\\nNo scene of mortal life but teems with\\nmortal woe.\\nWith beakers clang, with harpers lay, 10\\nWith all that olden time deemed gay,\\nThe Island Chieftain feasted high;\\nBut there was in his troubled eye\\nA gloomy fire, and on his brow\\nNow sudden flushed and faded now\\nEmotions such as draw their birth\\nFrom deeper source than festal mirth.\\nBy fits he paused, and harper s strain\\nAnd jester s tale went round in vain,\\nOr fell but on his idle ear 20\\nLike distant sounds which dreamers hear.\\nThen would he rouse him, and employ\\nEach art to aid the clamorous joy,\\nAnd call for pledge and lay,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0352.jp2"}, "351": {"fulltext": "CANTO SECOND\\n321\\nAnd, for brief space, of all the crowd,\\nAs he was loudest of the loud,\\nSeem gayest of the gay.\\nin\\nYet nought amiss the bridal throng\\nMarked in brief mirth or musing long;\\nThe vacant brow, the unlistening ear, 30\\nThey gave to thoughts of raptures near,\\nAnd his fierce starts of sudden glee\\nSeemed bursts of bridegroom s ecstasy.\\nNor thus alone misjudged the crowd,\\nSince lofty Lorn, suspicious, proud,\\nAnd jealous of his honored line,\\nAnd that keen knight, De Argentine\\nFrom England sent on errand high\\nThe western league more firm to tie\\nBoth deemed in Ronald s mood to find 40\\nA lover s transport-troubled mind.\\nBut one sad heart, one tearful eye,\\nPierced deeper through the mystery,\\nAnd watched with agony and fear\\nHer wayward bridegroom s varied cheer.\\nIV\\nShe watched yet feared to meet his\\nglance,\\nAnd he shunned hers; till when by\\nchance\\nThey met, the point of foeman s lance\\nHad given a milder pang\\nBeneath the intolerable smart 50\\nHe writhed; then sternly manned his\\nheart\\nTo play his hard but destined part,\\nAnd from the table sprang.\\nFill me the mighty cup, he said,\\nErst owned by royal Somerled\\nFill it, till on the studded brim\\nIn burning gold the bubbles swim,\\nAnd every gem of varied shine\\nGlow doubly bright in rosy wine\\nTo you, brave lord, and brother mine, 60\\nOf Lorn, this pledge I drink\\nThe Union of Our House with thine,\\nBy this fair bridal-link\\nLet it pass round quoth he of Lorn,\\nAnd in good time that winded horn\\nMust of the abbot tell;\\nThe laggard monk is come at last.\\nLord Ronald heard the bugle-blast,\\nAnd on the floor at random cast\\nThe untasted goblet fell. 70\\nBut when the warder in his ear\\nTells other news, his blither cheer\\nReturns like sun of May\\nWhen through a thunder-cloud it beams\\nLord of two hundred isles, he seems\\nAs glad of brief delay\\nAs some poor criminal might feel\\nWhen from the gibbet or the wheel\\nRespited for a day.\\nVI K\\nBrother of Lorn, with hurried voice 80\\nHe said, l and you, fair lords, rejoice\\nHere, to augment our glee,\\nCome wandering knights from travel far,\\nWell proved, they say, in strife of war\\nAnd tempest on the sea.\\nHo give them at your board such place\\nAs best their presences may grace,\\nAnd bid them welcome free\\nWith solemn step and silver wand,\\nThe seneschal the presence scanned 90\\nOf these strange guests, and well he knew\\nHow to assign their rank its due;\\nFor though the costly furs\\nThat erst had decked their caps were torn,\\nAnd their gay robes were over-worn,\\nAnd soiled their gilded spurs,\\nYet such a high commanding grace\\nWas in their mien and in their face\\nAs suited best the princely dais\\nAnd royal canopy; i 00\\nAnd there he marshalled them their place,\\nFirst of that company.\\nThen lords and ladies spake aside,\\nAnd angry looks the error chide\\nThat gave to guests unnamed, unknown,\\nA place so near their prince s throne;\\nBut Owen Erraught said,\\nFor forty years a seneschal,\\nTo marshal guests in bower and hall\\nHas been my honored trade. i\\nWorship and birth to me are known,\\nBy look, by bearing, and by tone,\\nNot by furred robe or broidered zone;\\nAnd gainst an oaken bough\\nI 11 gage my silver wand of state\\nThat these three strangers oft have sate\\nIn higher place than now.\\nVIII\\nI too, the aged Ferrand said,\\nAm qualified by minstrel trade", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0353.jp2"}, "352": {"fulltext": "322\\nTHE LORD OF THE ISLES\\nOf rank and place to tell; 120\\nMarked ye the younger stranger s eye,\\nMy mates, how quick, how keen, how\\nhigh*\\nHow fierce its flashes fell,\\nGlancing among the noble rout\\nAs if to seek the noblest out,\\nBecause the owner might not brook\\nOn any save his peers to look\\nAnd yet it moves me more,\\nThat steady, calm, majestic brow,\\nWith which the elder chief even now 130\\nScanned the gay presence o er,\\nLike being of superior kind,\\nIn whose high-toned impartial mind\\nDegrees of mortal rank and state\\nSeem objects of indifferent weight.\\nThe lady too though closely tied\\nThe mantle veil both face and eye,\\nHer motions grace it could not hide,\\nNor cloud her form s fair symme-\\ntry.\\nIX\\nSuspicious doubt and lordly scorn 140\\nI Loured on the haughty front of Lorn.\\nFrom underneath his brows of pride\\nThe stranger guests he sternly eyed,\\nAnd whispered closely what the ear\\nOf Argentine alone might hear;\\nThen questioned, high and brief,\\nIf in their voyage aught they knew\\nOf the rebellious Scottish crew\\nWho to Rath-Erin s shelter drew\\nWith Carrick s outlawed Chief 150\\nAnd if, their winter s exile o er,\\nThey harbored still by Ulster s shore,\\nOr launched their galleys on the main\\nTo vex their native land again\\nThat younger stranger, fierce and high,\\nAt once confronts the chieftain s eye\\nWith look of equal scorn:\\nOf rebels have we nought to show;\\nBut if of royal Bruce thou dst know,\\nI warn thee he has sworn, 160\\nEre thrice three days shall come and go,\\nHis banner Scottish winds shall blow,\\nDespite each mean or mighty foe,\\nFrom England s every bill and bow\\nTo Allaster of Lorn.\\nKindled the mountain chieftain s ire,\\nBut Ronald quenched the rising fire\\nBrother, it better suits the time\\nTo chase the night with Ferrand s rhyme\\nThan wake midst mirth and wine the\\njars\\nThat flow from these unhappy wars.\\nContent, said Lorn; and spoke apart\\nWith Ferrand, master of his art,\\nThen whispered Argentine,\\nThe lay I named will carry smart\\nTo these bold strangers haughty heart,\\nIf right this guess of mine.\\nHe ceased, and it was silence all\\nUntil the minstrel waked the hall.\\nXI\\nTHE BROOCH OF LORN\\nWhence the brooch of burning gold 18\\nThat clasps the chieftain s mantle-fold,\\nOn the varied tartans beaming,\\nWrought and chased with rare device,\\nStudded fair with gems of price,\\nAs, through night s pale rainbow gleam\\nFainter now, now seen afar,\\nFitful shines the northern star\\nGem ne er wrought on Highland moun-\\ntain,\\nDid the fairy of the fountain\\nOr the mermaid of the wave\\nFrame thee in some coral cave\\nDid, in Iceland s darksome mine,\\nDwarf s swart hands thy metal twine\\nOr, mortal-moulded, comest thou here\\nFrom England s love or France s fear\\nXII\\nSONG CONTINUED\\nNo thy splendors nothing tell\\nForeign art or faery spell.\\nMoulded thou for monarch s use,\\nBy the overweening Bruce,\\nWhen the royal robe he tied 20c\\nO er a heart of wrath and pride;\\nThence in triumph wert thou torn\\nBy the victor hand of Lorn\\nWhen the gem was won and lost,\\nWidely was the war-cry tossed\\nRung aloud Bendourish fell,\\nAnswered Douchart s sounding dell,\\nFled the deer from wild Teyndrum,\\nWhen the homicide o ercome\\nHardly scaped with scathe and scorn, 21c\\nLeft the pledge with conquering Lorn", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0354.jp2"}, "353": {"fulltext": "CANTO SECOND\\n3 2 S\\nXIII\\nSONG CONCLUDED\\nVain was then the Douglas brand,\\nVain the Campbell s vaunted hand,\\nVain Kirkpatrick s bloody dirk,\\nMaking sure of murder s work;\\nBarendown fled fast away,\\nFled the fiery De la Haye,\\nWhen this brooch triumphant borne\\nBeamed upon the breast of Lorn.\\nFarthest fled its former lord,\\nLeft his men to brand and cord,\\nBloody brand of Highland steel,\\nEnglish gibbet, axe, and wheel.\\nLet him fly from coast to coast,\\nDogged by Corny n s vengeful ghost,\\nWhile his spoils in triumph worn\\nLong shall grace victorious Lorn\\nAs glares the tiger on his foes,\\nHemmed in by hunters, spears, and bows,\\nAnd, ere he bounds upon the ring, 230\\nSelects the object of his spring,\\nNow on the bard, now on his lord,\\nSo Edward glared and grasped his sword\\nBut stern his brother spoke, Be still.\\nWhat art thou yet so wild of will,\\nAfter high deeds and sufferings long,\\nTo chafe thee for a menial s song\\nWell hast thou framed, old man, thy\\nstrains,\\nTo praise the hand that pays thy pains\\nYet something might thy song have told 240\\nOf Lorn s three vassals, true and bold,\\nWho rent their lord from Bruce s hold\\nAs underneath his knee he lay,\\nAnd died to save him in the fray.\\nI ve heard the Bruce s cloak and clasp\\nWas clenched within their dying grasp,\\nWhat time a hundred foemen more\\nRushed in and back the victor bore,\\nLong after Lorn had left the strife,\\nFull glad to scape with limb and life. 250\\nEnough of this and, minstrel, hold\\nAs minstrel-hire this chain of gold,\\nFor future lays a fair excuse\\nTo speak more nobly of the Bruce.\\nI Now, by Columba s shrine, I swear,\\nAnd every saint that s buried there,\\nT is he himself Lorn sternly cries,\\nAnd for my kinsman s death he dies.\\nAs loudly Ronald calls, Forbear\\nNot in my sight while brand I wear, 26c\\nO ermatched by odds, shall warrior fall,\\nOr blood of stranger stain my hall\\nThis ancient fortress of my race\\nShall be misfortune s resting-place,\\nShelter and shield of the distressed,\\nNo slaughter-house for shipwrecked guest.\\nTalk not to me, fierce Lorn replied,\\nOf odds or match when Comyn died,\\nThree daggers clashed within his side\\nTalk not to me of sheltering hall, 270\\nThe Church of God saw Comyn fall\\nOn God s own altar streamed his blood,\\nWhile o er my prostrate kinsman stood\\nThe ruthless murderer e en as now\\nWith armed hand and scornful brow\\nUp, all who love me blow on blow\\nAnd lay the outlawed felons low\\nThen up sprang many a mainland lord,\\nObedient to their chieftain s word.\\nBarcaldine s arm is high in air, 280\\nAnd Kinloch-Alline s blade is bare,\\nBlack Murthok s dirk has left its sheath,\\nAnd clenched is Dermid s hand of death.\\nTheir muttered threats of vengeance swell\\nInto a wild and warlike yell;\\nOnward they press with weapons high,\\nThe affrighted females shriek and fly,\\nAnd, Scotland, then thy brightest ray\\nHad darkened ere its noon of day,\\nBut every chief of birth and fame 290\\nThat from the Isles of Ocean came\\nAt Ronald s side that hour withstood\\nFierce Lorn s relentless thirst for blood.\\nXVII\\nBrave Torquil from Dunvegan high,\\nLord of the misty hills of Skye,\\nMac-Niel, wild Bara s ancient thane,\\nDuart of bold Clan-Gillian s strain,\\nFergus of Canna s castled bay,\\nMac-Duffith, Lord of Colonsay, 299\\nSoon as they saw the broadswords glance,\\nWith ready weapons rose at once,\\nMore prompt that many an ancient feud,\\nFull oft suppressed, full oft renewed,\\nGlowed twixt the chieftains of Argyle,\\nAnd many a lord of ocean s isle.\\nWild was the scene each sword was\\nbare,\\nBack streamed each chieftain s shaggy hair,\\nX", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0355.jp2"}, "354": {"fulltext": "3 2 4\\nTHE LORD OF THE ISLES\\nIn gloomy opposition set,\\nEyes, hands, and brandished weapons met;\\nBlue gleaming o er the social board, 310\\nFlashed to the torches many a sword;\\nAnd soon those bridal lights may shine\\nOn purple blood for rosy wine.\\nWhile thus for blows and death prepared,\\nEach heart was up, each weapon bared,\\nEach foot advanced, a surly pause\\nStill reverenced hospitable laws.\\nAll menaced violence, but alike\\nReluctant each the first to strike\\nFor aye accursed in minstrel line 320\\nIs he who brawls mid song and wine,\\nAnd, matched in numbers and in might,\\nDoubtful and desperate seemed the fight.\\nThus threat and murmur died away,\\nTill on the crowded hall there lay\\nSuch silence as the deadly still\\nEre bursts the thunder on the hill.\\nWith blade advanced, each chieftain bold\\nShowed like the Sworder s form of old,\\nAs wanting still the torch of life 330\\nTo wake the marble into strife.\\nXIX\\nThat awful pause the stranger maid\\nAnd Edith seized to pray for aid.\\nAs to De Argentine she clung,\\nAway her veil the stranger flung,\\nAnd, lovely mid her wild despair,\\nFast streamed her eyes, wide flowed her\\nhair:\\nO thou, of knighthood once the flower,\\nSure refuge in distressful hour,\\nThou who in Judah well hast fought 340\\nFor our dear faith and oft hast sought\\nRenown in knightly exercise\\nWhen this poor hand has dealt the prize,\\nSay, can thy soul of honor brook\\nOn the unequal strife to look,\\nWhen, butchered thus in peaceful hall,\\nThose once thy friends, my brethren, fall\\nTo Argentine she turned her word,\\nBut her eye sought the Island Lord.\\nA flush like evening s setting flame 350\\nGlowed on his cheek his hardy frame\\nAs with a brief convulsion shook:\\nWith hurried voice and eager look,\\nFear not, he said, my Isabel\\nWhat said I Edith all is well\\nNay, fear not I will well provide\\nThe safety of my lovely bride\\nMy bride but there the accents clung\\nIn tremor to his faltering tongue.\\nxx\\nNow rose De Argentine to claim 360\\nThe prisoners in his sovereign s name\\nTo England s crown, who, vassals sworn,\\nGainst their liege lord had weapon\\nborne\\nSuch speech, I ween, was but to hide\\nHis care their safety to provide;\\nFor knight more true in thought and deed\\nThan Argentine ne er spurred a steed\\nAnd Ronald who his meaning guessed\\nSeemed half to sanction the request.\\nThis purpose fiery Torquil broke: 37 o\\nSomewhat we ve heard of England s\\nyoke,\\nHe said, and in our islands Fame\\nHath whispered of a lawful claim\\nThat calls the Bruce fair Scotland s lord,\\nThough dispossessed by foreign sword.\\nThis craves reflection but though right\\nAnd just the charge of England s Knight,\\nLet England s crown her rebels seize\\nWhere she has power; in towers like\\nthese, 379\\nMidst Scottish chieftains summoned here\\nTo bridal mirth and bridal cheer,\\nBe sure, with no consent of mine\\nShall either Lorn or Argentine\\nWith chains or violence, in our sight,\\nOppress a brave and banished knight.\\nXXI\\nThen waked the wild debate again\\nWith brawling threat and clamor vain.\\nVassals and menials thronging in\\nLent their brute rage to swell the din\\nWhen far and wide a bugle-clang 390\\nFrom the dark ocean upward rang.\\nThe abbot comes they cry at once,\\nThe holy man, whose favored glance\\nHath sainted visions known;\\nAngels have met him on the way,\\nBeside the blessed martyr s bay,\\nAnd by Columba s stone.\\nHis monks have heard their hymnings\\nhigh\\nSound from the summit of Dun-Y,\\nTo cheer his penance lone, 400\\nWhen at each cross, on girth and wold\\nTheir number thrice a hundred-fold\\nHis prayer he made, his beads he told,\\nWith Aves many a one", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0356.jp2"}, "355": {"fulltext": "CANTO SECOND\\n325\\nHe comes our feuds to reconcile,\\nA sainted man from sainted isle;\\nWe will his holy doom abide,\\nThe abbot shall our strife decide.\\nXXII\\nScarcely this fair accord was o er\\nWhen through the wide revolving door 410\\nThe black-stoled brethren wind;\\nTwelve sandalled monks who relics bore,\\nWith many a torch-bearer before\\nAnd many a cross behind.\\nThen sunk each fierce uplifted hand,\\nAnd dagger bright and flashing brand\\nDropped swiftly at the sight;\\nThey vanished from the Churchman s eye,\\nAs shooting stars that glance and die\\nDart from the vault of night. 420\\nXXIII\\nThe abbot on the threshold stood,\\nAnd in his hand the holy rood;\\nBack on his shoulders flowed his hood,\\nThe torch s glaring ray\\nShowed in its red and flashing light\\nHis withered cheek and amice white,\\nHis blue eye glistening cold and bright,\\nHis tresses scant and gray.\\nI Fair Lords, he said, Our Lady s love,\\nAnd peace be with you from above, 430\\nAnd Benedicite\\nBut what means this no peace is\\nhere\\nDo dirks unsheathed suit bridal cheer\\nOr are these naked brands\\nA seemly show for Churchman s sight\\nWhen he comes summoned to unite\\nBetrothed hearts and hands\\nXXIV\\nThen, cloaking hate with fiery zeal,\\nProud Lorn first answered the appeal:\\nThou com st, O holy man, 44 o\\nTrue sons of blessed church to greet,\\nBut little deeming here to meet\\nA wretch beneath the ban\\nOf Pope and Church for murder done\\nEven on the sacred altar-stone\\nWell mayst thou wonder we should know\\nSuch miscreant here, nor lay him low,\\nOr dream of greeting, peace, or truce,\\nWith excommunicated Bruce\\nYet well I grant, to end debate, 45 o\\nThy sainted voice decide his fate.\\nThen Ronald pled the stranger s cause,\\nAnd knighthood s oath and honor s laws;\\nAnd Isabel on bended knee\\nBrought prayers and tears to back the\\nplea;\\nAnd Edith lent her generous aid,\\nAnd wept, and Lorn for mercy prayed.\\nHence, he exclaimed, degenerate maid\\nWas t not enough to Ronald s bower\\nI brought thee, like a paramour, 460\\nOr bond-maid at her master s gate,\\nHis careless cold approach to wait\\nBut the bold Lord of Cumberland,\\nThe gallant Clifford, seeks thy hand;\\nHis it shaM be Nay, no reply\\nHence till those rebel eyes be dry.\\nWith grief the abbot heard and saw,\\nYet nought relaxed his brow of awe.\\nXXVI\\nThen Argentine, in England s name,\\nSo highly urged his sovereign s claim 470\\nHe waked a spark that long suppressed\\nHad smouldered in Lord Ronald s breast;\\nAnd now, as from the flint the fire,\\nFlashed forth at once his generous ire.\\nEnough of noble blood, he said,\\nBy English Edward had been shed,\\nSince matchless Wallace first had been\\nIn mockery crowned with wreaths of green,\\nAnd done to death by felon hand\\nFor guarding well his father s land. 480\\nWhere s Nigel Bruce and De la Haye,\\nAnd valiant Seton where are they\\nWhere Somerville, the kind and free\\nAnd Fraser, flower of chivalry\\nHave they not been on gibbet bound,\\nTheir quarters flung to hawk and hound,\\nAnd hold we here a cold debate\\nTo yield more victims to their fate\\nWhat can the English Leopard s mood\\nNever be gorged with northern blood 490\\nWas not the life of Athole shed\\nTo soothe the tyrant s sickened bed\\nAnd must his word till dying day\\nBe nought but quarter, hang, and slay\\nThou frown st, De Argentine, my gage\\nIs prompt to prove the strife I wage.\\nXXVII\\nNor deem, said stout Dunvegan s knight,\\nThat thou shalt brave alone the fight\\nBy saints of isle and mainland both,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0357.jp2"}, "356": {"fulltext": "326\\nTHE LORD OF THE ISLES\\nBy Woden wild my grandsire s oath 500\\nLet Rome and England do their worst,\\nHowe er attainted or accursed,\\nIf Bruce shall e er find friends again\\nOnce more to brave a battle-plain,\\nIf Douglas couch again his lance,\\nOr Randolph dare another chance,\\nOld Torquil will not be to lack\\nWith twice a thousand at his back.\\nNay, chafe not at my bearing bold,\\nGood abbot for thou know st of old, 510\\nTorquil s rude thought and stubborn will\\nSmack of the wild Norwegian still;\\nNor will I barter Freedom s cause\\nFor England s wealth or Rome s ap-\\nplause.\\nXXVIII\\nThe abbot seemed with eye severe\\nThe hardy chieftain s speech to hear;\\nThen on King Robert turned the monk,\\nBut twice his courage came and sunk,\\nConfronted with the hero s look;\\nTwice fell his eye, his accents shook; 520\\nAt length, resolved in tone and brow,\\nSternly he questioned him And thou,\\nUnhappy what hast thou to plead,\\nWhy I denounce not on thy deed\\nThat awful doom which canons tell\\nShuts paradise and opens hell;\\nAnathema of power so dread\\nIt blends the living with the dead,\\nBids each good angel soar away\\nAnd every ill one claim his prey; 530\\nExpels thee from the church s care\\nAnd deafens Heaven against thy prayer;\\nArms every hand against thy life,\\nBans all who aid thee in the strife,\\nNay, each whose succor, cold and scant,\\nWith meanest alms relieves thy want;\\nHaunts thee while living, and when dead\\nDwells on thy yet devoted head,\\nRends Honor s scutcheon from thy hearse,\\nStills o er thy bier the holy verse, 540\\nAnd spurns thy corpse from hallowed\\nground,\\nFlung like vile carrion to the hound:\\nSuch is the dire and desperate doom\\nFor sacrilege, decreed by Rome:\\nAnd such the well-deserved meed\\nOf thine unhallowed, ruthless deed.\\nXXIX\\nAbbot the Bruce replied, thy charge\\nIt boots not to dispute at large.\\nThis much, howe er, I bid thee know,\\nNo selfish vengeance dealt the blow, 550\\nFor Comyn died his country s foe.\\nNor blame I friends whose ill-timed speed\\nFulfilled my soon-repented deed,\\nNor censure those from whose stern tongue\\nThe dire anathema has rung.\\nI only blame mine own wild ire,\\nBy Scotland s wrongs incensed to fire.\\nHeaven knows my purpose to atone,\\nFar as I may, the evil done,\\nAnd hears a penitent s appeal 560\\nFrom papal curse and prelate s zeal.\\nMy first and dearest task achieved,\\nFair Scotland from her thrall relieved,\\nShall many a priest in cope and stole\\nSay requiem for Red Comyn s soul,\\nWhile I the blessed cross advance\\nAnd expiate this unhappy chance\\nIn Palestine with sword and lance.\\nBut, while content the Church should know\\nMy conscience owns the debt I owe, 57c\\nUnto De Argentine and Lorn\\nThe name of traitor I return,\\nBid them defiance stern and high,\\nAnd give them in their throats the lie\\nThese brief words spoke, I speak no more.\\nDo what thou wilt my shrift is o er.\\nxxx\\nLike man by prodigy amazed,\\nUpon the king the abbot gazed;\\nThen o er his pallid features glance\\nConvulsions of ecstatic trance. 580\\nHis breathing came more thick and fast,\\nAnd from his pale blue eyes were cast\\nStrange rays of wild and wandering light;\\nUprise his locks of silver white,\\nFlushed is his brow, through every vein\\nIn azure tide the currents strain,\\nAnd undistinguished accents broke\\nThe awful silence ere he spoke.\\nXXXI\\nDe Bruce I rose with purpose dread\\nTo speak my curse upon thy head, 590\\nAnd give thee as an outcast o er\\nTo him who burns to shed thy gore;\\nBut, like the Midianite of old\\nWho stood on Zophim, Heaven-controlled,\\nI feel within mine aged breast\\nA power that will not be repressed.\\nIt prompts my voice, it swells my veins,\\nIt burns, it maddens, it constrains\\nDe Bruce, thy sacrilegious blow", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0358.jp2"}, "357": {"fulltext": "CANTO THIRD\\n327\\nHath at God s altar slain thy foe: 600\\nO ermastered yet by high behest,\\nI bless thee, and thou shalt be blessed\\nHe spoke, and o er the astonished throng\\nWas silence, awful, deep, and long.\\nXXXII\\nAgain that light has fired his eye,\\nAgain his form swells bold and high,\\nThe broken voice of age is gone,\\nT is vigorous manhood s lofty tone:\\nThrice vanquished on the battle-plain,\\nThy followers slaughtered, fled, or ta en, 610\\nA hunted wanderer on the wild,\\nOn foreign shores a man exiled,\\nDisowned, deserted, and distressed,\\nI bless thee, and thou shalt be blessed\\nBlessed in the hall and in the field,\\nUnder the mantle as the shield.\\nAvenger of thy country s shame,\\nRestorer of her injured fame,\\nBlessed in thy sceptre and thy sword,\\nDe Bruce, fair Scotland s rightful lord, 620\\nBlessed in thy deeds and in thy fame,\\nWhat lengthened honors wait thy name\\nIn distant ages sire to son\\nShall tell thy tale of freedom won,\\nAnd teach his infants in the use\\nOf earliest speech to falter Bruce.\\nGo, then, triumphant sweep along\\nThy course, the theme of many a song\\nThe Power whose dictates swell my breast\\nHath blessed thee, and thou shalt be\\nblessed 630\\nEnough my short-lived strength de-\\ncays,\\nAnd sinks the momentary blaze.\\nHeaven hath our destined purpose broke,\\nNot here must nuptial vow be spoke\\nBrethren, our errand here is o er,\\nOur task discharged. Unmoor, unmoor\\nHis priests received the exhausted monk,\\nAs breathless in their arms he sunk.\\nPunctual his orders to obey,\\nThe train refused all longer stay, 640\\nEmbarked, raised sail, and bore away.\\nCANTO THIRD\\nHast thou not marked when o er thy\\nstartled head\\nSudden and deep the thunder-peal has\\nrolled,\\nHow, when its echoes fell, a silence dead\\nSunk on the wood, the meadow, and the\\nwold?\\nThe rye-grass shakes not on the sod-built\\nfold,\\nThe rustling aspen s leaves are mute and\\nstill,\\nThe wall-flower waves not on the ruined\\nhold,\\nTill, murmuring distant first, then near\\nand shrill,\\nThe savage whirlwind wakes and sweeps\\nthe groaning hill.\\nArtornish such a silence sunk 10\\nUpon thy halls, when that gray monk\\nHis prophet-speech had spoke;\\nAnd his obedient brethren s sail\\nWas stretched to meet the southern gale\\nBefore a whisper woke.\\nThen murmuring sounds of doubt and\\nfear,\\nClose poured in many an anxious ear,\\nThe solemn stillness broke;\\nAnd still they gazed with eager guess\\nWhere in an oriel s deep recess 20\\nThe Island Prince seemed bent to press\\nWhat Lorn, by his impatient cheer\\nAnd gesture fierce, scarce deigned to hear.\\nStarting at length with frowning look,\\nHis hand he clenched, his head he shook,\\nAnd sternly flung apart:\\nAnd deem st thou me so mean of mood\\nAs to forget the mortal feud,\\nAnd clasp the hand with blood imbrued\\nFrom my dear kinsman s heart 30\\nIs this thy rede a due return\\nFor ancient league and friendship sworn\\nBut well our mountain proverb shows\\nThe faith of Islesmen ebbs and flows.\\nBe it even so believe ere long\\nHe that now bears shall wreak the wrong.\\nCall Edith call the Maid of Lorn\\nMy sister, slaves for further scorn,\\nBe sure nor she nor I will stay.\\nAway, De Argentine, away 4 o\\nWe nor ally nor brother know\\nIn Bruce s friend or England s foe.\\nIV\\nBut who the chieftain s rage can tell\\nWhen, sought from lowest dungeon cell", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0359.jp2"}, "358": {"fulltext": "328\\nTHE LORD OF THE ISLES\\nTo highest tower the castle round,\\nNo Lady Edith was there found\\nHe shouted, Falsehood treachery\\nRevenge and blood a lordly meed\\nTo him that will avenge the deed\\nA baron s lands His frantic mood 50\\nWas scarcely by the news withstood\\nThat Morag shared his sister s flight,\\nAnd that in hurry of the night,\\nScaped noteless and without remark,\\nTwo strangers sought the abbot s bark.\\nMan every galley fly pursue\\nThe priest his treachery shall rue\\nAy, and the time shall quickly come\\nWhen we shall hear the thanks that Rome\\nWill pay his feigned prophecy 60\\nSuch was fierce Lorn s indignant cry;\\nAnd Cormac Doil in haste obeyed,\\nHoisted his sail, his anchor weighed\\nFor, glad of each pretext for spoil,\\nA pirate sworn was Cormac Doil. j\\nBut others, lingering, spoke apart,\\n1 The maid has given her maiden heart\\nTo Ronald of the Isles,\\nAnd, fearful lest her brother s word\\nBestow her on that English lord, 70\\nShe seeks Iona s piles,\\nAnd wisely deems it best to dwell\\nA votaress in the holy cell\\nUntil these feuds so fierce and fell\\nThe abbot reconciles.\\nAs, impotent of ire, the hall\\nEchoed to Lorn s impatient call\\nMy horse, my mantle, and my train\\nLet none who honors Lorn remain\\nCourteous but stern, a bold request 80\\nTo Bruce De Argentine expressed:\\nLord Earl, he said, I cannot chuse\\nBut yield such title to the Bruce,\\nThough name and earldom both are gone\\nSince he braced rebel s armor on\\nBut, earl or serf rude phrase was thine\\nOf late, and launched at Argentine\\nSuch as compels me to demand\\nRedress of honor at thy hand.\\nWe need not to each other tell 90\\nThat both can wield their weapons well;\\nThen do me but the soldier grace\\nThis glove upon thy helm to place\\nWhere we may meet in fight;\\nAnd I will say, as still I ve said,\\nThough by ambition far misled,\\nThou art a noble knight.\\nAnd I, the princely Bruce replied,\\n1 Might term it stain on knighthood s pride\\nThat the bright sword of Argentine 100\\nShould in a tyrant s quarrel shine;\\nBut, for your brave request,\\nBe sure the honored pledge you gave\\nIn every battle-field shall wave\\nUpon my helmet-crest;\\nBelieve that if my hasty tongue\\nHath done thine honor causeless wrong,\\nIt shall be well redressed.\\nNot dearer to my soul was glove\\nBestowed in youth by lady s love nc\\nThan this which thou hast given\\nThus then my noble foe I greet;\\nHealth and high fortune till we meet,\\nAnd then what pleases Heaven.\\nVII\\nThus parted they for now, with sound\\nLike waves rolled back from rocky ground,\\nThe friends of Lorn retire;\\nEach mainland chieftain with his train\\nDraws to his mountain towers again, 119\\nPondering how mortal schemes prove vain\\nAnd mortal hopes expire.\\nBut through the castle double guard\\nBy Ronald s charge kept wakeful ward,\\nWicket and gate were trebly barred\\nBy beam and bolt and chain;\\nThen of the guests in courteous sort\\nHe prayed excuse for mirth broke short,\\nAnd bade them in Artornish fort\\nIn confidence remain.\\nNow torch and menial tendance led 130\\nChieftain and knight to bower and bed,\\nAnd beads were told and Aves said,\\nAnd soon they sunk away\\nInto such sleep as wont to shed\\nOblivion on the weary head\\nAfter a toilsome day.\\nVIII\\nBut soon uproused, the monarch cried\\nTo Edward slumbering by his side,\\nAwake, or sleep for aye\\nEven now there jarred a secret door 140\\nA taper-light gleams on the floor\\nUp, Edward up, I say\\nSome one glides in like midnight ghost\\nNay, strike not t is our noble host.\\nAdvancing then his taper s flame,\\nRonald stept forth, and with him came", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0360.jp2"}, "359": {"fulltext": "CANTO THIRD\\n329\\nDunvegan s chief each bent the knee\\nTo Bruce in sign of fealty\\nAnd proffered him his sword,\\nAnd hailed him in a monarch s style 150\\nAs king of mainland and of isle\\nAnd Scotland s rightful lord.\\nAnd O, said Ronald, Owned of Heaven\\nSay, is my erring youth forgiven,\\nBy falsehood s arts from duty driven,\\nWho rebel falchion drew,\\nYet ever to thy deeds of fame,\\nEven while I strove against thy claim,\\nPaid homage just and true\\nAlas dear youth, the unhappy time, 160\\nAnswered the Bruce, must bear the crime\\nSince, guiltier far than you,\\nEven I he paused; for Falkirk s woes\\nUpon his conscious soul arose.\\nThe chieftain to his breast he pressed,\\nAnd in a sigh concealed the rest.\\nIX\\nThey proffered aid by arms and might\\nTo repossess him in his right;\\nBut well their counsels must be weighed\\nEre banners raised and musters made, 170\\nFor English hire and Lorn s intrigues\\nBound many chiefs in southern leagues.\\nIn answer Bruce his purpose bold\\nTo his new vassals frankly told:\\nThe winter worn in exile o er,\\nI longed for Carrick s kindred shore.\\nI thought upon my native Ayr\\nAnd longed to see the burly fare\\nThat Clifford makes, whose lordly call\\nNow echoes through my father s hall. 180\\nBut first my course to Arran led\\nWhere valiant Lennox gathers head,\\nAnd on the sea by tempest tossed,\\nOur barks dispersed, our purpose crossed,\\nMine own, a hostile sail to shun,\\nFar from her destined course had run,\\nWhen that wise will which masters ours\\nCompelled us to your friendly towers.\\nThen Torquil spoke The time craves\\nspeed\\nWe must not linger in our deed, 190\\nBut instant pray our sovereign liege\\nTo shun the perils of a siege.\\nThe vengeful Lorn with all his powers\\nLies but too near Artornish towers,\\nAnd England s light-armed vessels ride\\nNot distant far the waves of Clyde,\\nPrompt at these tidings to unmoor,\\nAnd sweep each strait and guard each\\nshore.\\nThen, till this fresh alarm pass by,\\nSecret and safe my liege must lie 200\\nIn the far bounds of friendly Skye,\\nTorquil thy pilot and thy guide.\\nNot so, brave chieftain, Ronald cried;\\nMyself will on my sovereign wait,\\nAnd raise in arms the men of Sleate,\\nWhilst thou, renowned where chiefs debate,\\nShalt sway their souls by council sage\\nAnd awe them by thy locks of age.\\nAnd if my words in weight shall fail, 209\\nThis ponderous sword shall turn the scale.\\nXI\\nThe scheme, said Bruce, contents me\\nwell;\\nMeantime, t were best that Isabel\\nFor safety with my bark and crew\\nAgain to friendly Erin drew.\\nThere Edward too shall with her wend,\\nIn need to cheer her and defend\\nAnd muster up each scattered friend.\\nHere seemed it as Lord Ronald s ear\\nWould other counsel gladlier hear;\\nBut, all achieved as soon as planned, 220\\nBoth barks, in secret armed and manned,\\nFrom out the haven bore;\\nOn different voyage forth they ply,\\nThis for the coast of winged Skye\\nAnd that for Erin s shore.\\nXII\\nWith Bruce and Ronald bides the tale.\\nTo favoring winds they gave the sail\\nTill Mull s dark headlands scarce they\\nknew\\nAnd Ardnamurchan s hills were blue. 229\\nBut then the squalls blew close and hard,\\nAnd, fain to strike the galley s yard\\nAnd take them to the oar,\\nWith these rude seas in weary plight\\nThey strove the livelong day and night,\\nNor till the dawning had a sight\\nOf Skye s romantic shore.\\nWhere Coolin stoops him to the west,\\nThey saw upon his shivered crest\\nThe sun s arising gleam;\\nBut such the labor and delay, 240\\nEre they were moored in Scavigh bay\\nFor calmer heaven compelled to stay\\nHe shot a western beam.\\nThen Ronald said, If true mine eye,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0361.jp2"}, "360": {"fulltext": "33\u00c2\u00b0\\nTHE LORD OF THE ISLES\\nThese are the savage wilds that lie\\nNorth of Strathnardill and Dunskye;\\nNo human foot comes here,\\nAnd, since these adverse breezes blow,\\nIf my good liege love hunter s bow,\\nWhat hinders that on land we go 250\\nAnd strike a mountain-deer\\nAllan, my page, shall with us wend;\\nA bow full deftly can he bend,\\nAnd,, if we meet a herd, may send\\nA shaft shall mend our cheer.\\nThen each took bow and bolts in hand,\\nTheir row-boat launched and leapt to land,\\nAnd left their skiff and train,\\nWhere a wild stream with headlong shock\\nCame brawling down its bed of rock 260\\nTo mingle with the main.\\nAwhile their route they silent made,\\nAs men who stalk for mountain-deer,\\nTill the good Bruce to Ronald said,\\nSaint Mary what a scene is here\\nI ve traversed many a mountain-strand,\\nAbroad and in my native land,\\nAnd it has been my lot to tread\\nWhere safety more than pleasure led; 269\\nThus, many a waste I ve wandered o er,\\nClomb many a crag, crossed many a moor,\\nBut, by my halidome,\\nA scene so rude, so wild as this,\\nYet so sublime in barrenness,\\nNe er did my wandering footsteps press\\nWhere er I happed to roam.\\nXIV\\nNo marvel thus the monarch spake;\\nFor rarely human eye has known\\nA scene so stern as that dread lake\\nWith its dark ledge of barren stone. 280\\nSeems that primeval earthquake s sway\\nHath rent a strange and shattered way\\nThrough the rude bosom of the hill,\\nAnd that each naked precipice,\\nSable ravine, and dark abyss,\\nTells of the outrage still.\\nThe wildest glen but this can show\\nSome touch of Nature s genial glow;\\nOn high Benmore green mosses grow,\\nAnd heath-bells bud in deep Glencroe, 290\\nAnd copse on Cruchan-Ben;\\nBut here, above, around, below,\\nOn mountain or in glen,\\nNor tree, nor shrub, nor plant, nor flower,\\nNor aught of vegetative power,\\nThe weary eye may ken.\\nFor all is rocks at random thrown,\\nBlack waves, bare crags, and banks of\\nstone,\\nAs if were here denied 299\\nThe summer sun, the spring s sweet dew,\\nThat clothe with many a varied hue\\nThe bleakest mountain-side.\\nxv\\nAnd wilder, forward as they wound,\\nWere the proud cliffs and lake profound.\\nHuge terraces of granite black\\nAfforded rude and cumbered track;\\nFor from the mountain hoar,\\nHurled headlong in some night of fear,\\nWhen yelled the wolf and fled the deer,\\nLoose crags had toppled o er; 310\\nAnd some, chance-poised and balanced, lay\\nSo that a stripling arm might sway\\nA mass no host could raise,\\nIn Nature s rage at random thrown\\nYet trembling like the Druid s stone\\nOn its precarious base.\\nThe evening mists with ceaseless change\\nNow clothed the mountains lofty range,\\nNow left their foreheads bare, 3 19\\nAnd round the skirts their mantle furled,\\nOr on the sable waters curled;\\nOr on the eddying breezes whirled,\\nDispersed in middle air.\\nAnd oft condensed at once they lower\\nWhen, brief and fierce, the mountain\\nshower\\nPours like a torrent down,\\nAnd when return the sun s glad beams,\\nWhitened with foam a thousand streams\\nLeap from the mountain s crown.\\n330\\ni This lake, said Bruce, whose barriers\\ndrear\\nAre precipices sharp and sheer,\\nYielding no track for goat or deer\\nSave the black shelves we tread,\\nHow term you its dark waves and how\\nYon northern mountain s pathless brow,\\nAnd yonder peak of dread\\nThat to the evening sun uplifts\\nThe griesly gulfs and slaty rifts\\nWhich seam its shivered, head\\n1 Coriskin call the dark lake s name\\nCoolin the ridge, as bards proclaim\\nFrom old Cuchullin, chief of fame.\\nBut bards, familiar in our isles\\n34c", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0362.jp2"}, "361": {"fulltext": "CANTO THIRD\\n33*\\nRather with Nature s frowns than smiles,\\nFull oft their careless humors please\\nBy sportive names from scenes like these.\\nI would old Torquil were to show\\nHis Maidens with their breasts of snow,\\nOr that my noble liege were nigh\\nTo hear his Nurse sing lullaby 350\\nThe Maids tall cliffs with breakers\\nwhite,\\nThe Nurse a torrent s roaring might\\nOr that your eye could see the mood\\nOf Corryvrekin s whirlpool rude,\\nWhen dons the Hag her whitened hood\\nT is thus our islesmen s fancy frames\\nFor scenes so stern fantastic names.\\nXVII\\nAnswered the Bruce, And musing mind\\nMight here a graver moral find.\\nThese mighty cliffs that heave on high 360\\nTheir naked brows to middle sky,\\nIndifferent to the sun or snow,\\nWhere nought can fade and nought can\\nblow\\nMay they not mark a monarch s fate,\\nRaised high mid storms of strife and state,\\nBeyond life s lowlier pleasures placed,\\nHis soul a rock, his heart a waste\\nO er hope and love and fear aloft\\nHigh rears his crowned head But soft\\nLook, underneath yon jutting crag 370\\nAre hunters and a slaughtered stag.\\nWho may they be But late you said\\nNo steps these desert regions tread\\nXVIII\\nSo said I and believed in sooth,\\nRonald replied, I spoke the truth.\\nYet now I spy, by yonder stone,\\nFive men they mark us and come on;\\nAnd by their badge on bonnet borne\\nI guess them of the land of Lorn,\\nFoes to my liege. So let it be; 380\\nI ve faced worse odds than five to three\\nBut the poor page can little aid;\\nThen be our battle thus arrayed,\\nIf our free passage they contest;\\nCope thou with two, I 11 match the rest.\\nNot so, my liege for, by my life,\\nThis sword shall meet the treble strife;\\nMy strength, my skill in arms, more small,\\nAnd less the loss should Ronald fall.\\nBut islesmen soon to soldiers grow, 390\\nAllan has sword as well as bow,\\nAnd were my monarch s order given,\\nTwo shafts should make our number\\neven.\\nNo not to save my life he said;\\nEnough of blood rests on my head\\nToo rashly spilled we soon shall know,\\nWhether they come as friend or foe.\\nXIX\\nNigh came the strangers and more nigh;\\nStill less they pleased the monarch s eye.\\nMen were they all of evil mien, 400\\nDown-looked, unwilling to be seen;\\nThey moved with half-resolved pace,\\nAnd bent on earth each gloomy face.\\nThe foremost two were fair arrayed\\nWith brogue and bonnet, trews and plaid,\\nAnd bore the arms of mountaineers,\\nDaggers and broadswords, bows and\\nspears.\\nThe three that lagged small space behind\\nSeemed serfs of more degraded kind\\nGoat-skins or deer-hides o er them cast 410\\nMade a rude fence against the blast;\\nTheir arms and feet and heads were bare,\\nMatted their beards, unshorn their hair;\\nFor arms the caitiffs bore in hand\\nA club, an axe, a rusty brand.\\nxx\\nOnward still mute, they kept the track\\nTell who ye be, or else stand back,\\nSaid Bruce; in deserts when they meet,\\nMen pass not as in peaceful street.\\nStill at his stern command they stood, 420\\nAnd proffered greeting brief and rude,\\nBut acted courtesy so ill\\nAs seemed of fear and not of will.\\nWanderers we are, as you may be;\\nMen hither driven by wind and sea,\\nWho, if you list to taste our cheer,\\nWill share with you this fallow deer.\\nIf from the sea, where lies your bark\\nTen fathom deep in ocean dark\\nWrecked yesternight: but we are men 43 o\\nWho little sense of peril ken.\\nThe shades come down the day is shut\\nWill you go with us to our hut\\nOur vessel waits us in the bay;\\nThanks for your proffer have good-\\nday.\\nWas that your galley, then, which rode\\nNot far from shore when evening\\nglowed\\nIt was. Then spare your needless\\npain,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0363.jp2"}, "362": {"fulltext": "33*\\nTHE LORD OF THE ISLES\\nThere will she now be sought in vain.\\nWe saw her from the mountain head 440\\nWhen, with Saint George s blazon red\\nA southern vessel bore in sight,\\nAnd yours raised sail and took to flight.\\nNow, by the rood, unwelcome news\\nThus with Lord Ronald communed Bruce;\\nNor rests there light enough to show\\nIf this their tale be true or no.\\nThe men seem bred of churlish kind,\\nYet mellow nuts have hardest rind;\\nWe will go with them food and fire 450\\nAnd sheltering roof our wants require.\\nSure guard gainst treachery will we keep,\\nAnd watch by turns our comrades sleep.\\nGood fellows, thanks your guests we 11 be,\\nAnd well will pay the courtesy.\\nCome, lead us where your lodging lies\\nNay, soft we mix not companies.\\nShow us the path o er crag and stone,\\nAnd we will follow you; lead on.\\nThey reached the dreary cabin, made 460\\nOf sails against a rock displayed,\\nAnd there on entering found\\nA slender boy, whose form and mien\\n111 suited with such savage scene,\\nIn cap and cloak of velvet green,\\nLow seated on the ground.\\nHis garb was such as minstrels wear,\\nDark was his hue, and dark his hair,\\nHis youthful cheek was marred by care,\\nHis eyes in sorrow drowned. 470\\nWhence this poor boy As Ronald\\nspoke,\\nThe voice his trance of anguish broke;\\nAs if awaked from ghastly dream,\\nHe raised his head with start and scream,\\nAnd wildly gazed around;\\nThen to the wall his face he turned,\\nAnd his dark neck with blushes burned.\\nXXIII\\nWhose is the boy again he said.\\nBy chance of war our captive made\\nHe may be yours, if you should hold 480\\nThat music has more charms than gold;\\nFor, though from earliest childhood mute,\\nThe lad can deftly touch the lute,\\nAnd on the rote and viol play,\\nAnd well can drive the time away\\nFor those who love such glee;\\nFor me the favoring breeze, when loud\\nIt pipes upon the galley s shroud,\\nMakes blither melody.\\nHath he, then, sense of spoken sound\\nAy; so his mother bade us know, 491\\nA crone in our late shipwreck drowned,\\nAnd hence the silly stripling s woe.\\nMore of the youth I cannot say,\\nOur captive but since yesterday;\\nWhen wind and weather waxed so grim,\\nWe little listed think of him.\\nBut why waste time in idle words\\nSit to your cheer unbelt your swords.\\nSudden the captive turned his head, 500\\nAnd one quick glance to Ronald sped.\\nIt was a keen and warning look,\\nAnd well the chief the signal took.\\nXXIV\\nKind host, he said, our needs require\\nA separate board and separate fire;\\nFor know that on a pilgrimage\\nWend I, my comrade, and this page.\\nAnd, sworn to vigil and to fast\\nLong as this hallowed task shall last,\\nWe never doff the plaid or sword, 510\\nOr feast us at a stranger s board,\\nAnd never share one common sleep,\\nBut one must still his vigil keep.\\nThus, for our separate use, good friend,\\nWe 11 hold this hut s remoter end.\\n1 A churlish vow, the elder said,\\n1 And hard, methinks, to be obeyed.\\nHow say you, if, to wreak the scorn\\nThat pays our kindness harsh return,\\nWe should refuse to share our meal 520\\nThen say we that our swords are steel\\nAnd our vow binds us not to fast\\nWhere gold or force may buy repast. N\\nTheir host s dark brow grew keen and\\nfell,\\nHis teeth are clenched, his features swell;\\nYet sunk the felon s moody ire\\nBefore Lord Ronald s glance of fire,\\nNor could his craven courage brook\\nThe monarch s calm and dauntless look.\\nWith laugh constrained Let every\\nman 530\\nFollow the fashion of his clan\\nEach to his separate quarters keep,\\nAnd feed or fast, or wake or sleep.\\nXXV\\nTheir fire at separate distance burns,\\nBy turns they eat, keep guard by turns;", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0364.jp2"}, "363": {"fulltext": "CANTO THIRD\\n333\\nFor evil seemed that old man s eye,\\nDark and designing, fierce yet shy.\\nStill he avoided forward look,\\nBut slow and circumspectly took\\nA circling, never-ceasing glance, 540\\nBy doubt and cunning marked at once,\\nWhich shot a mischief-boding ray\\nFrom under eyebrows shagged and gray.\\nThe younger, too, who seemed his son,\\nHad that dark look the timid shun;\\nThe half-clad serfs behind them sate,\\nAnd scowled a glare twixt fear and hate\\nTill all, as darkness onward crept,\\nCouched down, and seemed to sleep or\\nslept.\\nNor he, that boy, whose powerless\\ntongue 550\\nMust trust his eyes to wail his wrong,\\nA longer watch of sorrow made,\\nBut stretched his limbs to slumber laid.\\nXXVI\\nNot in his dangerous host confides\\nThe king, but wary watch provides.\\nRonald keeps ward till midnight past,\\nThen wakes the king, young Allan last;\\nThus ranked, to give the youthful page\\nThe rest required by tender age.\\nWhat is Lord Ronald s wakeful thought 560\\nTo chase the languor toil had brought\\nFor deem not that he deigned to throw\\nMuch care upon such coward foe\\nHe thinks of lovely Isabel\\nWhen at her foeman s feet she fell,\\nNor less when, placed in princely selle,\\nShe glanced on him with favoring eyes\\nAt Woodstock when he won the prize.\\nNor, fair in joy, in sorrow fair,\\nIn pride of place as mid despair, 570\\nMust she alone engross his care.\\nHis thoughts to his betrothed bride,\\nTo Edith, turn O, how decide,\\nWhen here his love and heart are given,\\nAnd there his faith stands plight to\\nHeaven\\nNo drowsy ward t is his to keep,\\nFor seldom lovers long for sleep.\\nTill sung his midnight hymn the owl,\\nAnswered the dog-fox with his howl,\\nThen waked the king at his request, 580\\nLord Ronald stretched himself to rest.\\nXXVII\\nWhat spell was good King Robert s, say,\\nTo drive the weary night away\\nHis was the patriot s burning thought\\nOf freedom s battle bravely fought,\\nOf castles stormed, of cities freed,\\nOf deep design and daring deed,\\nOf England s roses reft and torn,\\nAnd Scotland s cross in triumph worn,\\nOf rout and rally, war and truce, 590\\nAs heroes think, so thought the Bruce.\\nNo marvel, mid such musings high\\nSleep shunned the monarch s thoughtful\\neye.\\nNow over Coolin s eastern head\\nThe grayish light begins to spread,\\nThe otter to his cavern drew,\\nAnd clamored shrill the wakening mew;\\nThen watched the page to needful rest\\nThe king resigned his anxious breast.\\nTo Allan s eyes was harder task 600\\nThe weary watch their safeties ask.\\nHe trimmed the fire and gave to shine\\nWith bickering light the splintered pine\\nThen gazed awhile where silent laid\\nTheir hosts were shrouded by the plaid.\\nBut little fear waked in his mind,\\nFor he was bred of martial kind,\\nAnd, if to manhood he arrive,\\nMay match the boldest knight alive.\\nThen thought he of his mother s tower, 610\\nHis little sister s greenwood bower,\\nHow there the Easter-gambols pass,\\nAnd of Dan Joseph s lengthened mass.\\nBut still before his weary eye\\nIn rays prolonged the blazes die\\nAgain he roused him on the lake\\nLooked forth where now the twilight-flake\\nOf pale cold dawn began to wake.\\nOn Coolin s cliffs the mist lay furled,\\nThe morning breeze the lake had curled, 620\\nThe short dark waves, heaved to the land,\\nWith ceaseless plash kissed cliff or sand;\\nIt was a slumbrous sound he turned\\nTo tales at which his youth had burned,\\nOf pilgrim s path by demon crossed,\\nOf sprightly elf or yelling ghost,\\nOf the wild witch s baneful cot,\\nAnd mermaid s alabaster grot,\\nWho bathes her limbs in sunless well\\nDeep in Strathaird s enchanted cell. 630\\nThither in fancy rapt he flies,\\nAnd on his sight the vaults arise;\\nThat hut s dark walls he sees no more,\\nHis foot is on the marble floor,\\nAnd o er his head the dazzling spars", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0365.jp2"}, "364": {"fulltext": "334\\nTHE LORD OF THE ISLES\\nGleam like a firmament of stars\\nHark hears he not the sea-nymph speak\\nHer anger in that thrilling shriek\\nNo all too late, with Allan s dream\\nMingled the captive s warning scream. 640\\nAs from the ground he strives to start,\\nA ruffian s dagger finds his heart\\nUpwards he casts his dizzy eyes\\nMurmurs his master s name and dies\\nXXIX\\nNot so awoke the king his hand\\nSnatched from the flame a knotted brand,\\nThe nearest weapon of his wrath;\\nWith this he crossed the murderer s path\\nAnd venged young Allan well\\nThe spattered brain and bubbling blood 650\\nHissed on the half-extinguished wood,\\nThe miscreant gasped and fell\\nNor rose in peace the Island Lord;\\nOne caitiff died upon his sword,\\nAnd one beneath his grasp lies prone\\nIn mortal grapple overthrown.\\nBut while Lord Ronald s dagger drank\\nThe life-blood from his panting flank,\\nThe father-ruffian of the band\\nBehind him rears a coward hand 660\\nO for a moment s aid,\\nTill Bruce, who deals no double blow,\\nDash to the earth another foe,\\nAbove his comrade laid\\nAnd it is gained the captive sprung\\nOn the raised arm and closely clung,\\nAnd, ere he shook him loose,\\nThe mastered felon pressed the ground,\\nAnd gasped beneath a mortal wound,\\nWhile o er him stands the Bruce. 670\\nxxx\\nMiscreant while lasts thy flitting spark,\\nGive me to know the purpose dark\\nThat armed thy hand with murderous\\nknife\\nAgainst offenceless stranger s life\\nNo stranger thou with accent fell,\\nMurmured the wretch; I know thee well,\\nAnd know thee for the foeman sworn\\nOf my high chief, the mighty Lorn.\\nSpeak yet again, and speak the truth\\nFor thy soul s sake from whence this\\nyouth 680\\nHis country, birth, and name declare,\\nAnd thus one evil deed repair.\\nVex me no more my blood runs\\ncold\\nNo more I know than I have told.\\nWe found him in a bark we sought\\nWith different purpose and I thought\\nFate cut him short; in blood and broil,\\nAs he had lived, died Cormac Doil.\\nXXXI\\nThen resting on his bloody blade,\\nThe valiant Bruce to Ronald said, 690\\nNow shame upon us both that boy\\nLifts his mute face to heaven\\nAnd clasps his hands, to testify\\nHis gratitude to God on high\\nFor strange deliverance given.\\nHis speechless gesture thanks hath paid,\\nWhich our free tongues have left unsaid\\nHe raised the youth with kindly word,\\nBut marked him shudder at the sword:\\nHe cleansed it from its hue of death, 700\\nAnd plunged the weapon in its sheath.\\nAlas, poor child unfitting part\\nFate doomed when with so soft a heart\\nAnd form so slight as thine\\nShe made thee first a pirate s slave,\\nThen in his stead a patron gave\\nOf wayward lot like mine;\\nA landless prince, whose wandering life\\nIs but one scene of blood and strife\\nYet scant of friends the Bruce shall be, 710\\nBut he 11 find resting-place for thee.\\nCome, noble Ronald o er the dead\\nEnough thy generous grief is paid,\\nAnd well has Allan s fate been wroke;\\nCome, wend we hence the day has broke.\\nSeek we our bark I trust the tale\\nWas false that she had hoisted sail.\\nXXXII\\nYet, ere they left that charnel-cell,\\nThe Island Lord bade sad farewell\\nTo Allan: Who shall tell this tale, 720\\nHe said, in halls of Donagaile\\nO, who his widowed mother tell\\nThat, ere his bloom, her fairest fell\\nRest thee, poor youth and trust my care\\nFor mass and knell and funeral prayer;\\nWhile o er those caitiffs where they lie\\nThe wolf shall snarl, the raven cry\\nAnd now the eastern mountain s head\\nOn the dark lake threw lustre red;\\nBright gleams of gold and purple streak 730\\nRavine and precipice and peak\\nSo earthly power at distance shows;\\nReveals his splendor, hides his woes.\\nO er sheets of granite, dark and broad,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0366.jp2"}, "365": {"fulltext": "CANTO FOURTH\\n335\\nRent and unequal, lay the road.\\nIn sad discourse the warriors wind,\\nAnd the mute captive moves behind.\\nCANTO FOURTH\\nStranger if e er thine ardent step\\nhath traced\\nThe northern realms of ancient Caledon,\\nWhere the proud Queen of Wilderness\\nhath placed\\nBy lake and cataract her lonely throne,\\nSublime but sad delight thy soul hath\\nknown,\\nGazing on pathless glen and mountain\\nhigh,\\nListing where from the cliffs the torrents\\nthrown\\nMingle their echoes with the eagle s cry,\\nAnd with the sounding lake and with the\\nmoaning sky.\\nYes t was sublime, but sad. The\\nloneliness 10\\nLoaded thy heart, the desert tired thine\\neye;\\nAnd strange and awful fears began to\\npress\\nThy bosom with a stern solemnity.\\nThen hast thou wished some woodman s\\ncottage nigh,\\nSomething that showed of life, though\\nlow and mean;\\nGlad sight, its curling wreath of smoke\\nto spy,\\nGlad sound, its cock s blithe carol would\\nhave been,\\nOr children whooping wild beneath the\\nwillows green.\\nSuch are the scenes where savage gran-\\ndeur wakes\\nAn awful thrill that softens into sighs; 20\\nSuch feelings rouse them by dim Ran-\\nnoch s lakes,\\nIn dark Glencoe such gloomy raptures\\nrise:\\nOr farther, where beneath the northern\\nskies\\nChides wild Loch-Eribol his caverns\\nhoar\\nBut, be the minstrel judge, they yield the\\nprize\\nOf desert dignity to that dread shore\\nThat sees grim Coolin rise and hears Coris-\\nkin roar.\\nThrough such wild scenes the champion\\nWhen bold halloo and bugle-blast\\nUpon the breeze came loud and fast. 30\\nThere, said the Bruce, rung Edward s\\nhorn\\nWhat can have caused such brief return\\nAnd see, brave Ronald, see him dart\\nO er stock and stone like hunted hart,\\nPrecipitate, as is the use,\\nIn war or sport, of Edward Bruce.\\nHe marks us, and his eager cry\\nWill tell his news ere he be nigh.\\nin\\nLoud Edward shouts, What make ye\\nhere,\\nWarring upon the mountain-deer, 4 o\\nWhen Scotland wants her king\\nA bark from Lennox crossed our track,\\nWith her in speed I hurried back,\\nThese joyful news to bring\\nThe Stuart stirs in Teviotdale,\\nAnd Douglas wakes his native vale;\\nThy storm-tossed fleet hath won its way\\nWith little loss to Brodick-Bay,\\nAnd Lennox with a gallant band\\nWaits but thy coming and command 50\\nTo waft them o er to Carrick strand.\\nThere are blithe news but mark the\\nclose\\nEdward, the deadliest of our foes,\\nAs with his host he northward passed,\\nHath on the borders breathed his last.\\nStill stood the Bruce his steady cheek\\nWas little wont his joy to speak,\\nBut then his color rose\\nNow, Scotland shortly shalt thou see,\\nWith God s high will, thy children free 60\\nAnd vengeance on thy foes\\nYet to no sense of selfish wrongs,\\nBear witness with me, Heaven, belongs\\nMy joy o er Edward s bier;\\nI took my knighthood at his hand,\\nAnd lordship held of him and land,\\nAnd well may vouch it here,\\nThat, blot the story from his page\\nOf Scotland ruined in his rage,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0367.jp2"}, "366": {"fulltext": "336\\nTHE LORD OF THE ISLES\\nYou read a monarch brave and sage 70\\nAnd to his people dear.\\nLet London s burghers mourn her lord\\nAnd Croydon monks his praise record,\\nThe eager Edward said;\\n1 Eternal as his own, my hate\\nSurmounts the bounds of mortal fate\\nAnd dies not with the dead\\nSuch hate was his on Solway s strand\\nWhen vengeance clenched his palsied hand,\\nThat pointed yet to Scotland s land, 80\\nAs his last accents prayed\\nDisgrace and curse upon his heir\\nIf he one Scottish head should spare\\nTill stretched upon the bloody lair\\nEach rebel corpse was laid\\nSuch hate was his when his last breath\\nRenounced the peaceful house of death,\\nAnd bade his bones to Scotland s coast\\nBe borne by his remorseless host,\\nAs if his dead and stony eye 90\\nCould still enjoy her misery\\nSuch hate was his dark, deadly, long;\\nMine as enduring, deep, and strong\\nLet women, Edward, war with words,\\nWith curses monks, but men with swords:\\nNor doubt of living foes to sate\\nDeepest revenge and deadliest hate.\\nNow to the sea Behold the beach,\\nAnd see the galley s pendants stretch\\nTheir fluttering length down favoring\\nAboard, aboard and hoist the sail.\\nHold we our way for Arran first,\\nWhere meet in arms our friends dispersed;\\nLennox the loyal, De la Haye,\\nAnd Boyd the bold in battle fray.\\nI long the hardy band to head,\\nAnd see once more my standard spread.\\nDoes noble Ronald share our course,\\nOr stay to raise his island force\\nCome weal, come woe, by Bruce s\\nside, no\\nReplied the chief, will Ronald bide.\\nAnd since two galleys yonder ride,\\nBe mine, so please my liege, dismissed\\nTo wake to arms the clans of Uist,\\nAnd all who hear the Minche s roar\\nOn the Long Island s lonely shore.\\nThe nearer Isles with slight delay\\nOurselves may summon in our way;\\nAnd soon on Arran s shore shall meet\\nWith Torquil s aid a gallant fleet, 120\\nIf aught avails their chieftain s hest\\nAmong the islesmen of the west.\\nThus was their venturous council said.\\nBut, ere their sails the galleys spread,\\nCoriskin dark and Coolin high\\nEchoed the dirge s doleful cry.\\nAlong that sable lake passed slow\\nFit scene for such a sight of woe\\nThe sorrowing islesmen as they bore\\nThe murdered Allan to the shore. 130\\nAt every pause with dismal shout\\nTheir coronach of grief rung out,\\nAnd ever when they moved again\\nThe pipes resumed their clamorous strain,\\nAnd with the pibroch s shrilling wail\\nMourned the young heir of Donagaile.\\nRound and around, from cliff and cave\\nHis answer stern old Coolin gave,\\nTill high upon his misty side 139\\nLanguished the mournful notes and died.\\nFor never sounds by mortal made\\nAttained his high and haggard head,\\nThat echoes but the tempest s moan\\nOr the deep thunder s rending groan.\\nVII\\nMerrily, merrily bounds the bark,\\nShe bounds before the gale,\\nThe mountain breeze from Ben-na-darch\\nIs joyous in her sail\\nWith fluttering sound like laughter hoarse\\nThe cords and canvas strain, 150\\nThe waves, divided by her force,\\nIn rippling eddies chased her course,\\nAs if they laughed again.\\nNot down the breeze more blithely flew,.\\nSkimming the wave, the light sea-mew\\nThan the gay galley bore\\nHer course upon that favoring wind,\\nAnd Coolin s crest has sunk behind\\nAnd Slapin s caverned shore.\\nT was then that warlike signals wake 160\\nDunscaith s dark towers and Eisord s lake,\\nAnd soon from Cavilgarrigh s head\\nThick wreaths of eddying smoke were\\nspread;\\nA summons these of war and wrath\\nTo the brave clans of Sleat and Strath,\\nAnd ready at the sight\\nEach warrior to his weapon sprung\\nAnd targe upon his shoulder flung,\\nImpatient for the fight.\\nMac-Kinnon s chief, in warfare gray, 17c", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0368.jp2"}, "367": {"fulltext": "CANTO FOURTH\\n337\\nHad charge to muster their array\\nAnd guide their barks to Brodick Bay.\\nSignal of Ronald s high command,\\nA beacon gleamed o er sea and land\\nFrom Canna s tower, that, steep and gray,\\nLike falcon-nest o erhangs the bay.\\nSeek not the giddy crag to climb\\nTo view the turret scathed by time;\\nIt is a task of doubt and fear\\nTo aught but goat or mountain-deer. 180\\nBut rest thee on the silver beach,\\nAnd let the aged herdsman teach\\nHis tale of former day;\\nHis cur s wild clamor he shall chide,\\nAnd for thy seat by ocean s side\\nHis varied plaid display;\\nThen tell how with their chieftain came\\nIn ancient times a foreign dame\\nTo yonder turret gray.\\nStern was her lord s suspicious mind 190\\nWho in so rude a jail confined\\nSo soft and fair a thrall\\nAnd oft when moon on ocean slept\\nThat lovely lady sate and wept\\nUpon the castle-wall,\\nAnd turned her eye to southern climes,\\nAnd thought perchance of happier times,\\nAnd touched her lute by fits, and sung\\nWild ditties in her native tongue.\\nAnd still, when on the cliff and bay 200\\nPlacid and pale the moonbeams play,\\nAnd every breeze is mute,\\nUpon the lone Hebridean s ear\\nSteals a strange pleasure mixed with fear,\\nWhile from that cliff he seems to hear\\nThe murmur of a lute\\nAnd sounds as of a captive lone\\nThat mourns her woes in tongue un-\\nknown.\\nStrange is the tale but all too long\\nAlready hath it staid the song 210\\nYet who may pass them by,\\nThat crag and tower in ruins gray,\\nNor to their hapless tenant pay\\nThe tribute of a sigh\\nIX\\nMerrily, merrily bounds the bark\\nO er the broad ocean driven,\\nHer path by Ronin s mountains dark\\nThe steersman s hand hath given.\\nAnd Ronin s mountains dark have sent\\nTheir hunters to the shore, 220\\nAnd each his ashen bow unbent,\\nAnd gave his pastime o er,\\nAnd at the Island Lord s command\\nFor hunting spear took warrior s brand.\\nOn Scooreigg next a warning light\\nSummoned her warriors to the fight;\\nA numerous race ere stern MacLeod\\nO er their bleak shores in vengeance\\nstrode,\\nWhen all in vain the ocean-cave\\nIts refuge to his victims gave. 230\\nThe chief, relentless in his wrath,\\nWith blazing heath blockades the path;\\nIn dense and stifling volumes rolled,\\nThe vapor filled the caverned hold\\nThe warrior-threat, the infant s plain,\\nThe mother s screams, were heard in vain;\\nThe vengeful chief maintains his fires\\nTill in the vault a tribe expires\\nThe bones which strew that cavern s gloom\\nToo well attest their dismal doom. 240\\nMerrily, merrily goes the bark\\nOn a breeze from the northward freey\\nSo shoots through the morning sky the lark,\\nOr the swan through the summer sea.\\nThe shores of Mull on the eastward lay,\\nAnd Ulva dark and Colonsay,\\nAnd all the group of islets gay\\nThat guard famed Staffa round.\\nThen all unknown its columns rose\\nWhere dark and undisturbed repose 259*\\nThe cormorant had found,\\nAnd the shy seal had quiet home\\nAnd weltered in that wondrous dome\\nWhere, as to shame the temples decked\\nBy skill of earthly architect,\\nNature herself, it seemed, would raise\\nA minster to her Maker s praise\\nNot for a meaner use ascend\\nHer columns or her arches bend;\\nNor of a theme less solemn tells 260\\nThat mighty surge that ebbs and swells,\\nAnd still, between each awful pause,\\nFrom the high vault an answer draws\\nIn varied tone prolonged and high\\nThat mocks the organ s melody.\\nNor doth its entrance front in vain\\nTo old Iona s holy fane,\\nThat Nature s voice might seem to say,\\nWell hast thou done, frail child of clay\\nThy humble powers that stately shrine 270\\nTasked high and hard but witness\\nmine", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0369.jp2"}, "368": {"fulltext": "338\\nTHE LORD OF THE ISLES\\nMerrily, merrily goes the bark,\\nBefore the gale she bounds;\\nSo darts the dolphin from the shark,\\nOr the deer before the hounds.\\nThey left Loch-Tua on their lee,\\nAnd they wakened the men of the wild\\nTiree,\\nAnd the chief of the sandy Coll;\\nThey paused not at Columba s isle, 279\\nThough pealed the bells from the holy\\npile,\\nWith long and measured toll;\\nNo time for matin or for mass,\\nAnd the sounds of the holy summons pass\\nAway in the billows roll.\\nLochbuie s fierce and warlike lord\\nTheir signal saw and grasped his sword,\\nAnd verdant Islay called her host,\\nAnd the clans of Jura s rugged coast\\nLord Ronald s call obey,\\nAnd Scarba s isle, whose tortured shore 290\\nStill rings to Corrievreken s roar,\\nAnd lonely Colonsay;\\nScenes sung by him who sings no more\\nHis bright and brief career is o er,\\nAnd mute his tuneful strains;\\nQuenched is his lamp of varied lore\\nThat loved the light of song to pour;\\nA distant and a deadly shore\\nHas Leyden s cold remains\\nEver the breeze blows merrily, 300\\nBut the galley ploughs no more the sea.\\nLest, rounding wild Cantyre, they meet\\nThe southern foeman s watchful fleet,\\nThey held unwonted way;\\nUp Tarbat s western lake they bore,\\nThen dragged their bark the isthmus o er,\\nAs far as Kilmaconnel s shore\\nUpon the eastern bay.\\nIt was a wondrous sight to see\\nTopmast and pennon glitter free, 3 10\\nHigh raised above the greenwood tree,\\nAs on dry land the galley moves\\nBy cliff and copse and alder groves.\\nDeep import from that selcouth sign\\nDid many a mountain seer divine,\\nFor ancient legends told the Gael\\nThat when a royal bark should sail\\nO er Kilmaconnel moss\\nOld Albyn should in fight prevail,\\nAnd every foe should faint and quail 320\\nBefore her silver Cross.\\nXIII\\nNow launched once more, the inland sea\\nThey furrow with fair augury,\\nAnd steer for Arran s isle;\\nThe sun, ere yet he sunk behind\\nBen-Ghoil, the Mountain of the Wind,\\nGave his grim peaks a greeting kind,\\nAnd bade Loch Ranza smile.\\nThither their destined course they drew;\\nIt seemed the isle her monarch knew, 33\\nSo brilliant was the landward view,\\nThe ocean so serene;\\nEach puny wave in diamonds rolled\\nO er the calm deep where hues of gold\\nWith azure strove and green.\\nThe hill, the vale, the tree, the tower,\\nGlowed with the tints of evening s hour,\\nThe beach was silver sheen,\\nThe wind breathed soft as lover s sigh,\\nAnd oft renewed seemed oft to die, 34\\nWith breathless pause between.\\nO, who with speech of war and woes\\nWould wish to break the soft repose\\nOf such enchanting scene\\nIs it of war Lord Ronald speaks\\nThe blush that dyes his manly cheeks,\\nThe timid look, and downcast eye,\\nAnd faltering voice the theme deny.\\nAnd good King Robert s brow expressed\\nHe pondered o er some high request, 350\\nAs doubtful to approve;\\nYet in his eye and lip the while,\\nDwelt the half-pitying glance and smile\\nWhich manhood s graver mood beguile\\nWhen lovers talk of love.\\nAnxious his suit Lord Ronald pled;\\nAnd for my bride betrothed, he said,\\nMy liege has heard the rumor spread\\nOf Edith from Artornish fled.\\nToo hard her fate I claim no right 360\\nTo blame her for her hasty flight;\\nBe joy and happiness her lot\\nBut she hath fled the bridal-knot,\\nAnd Lorn recalled his promised plight\\nIn the assembled chieftains sight.\\nWhen, to fulfil our fathers band,\\nI proffered all I could my hand\\nI was repulsed with scorn;\\nMine honor I should ill assert,\\nAnd worse the feelings of my heart, 370\\nIf I should play a suitor s part\\nAgain to pleasure Lorn.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0370.jp2"}, "369": {"fulltext": "CANTO FOURTH\\n339\\nYoung Lord/ the royal Bruce replied,\\nThat question must the Church decide\\nYet seems it hard, since rumors state\\nEdith takes Clifford for her mate,\\nThe very tie which she hath broke\\nTo thee should still be binding yoke.\\nBut, for my sister Isabel\\nThe mood of woman who can tell 380\\nI guess the Champion of the Rock,\\nVictorious in the tourney shock,\\nThat knight unknown to whom the prize\\nShe dealt, had favor in her eyes\\nBut since our brother Nigel s fate,\\nOur ruined house and hapless state,\\nFrom worldly joy and hope estranged,\\nMuch is the hapless mourner changed.\\nPerchance, here smiled the noble King,\\nf This tale may other musings bring. 390\\nSoon shall we know yon mountains hide\\nThe little convent of Saint Bride;\\nThere, sent by Edward, she must stay\\nTill fate shall give more prosperous day;\\nAnd thither will I bear thy suit,\\nNor will thine advocate be mute.\\nXVI\\nAs thus they talked in earnest mood,\\nThat speechless boy beside them stood.\\nHe stooped his head against the mast,\\nAnd bitter sobs came thick and fast, 400\\nA grief that would not be repressed\\nBut seemed to burst his youthful breast.\\nHis hands against his forehead held\\nAs if by force his tears repelled,\\nBut through his fingers long and slight\\nFast trilled the drops of crystal bright.\\nEdward, who walked the deck apart,\\nFirst spied this conflict of the heart.\\nThoughtless as brave, with bluntness kind\\nHe sought to cheer the sorrower s mind; 410\\nBy force the slender hand he drew\\nFrom those poor eyes that streamed with\\ndew.\\nAs in his hold the stripling strove\\nT was a rough grasp, though meant in\\nlove\\nAway his tears the warrior swept,\\nAnd bade shame on him that he wept.\\nI would to Heaven thy helpless tongue\\nCould tell me who hath wrought thee\\nwrong\\nFor, were he of our crew the best,\\nThe insult went not unredressed. 420\\nCome, cheer thee; thou art now of age\\nTo be a warrior s gallant page;\\nThou shalt be mine a palfrey fair\\nO er hill and holt my boy shall bear,\\nTo hold my bow in hunting grove,\\nOr speed on errand to my love;\\nFor well I wot thou wilt not tell\\nThe temple where my wishes dwell.\\nXVII\\nBruce interposed, Gay Edward, no,\\nThis is no youth to hold thy bow, 430\\nTo fill thy goblet, or to bear\\nThy message light to lighter fair.\\nThou art a patron all too wild\\nAnd thoughtless for this orphan child.\\nSee st thou not how apart he steals,\\nKeeps lonely couch, and lonely meals\\nFitter by far in yon calm cell\\nTo tend our sister Isabel,\\nWith father Augustine to share\\nThe peaceful change of convent prayer, 440\\nThan wander wild adventures through\\nWith such a reckless guide as you.\\nThanks, brother Edward answered\\ngay,\\nFor the high laud thy words convey\\nBut we may learn some future day,\\nIf thou or I can this poor boy\\nProtect the best or best employ.\\nMeanwhile, our vessel nears the strand;\\nLaunch we the boat and seek the land.\\nXVIII\\nTo land King Robert lightly sprung, 450\\nAnd thrice aloud his bugle rung\\nWith note prolonged and varied strain\\nTill fyold Ben-Ghoil replied again.\\nGood Douglas then and De la Haye\\nHad in a glen a hart at bay,\\nAnd Lennox cheered the laggard hounds,\\nWhen waked that horn the greenwood\\nbounds.\\nIt is the foe cried Boyd, who came\\nIn breathless haste with eye of flame,\\nIt is the foe Each valiant lord 460\\nFling by his bow and grasp his sword\\nNot so, replied the good Lord James,\\nThat blast no English bugle claims.\\nOft have I heard it fire the fight,\\nCheer the pursuit, or stop the flight.\\nDead were my heart and deaf mine ear,\\nIf Bruce should call nor Douglas hear 1\\nEach to Loch Ranza s margin spring;\\nThat blast was winded by the king", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0371.jp2"}, "370": {"fulltext": "34o\\nTHE LORD OF THE ISLES\\nXIX\\nFast to their mates the tidings spread, 470\\nAnd fast to shore the warriors sped.\\nBursting from glen and greenwood tree,\\nHigh waked their loyal jubilee\\nAround the royal Bruce they crowd,\\nAnd clasped his hands, and wept aloud.\\nVeterans of early fields were there,\\nWhose helmets pressed their hoary hair,\\nWhose swords and axes bore a stain\\nFrom life-blood of the red-haired Dane;\\nAnd boys whose hands scarce brooked to\\nwield 480\\nThe heavy sword or bossy shield.\\nMen too were there that bore the scars\\nImpressed in Albyn s woful wars,\\nAt Falkirk s fierce and fatal fight,\\nTeyndrum s dread rout, and Methven s\\nflight;\\nThe might of Douglas there was seen,\\nThere Lennox with his graceful mien;\\nKirkpatrick, Closeburn s dreaded Knight;\\nThe Lindsay, fiery, fierce, and light;\\nThe heir of murdered De la Haye, 490\\nAnd Boyd the grave, and Seton gay.\\nAround their king regained they pressed,\\nWept, shouted, clasped him to their breast,\\nAnd young and old, and serf and lord,\\nAnd he who ne er unsheathed a sword,\\nAnd he in many a peril tried,\\nAlike resolved the brunt to bide,\\nAnd live or die by Bruce s side\\nXX\\nO War thou hast thy fierce delight,\\nThy gleams of joy, intensely bright 500\\nSuch gleams as from thy polished shield\\nFly dazzling o er the battle-field\\nSuch transports wake, severe and high,\\nAmid the pealing conquest cry;\\nScarce less, when after battle lost\\nMuster the remnants of a host,\\nAnd as each comrade s name they tell\\nWho in the well-fought conflict fell,\\nKnitting stern brow o er flashing eye,\\nVow to avenge them or to die 510\\nWarriors and where are warriors found,\\nIf not on martial Britain s ground\\nAnd who, when waked with note of fire,\\nLove more than they the British lyre\\nKnow ye not, hearts to honor dear\\nThat joy, deep-thrilling, stern, severe,\\nAt which the heartstrings vibrate high,\\nAnd wake the fountains of the eye\\nAnd blame ye then the Bruce if trace\\nOf tear is on his manly face\\nWhen, scanty relics of the train\\nThat hailed at Scone his early reign,\\nThis patriot band around him hung,\\nAnd to his knees and bosom clung\\nBlame ye the Bruce His brothe\\nblamed,\\nBut shared the weakness, while ashamed\\nWith haughty laugh his head he turned,\\nAnd dashed away the tear he scorned.\\nT is morning, and the convent bell\\nLong time had ceased its matin knell\\nWithin thy walls, Saint Bride\\nAn aged sister sought the cell\\nAssigned to Lady Isabel,\\nAnd hurriedly she cried,\\nHaste, gentle Lady, haste there wai\\nA noble stranger at the gates\\nSaint Bride s poor votaress ne er has seen\\nA knight of such a princely mien;\\nHis errand, as he bade me tell,\\nIs with the Lady Isabel.\\nThe princess rose, for on her knee\\nLow bent she told her rosary,\\nLet him by thee his purpose teach;\\nI may not give a stranger speech.\\nSaint Bride forefend, thou royal maid\\nThe portress crossed herself and said,\\nNot to be Prioress might I\\nDebate his will, his suit deny.\\nHas earthly show then, simple fool,\\nPower o er a sister of thy rule 550\\nAnd art thou, like the worldly train,\\nSubdued by splendors light and vain\\nXXII\\n4 No, lady in old eyes like mine,\\nGauds have no glitter, gems no shine;\\nNor grace his rank attendants vain,\\nOne youthful page is all his train.\\nIt is the form, the eye, the word,\\nThe bearing of that stranger lord\\nHis stature, manly, bold, and tall,\\nBuilt like a castle s battled wall, 560\\nYet moulded in such just degrees,\\nHis giant-strength seems lightsome ease.\\nClose as the tendrils of the vine\\nHis locks upon his forehead twine,\\nJet-black save where some touch of gray\\nHas ta en the youthful hue away.\\nWeather and war their rougher trace j\\nHave left on that majestic face;", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0372.jp2"}, "371": {"fulltext": "CANTO FOURTH\\n34i\\nBut t is his dignity of eye\\nThere, if a suppliant, would I fly, 570\\nSecure, mid danger, wrongs, and grief,\\nOf sympathy, redress, relief\\nThat glance, if guilty, would I dread\\nMore than the doom that spoke me dead\\nEnough, enough, the Princess cried,\\nT is Scotland s hope, her joy, her pride\\nTo meaner front was ne er assigned\\nSuch mastery o er the common mind\\nBestowed thy high designs to aid,\\nHow long, O Heaven how long de-\\nlayed 580\\nHaste, Mona, haste, to introduce\\nMy darling brother, royal Bruce\\nXXIII\\nThey met like friends who part in pain,\\nAnd meet in doubtful hope again.\\nBut when subdued that fitful swell,\\nThe Bruce surveyed the humble cell\\nAnd this is thine, poor Isabel\\nThat pallet-couch and naked wall,\\nFor room of state and bed of pall;\\nFor costly robes and jewels rare, 590\\nA string of beads and zone of hair;\\nAnd for the trumpet s sprightly call\\nTo sport or banquet, grove or hall,\\nThe bell s grim voice divides thy care,\\nTwixt hours of penitence and prayer\\nO ill for thee, my royal claim\\nFrom the First David s sainted name\\nO woe for thee, that while he sought\\nHis right, thy brother feebly fought\\nNow lay these vain regrets aside, 600\\nAnd be the unshaken Bruce she cried\\nFor more I glory to have shared\\nThe woes thy venturous spirit dared,\\nWhen raising first thy valiant band\\nIn rescue of thy native land,\\nThan had fair Fortune set me down\\nThe partner of an empire s crown.\\nAnd grieve not that on pleasure s stream\\nNo more I drive in giddy dream,\\nFor Heaven the erring pilot knew, 610\\nAnd from the gulf the vessel drew,\\nTried me with judgments stern and great,\\nMy house s ruin, thy defeat,\\nPoor Nigel s death, till tamed I own\\nMy hopes are fixed on Heaven alone;\\nNor e er shall earthly prospects win yk\\nMy heart to this vain world of sin.\\nNay, Isabel, for such stern choice\\nFirst wilt thou wait thy brother s voice\\nThen ponder if in convent scene 620\\nNo softer thoughts might intervene\\nSay they were of that unknown knight,\\nVictor in Woodstock s tourney-fight\\nNay, if his name such blush you owe,\\nVictorious o er a fairer foe\\nTruly his penetrating eye\\nHath caught that blush s passing dye,\\nLike the last beam of evening thrown\\nOn a white cloud, just seen and gone.\\nSoon with calm cheek and steady eye 630\\nThe princess made composed reply:\\nI guess my brother s meaning well;\\nFor not so silent is the cell\\nBut we have heard the islemen all\\nArm in thy cause at Ronald s call,\\nAnd mine eye proves that knight unknown\\nAnd the brave Island Lord are one.\\nHad then his suit been earlier made,\\nIn his own name with thee to aid\\nBut that his plighted faith forbade 640\\nI know not But thy page so near\\nThis is no tale for menial s ear.\\nXXVI\\nStill stood that page, as far apart\\nAs the small cell would space afford;\\nWith dizzy eye and bursting heart\\nHe leant his weight on Bruce s sword,\\nThe monarch s mantle too he bore,\\nAnd drew the fold his visage o er.\\nFear not for him in murderous strife/\\nSaid Bruce, his warning saved my life 650\\nFull seldom parts he from my side,\\nAnd in his silence I confide,\\nSince he can tell no tale again.\\nHe is a boy of gentle strain,\\nAnd I have purposed he shall dwell\\nIn Augustine the chaplain s cell\\nAnd wait on thee, my Isabel.\\nMind not his tears; I ve seen them flow,\\nAs in the thaw dissolves the snow.\\nT is a kind youth, but fanciful, 660\\nUnfit against the tide to pull,\\nAnd those that with the Bruce would\\nsail\\nMust learn to strive with stream and\\ngale.\\nBut forward, gentle Isabel\\nMy answer for Lord Ronald tell.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0373.jp2"}, "372": {"fulltext": "342\\nTHE LORD OF THE ISLES\\nThis answer be to Ronald given\\nThe heart he asks is fixed on heaven.\\nMy love was like a summer flower\\nThat withered in the. wintry hour,\\nBorn but of vanity and pride, 67c\\nAnd with these sunny visions died.\\nIf further press his suit then say\\nHe should his plighted troth obey,\\nTroth plighted both with ring and word,\\nAnd sworn on crucifix and sword.\\nO, shame thee, Robert I have seen\\nThou hast a woman s guardian been\\nEven in extremity s dread hour,\\nWhen pressed on thee the Southern power,\\nAnd safety, to all human sight, 680\\nWas only found in rapid flight,\\nThou heard st a wretched female plain\\nIn agony of travail-pain,\\nAnd thou didst bid thy little band\\nUpon the instant turn and stand,\\nAnd dare the worst the foe might do\\nRather than, like a knight untrue,\\nLeave to pursuers merciless\\nA woman in her last distress.\\nAnd wilt thou now deny thine aid 690\\nTo an oppressed and injured maid,\\nEven plead for Ronald s perfidy\\nAnd press his fickle faith on me\\nSo witness Heaven, as true I vow,\\nHad I those earthly feelings now\\nWhich could my former bosom move\\nEre taught to set its hopes above,\\nI d spurn each proffer he could bring\\nTill at my feet he laid the ring,\\nThe ring and spousal contract both, 700\\nAnd fair acquittal of his oath,\\nBy her who brooks his perjured scorn,\\nThe ill-requited Maid of Lorn\\nWith sudden impulse forward sprung\\nThe page and on her neck he hung;\\nThen, recollected instantly,\\nHis head he stooped and bent his knee,\\nKissed twice the hand of Isabel,\\nArose, and sudden left the cell.\\nThe princess, loosened from his hold, 71a\\nBlushed angry at his bearing bold;\\nBut good King Robert cried,\\n1 Chafe not by signs he speaks his mind,\\nHe heard the plan my care designed,\\nNor could his transports hide.\\nBut, sister, now bethink thee well;\\nNo easy choice the convent cell;\\nTrust, I shall play no tyrant part,\\nEither to force thy hand or heart,\\nOr suffer that Lord Ronald scorn\\nOr wrong for thee the Maid of Lorn.\\nBut think, not long the time has been-\\nThat thou wert wont to sigh unseen,\\nAnd wouldst the ditties best approve\\nThat told some lay of hapless love.\\nNow are thy wishes in thy power,\\nAnd thou art bent on cloister bower\\nO, if our Edward knew the change,\\nHow would his busy satire range,\\nWith many a sarcasm varied still\\nOn woman s wish and woman s will\\nXXIX\\nBrother, I well believe, she said,\\nEven so would Edward s part be played-\\nKindly in heart, in word severe,\\nA foe to thought and grief and fear,\\nHe holds his humor uncontrolled;\\nBut thou art of another mould.\\nSay then to Ronald, as I say,\\nUnless before my feet he lay\\nThe ring which bound the faith he\\nswore,\\nBy Edith freely yielded o er,\\nHe moves his suit to me no more.\\nNor do I promise, even if now\\nHe stood absolved of spousal vow,\\nThat I would change my purpose made\\nTo shelter me in holy shade.\\nBrother, for little space, farewell\\nTo other duties warns the bell.\\nLost to the world, King Robert said,\\nWhen he had left the royal maid, 75c\\nLost to the world by lot severe,\\nO, what a gem lies buried here,\\nNipped by misfortune s cruel frost,\\nThe buds of fair affection lost\\nBut what have I with love to do\\nFar sterner cares my lot pursue.\\nPent in this isle we may not lie,\\nNor would it long our wants supply.\\nRight opposite, the mainland towers 759\\nOf my own Turnberry court our powers\\nMight not my father s beadsman hoar,\\nCuthbert, who dwells upon the shore,\\nKindle a signal-flame to show\\nThe time propitious for the blow\\nIt shall be so some friend shall bear\\nOur mandate with despatch and care", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0374.jp2"}, "373": {"fulltext": "CANTO FIFTH\\n345\\nEdward shall find the messenger.\\nThat fortress ours, the island fleet\\nMay on the coast of Carrick meet.\\nO Scotland shall it e er be mine 770\\nTo wreak thy wrongs in battle-line,\\nTo raise my victor-head, and see\\nThy hills, thy dales, thy people free,\\nThat glance of bliss is all I crave\\nBetwixt my labors and my grave\\nThen down the hill he slowly went,\\nOft pausing on the steep descent,\\nAnd reached the spot where his bold\\ntrain\\nHeld rustic camp upon the plain.\\nCANTO FIFTH\\nOn fair Loch-Ranza streamed the early\\nday,\\nThin wreaths of cottage-smoke are up-\\nward curled\\nFrom the lone hamlet which her inland\\nbay\\nAnd circling mountains sever from the\\nworld.\\nAnd there the fisherman his sail un-\\nfurled,\\nThe goat-herd drove his kids to steep\\nBen-Ghoil,\\nBefore the hut the dame her spindle\\ntwirled,\\nCourting the sunbeam as she plied her\\ntoil,\\nFor, wake where er he may, man wakes to\\ncare and coil.\\nBut other duties called each convent\\nmaid, 10\\nRoused by the summons of the moss-\\ngrown bell;\\nSung were the matins and the mass was\\nsaid,\\nAnd every sister sought her separate\\ncell,\\nSuch was the rule, her rosary to tell.\\nAnd Isabel has knelt in lonely prayer;\\nThe sunbeam through the narrow lattice\\nfell\\nUpon the snowy neck and long dark\\nhair,\\nAs stooped her gentle head in meek de-\\nvotion there.\\nShe raised her eyes, that duty done,\\nWhen glanced upon the pavement-stone, 20\\nGemmed and enchased, a golden ring,\\nBound to a scroll with silken string,\\nWith few brief words inscribed to tell,\\nThis for the Lady Isabel.\\nWithin the writing farther bore,\\nT was with this ring his plight he swore,,\\nWith this his promise I restore;\\nTo her who can the heart command\\nWell may I yield the plighted hand.\\nAnd O, for better fortune born, 30\\nGrudge not a passing sigh to mourn\\nHer who was -Edith once of Lorn\\nOne single flash of glad surprise\\nJust glanced from Isabel s dark eyes,\\nBut vanished in the blush of shame\\nThat as its penance instant came.\\nO thought unworthy of my race\\nSelfish, ungenerous, mean, and base,\\nA moment s throb of joy to own\\nThat rose upon her hopes o erthrown 40\\nThou pledge of vows too well believed,\\nOf man ingrate and maid deceived,\\nThink not thy lustre here shall gain\\nAnother heart to hope in vain\\nFor thou shalt rest, thou tempting gaud\u00e2\u0080\u009e\\nWhere worldly thoughts are overawed,\\nAnd worldly splendors sink debased.\\nThen by the cross the ring she placed*\\nill\\nNext rose the thought, its owner farj\\nHow came it here through bolt and\\nbar 5 o\\nBut the dim lattice is ajar.\\nShe looks abroad, the morning dew\\nA light short step had brushed anew,\\nAnd there were footprints seen\\nOn the carved buttress rising still,\\nTill on the mossy window-sill\\nTheir track effaced the green.\\nThe ivy twigs were torn and frayed,\\nAs if some climber s steps to aid.\\nBut who the hardy messenger 60\\nWhose venturous path these signs in-\\nfer\\nStrange doubts are mine Mona, draw\\nnigh\\nNought scapes old Mona s curious eye\\nWhat strangers, gentle mother, say,\\nHave sought these holy walls to-day\\nNone, lady, none of note or name", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0375.jp2"}, "374": {"fulltext": "344\\nTHE LORD OF THE ISLES\\nOnly your brother s foot-page came\\nAt peep of dawn I prayed him pass\\nTo chapel where they said the mass;\\nBut like an arrow he shot by, 7 o\\nAnd tears seemed bursting from his eye.\\nThe truth at once on Isabel\\nAs darted by a sunbeam fell:\\nT is Edith s self her speechless woe,\\nHer form, her looks, the secret show\\nInstant, good Mona, to the bay,\\nAnd to my royal brother say,\\nI do conjure him seek my cell\\nWith that mute page he loves so well. 79\\nWhat know st thou not his warlike host\\nAt break of day has left our coast\\nMy old eyes saw them from the tower.\\nAt eve they couched in greenwood bower,\\nAt dawn a bugle signal made\\nBy their bold lord their ranks arrayed;\\nUp sprung the spears through bush and\\ntree,\\nNo time for benedicite\\nLike deer that, rousing from their lair,\\nJust shake the dew-drops from their hair\\nAnd toss their armed crest aloft, 90\\nSuch matins theirs Good mother,\\nsoft\\nWhere does my brother bend his way\\nAs I have heard, for Brodick Bay,\\nAcross the isle of barks a score\\nLie there, t is said, to waft them o er,\\nOn sudden news, to Carrick shore.\\nIf such their purpose, deep the need/\\nSaid anxious Isabel, of speed\\nCall Father Augustine, good dame.\\nThe nun obeyed, the father came. 100\\nKind father, hie without delay\\nAcross the hills to Brodick Bay.\\nThis message to the Bruce be given;\\nI pray him, by his hopes of Heaven,\\nThat till he speak with me he stay\\nOr, if his haste brook no delay,\\nThat he deliver on my suit\\nInto thy charge that stripling mute.\\nThus prays his sister Isabel\\nFor causes more than she may tell no\\nAway, good father and take heed\\nThat life and death are on thy speed.\\nHis cowl the good old priest did on,\\nTook his piked staff and sandalled shoon,\\nAnd, like a palmer bent by eld,\\nO er moss and moor his journey held.\\nHeavy and dull the foot of age,\\nAnd rugged was the pilgrimage;\\nBut none were there beside whose care\\nMight such important message bear. 12\\nThrough birchen copse he wandered slow,\\nStunted and sapless, thin and low;\\nBy many a mountain stream he passed,\\nFrom the tall cliffs in tumult cast,\\nDashing to foam their waters dun\\nAnd sparkling in the summer sun.\\nRound his gray head the wild curlew\\nIn many a fearless circle flew.\\nO er chasms he passed where fractures\\nwide\\nCraved wary eye and ample stride;\\nHe crossed his brow beside the stone\\nWhere Druids erst heard victims groan,\\nAnd at the cairns upon the wild\\nO er many a heathen hero piled,\\nHe breathed a timid prayer for those\\nWho died ere Shiloh s sun arose.\\nBeside Macfarlane s Cross he staid,\\nThere told his hours within the shade\\nAnd at the stream his thirst allayed.\\nThence onward journeying slowly still, 140\\nAs evening closed he reached the hill\\nWhere, rising through the woodland green,\\nOld Brodick s Gothic towers were seen.\\nFrom Hastings late, their English lord,\\nDouglas had won them by the sword.\\nThe sun that sunk behind the isle\\nNow tinged them with a parting smile.\\nVII\\nBut though the beams of light decay\\nT was bustle all in Brodick Bay.\\nThe Bruce s followers crowd the shore, i\\nAnd boats and barges some unmoor,\\nSome raise the sail, some seize the oar;\\nTheir eyes oft turned where glimmered\\nfar\\nWhat might have seemed an early star\\nOn heaven s blue arch save that its light\\nWas all too flickering, fierce, and bright.\\nFar distant in the south the ray\\nShone pale amid retiring day,\\nBut as, on Carrick shore,\\nDim seen in outline faintly blue,\\nThe shades of evening closer drew,\\nIt kindled more and more.\\nThe monk s slow steps now press the sands,\\nAnd now amid a scene he stands\\nFull strange to churchman s eye;\\nWarriors, who, arming for the fight,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0376.jp2"}, "375": {"fulltext": "CANTO FIFTH\\n345\\nRivet and clasp their harness light,\\nAnd twinkling spears, and axes bright,\\nAnd helmets flashing high.\\nOft too with unaccustomed ears 170\\nA language much unmeet he hears,\\nWhile, hastening all on board,\\nAs stormy as the swelling surge\\nThat mixed its roar, the leaders urge\\nTheir followers to the ocean verge\\nWith many a haughty word.\\nVIII\\nThrough that wild throng the father\\nAnd reached the royal Bruce at last.\\nHe leant against a stranded boat\\nThat the approaching tide must float, 180\\nAnd counted every rippling wave\\nAs higher yet her sides they lave,\\nAnd oft the distant fire he eyed,\\nAnd closer yet his hauberk tied,\\nAnd loosened in its sheath his brand.\\nEdward and Lennox were at hand,\\nDouglas and Ronald had the care\\nThe soldiers to the barks to share.\\nThe monk approached and homage paid;\\nAnd art thou come, King Robert said, 190\\nE So far to bless us ere we part\\nMy liege, and with a loyal heart\\nBut other charge I have to tell,\\nAnd spoke the best of Isabel.\\nI Now by Saint Giles, the monarch cried,\\nThis moves me much this morning\\ntide\\nI sent the stripling to Saint Bride\\nWith my commandment there to bide.\\nThither he came the portress showed, 199\\nBut there, my liege, made brief abode.\\nTwas I, said Edward, found employ\\nOf nobler import for the boy.\\nDeep pondering in my anxious 4 mind,\\nA fitting messenger to find\\nTo bear thy written mandate o er\\nTo Cuthbert on the Carrick shore,\\nI chanced at early dawn to pass\\nThe chapel gate to snatch a mass.\\nI found the stripling on a tomb\\nLow-seated, weeping for the doom 210\\nThat gave his youth to convent gloom.\\nI told my purpose and his eyes\\nFlashed joyful at the glad surprise.\\nHe bounded to the skiff, the sail\\nWas spread before a prosperous gale,\\nAnd well my charge he hath obeyed;\\nFor see the ruddy signal made\\nThat Clifford with his merry-men all\\nGuards carelessly our father s hall.\\nO wild of thought and hard of heart\\nAnswered the monarch, on a part\\nOf such deep danger to employ\\nA mute, an orphan, and a boy\\nUnfit for flight, unfit for strife,\\nWithout a tongue to plead for life\\nNow, were my right restored by Heaven,\\nEdward, my crown I would have given\\nEre, thrust on such adventure wild,\\nI perilled thus the helpless child.\\nOffended half and half submiss, 23a\\nBrother and liege, of blame like this,\\nEdward replied, I little dreamed.\\nA stranger messenger, I deemed,\\nMight safest seek the beadsman s cell\\nWhere all thy squires are known so well.\\nNoteless his presence, sharp his sense,\\nHis imperfection his defence.\\nIf seen, none can his errand guess;\\nIf ta en, his words no tale express\\nMethinks, too, yonder beacon s shine 240\\nMight expiate greater fault than mine.\\nRash, said King Robert, was the deed\\nBut it is done. Embark with speed\\nGood father, say to Isabel\\nHow this unhappy chance befell;\\nIf well we thrive on yonder shore,\\nSoon shall my care her page restore.\\nOur greeting to our sister bear,\\nAnd think of us in mass and prayer.\\nAy said the priest, while this poor\\nhand 250\\nCan chalice raise or cross command,\\nWhile my old voice has accents use,\\nCan Augustine forget the Bruce\\nThen to his side Lord Ronald pressed,\\nAnd whispered, Bear thou this request,\\nThat when by Bruce s side I fight\\nFor Scotland s crown and freedom s right,\\nThe princess grace her knight to hear\\nSome token of her favoring care\\nIt shall be shown where England s hest 260\\nMay shrink to see it on my crest.\\nAnd for the boy since weightier care\\nFor royal Bruce the times prepare,\\nThe helpless youth is Ronald s charge,\\nHis couch my plaid, his fence my targe.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0377.jp2"}, "376": {"fulltext": "346\\nTHE LORD OF THE ISLES\\nHe ceased; for many an eager hand\\nHad urged the barges from the strand.\\nTheir number was a score and ten,\\nThey bore thrice threescore chosen men.\\nWith such small force did Bruce at last 270\\nThe die for death or empire cast\\nXII\\nNow on the darkening main afloat,\\nReady and manned rocks every boat;\\nBeneath their oars the ocean s might\\nWas dashed to sparks of glimmering light.\\nFaint and more faint, as off they bore,\\nTheir armor glanced against the shore,\\nAnd, mingled with the dashing tide,\\nTheir murmuring voices distant died.\\nGod speed them said the priest, as dark\\nOn distant billows glides each bark; 281\\nO Heaven when swords for freedom\\nshine\\nAnd monarch s right, the cause is thine\\nEdge doubly every patriot blow\\nBeat down the banners of the foe\\nAnd be it to the nations known,\\nThat victory is from God alone\\nAs up the hill his path he drew,\\nHe turned his blessings to renew,\\nOft turned till on the darkened coast 290\\nAll traces of their course were lost;\\nThen slowly bent to Brodick tower\\nTo shelter for the evening hour.\\nIn night the fairy prospects sink\\nWhere Cumray s isles with verdant link\\nClose the fair entrance of the Clyde;\\nThe woods of Bute, no more descried,\\nAre gone and on the placid sea\\nThe rowers ply their task with glee,\\nWhile hands that knightly lances bore 300\\nImpatient aid the laboring oar.\\nThe half -faced moon shone dim and pale,\\nAnd glanced against the whitened sail;\\nBut on that ruddy beacon-light\\nEach steersman kept the helm aright,\\nAnd oft, for such the king s command,\\nThat all at once might reach the strand,\\nFrom boat to boat loud shout and hail\\nWarned them to crowd or slacken sail.\\nSouth and by west the armada bore, 310\\nAnd near at length the Carrick shore.\\nAs less and less the distance grows,\\nHigh and more high the beacon rose;\\nThe light that seemed a twinkling star\\nNow blazed portentous, fierce, and far.\\nDark-red the heaven above it glowed,\\nDark-red the sea beneath it flowed,\\nRed rose the rocks on ocean s brim,\\nIn blood-red light her islets swim;\\nWild scream the dazzled sea-fowl gave, 320\\nDropped from their crags on plashing wave.\\nThe deer to distant covert drew,\\nThe black-cock deemed it day and crew.\\nLike some tall castle given to flame,\\nO er half the land the lustre came.\\nNow, good my liege and brother sage,\\nWhat think ye of mine elfin page\\nRow on the noble king replied,\\nWe 11 learn the truth whate er betide\\nYet sure the beadsman and the child 330\\nCould ne er have waked that beacon wild.\\nWith that the boats approached the land,\\nBut Edward s grounded on the sand;\\nThe eager knight leaped in the sea\\nWaist-deep and first on shore was he,\\nThough every barge s hardy band\\nContended which should gain the land,\\nWhen that strange light, which seen afar\\nSeemed steady as the polar star,\\nNow, like a prophet s fiery chair, 340\\nSeemed travelling the realms of air.\\nWide o er the sky the splendor glows\\nAs that portentous meteor rose;\\nHelm, axe, and falchion glittered bright,\\nAnd in the red and dusky light\\nHis comrade s face each warrior saw,\\nNor marvelled it was pale with awe.\\nThen high in air the beams were lost,\\nAnd darkness sunk upon the coast.\\nRonald to Heaven a prayer addressed, 350\\nAnd Douglas crossed his dauntless breast;\\nSaint James protect us Lennox cried,\\nBut reckless Edward spoke aside,\\nDeem st thou, Kirkpatrick, in that flame\\nRed Corny n s angry spirit came,\\nOr would thy dauntless heart endure\\nOnce more to make assurance sure\\nHush! said the Bruce; we soon shall\\nknow\\nIf this be sorcerer s empty show\\nOr stratagem of southern foe. 360\\nThe moon shines out upon the sand\\nLet every leader rank his band.\\nXV\\nFaintly the moon s pale beams supply\\nThat ruddy light s unnatural dye;\\nThe dubious cold reflection lay", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0378.jp2"}, "377": {"fulltext": "CANTO FIFTH\\n347\\nOn the wet sands and quiet bay.\\nBeneath the rocks King Robert drew\\nHis scattered files to order due,\\nTill shield compact and serried spear\\nIn the cool light shone blue and clear. 370\\nThen down a path that sought the tide\\nThat speechless page was seen to glide;\\nHe knelt him lowly on the sand,\\nAnd gave a scroll to Robert s hand.\\nA torch, the monarch cried, What, ho\\nNow shall we Cuthbert s tidings know.\\nBut evil news the letters bear,\\nThe Clifford s force was strong and ware,\\nAugmented too, that very morn,\\nBy mountaineers who came with Lorn. 380\\nLong harrowed by oppressor s hand,\\nCourage and faith had fled the land,\\nAnd over Carrick, dark and deep,\\nHad sunk dejection s iron sleep.\\nCuthbert had seen that beacon flame,\\nUnwitting from what source it came.\\nDoubtful of perilous event,\\nEdward s mute messenger he sent,\\nIf Bruce deceived should venture o er,\\nTo warn him from the fatal shore.\\n390\\nXVI\\nAs round the torch the leaders crowd,\\nBruce read these chilling news aloud.\\ni What council, nobles, have we now\\nTo ambush us in greenwood bough,\\nAnd take the chance which fate may send\\nTo bring our enterprise to end\\nOr shall we turn us to the main\\nAs exiles, and embark again\\nAnswered fierce Edward, Hap what may,\\nIn Carrick Carrick s lord must stay. 4 oc\\nI would not minstrels told the tale\\nWildfire or meteor made us quail.\\nAnswered the Douglas, If my liege\\nMay win yon walls by storm or siege,/\\nThen were each brave and patriot heart\\nKindled of new for loyal part.\\nAnswered Lord Ronald, Not for shame\\nWould I that aged Torquil came\\nAnd found, for all our empty boast,\\nWithout a blow we fled the coast. 41c\\nI will not credit that this land,\\nSo famed for warlike heart and hand,\\nThe nurse of Wallace and of Bruce,\\nWill long with tyrants hold a truce.\\ng Prove we our fate the brunt we 11 bide\\nSo Boyd and Haye and Lennox cried;\\nSo said, so vowed the leaders all;\\nSo Bruce resolved: And in my hall\\nSince the bold Southern make their home,\\nThe hour of payment soon shall come, 420\\nWhen with a rough and rugged host\\nClifford may reckon to his cost.\\nMeantime, through well-known bosk and\\ndell\\nI 11 lead where we may shelter well.\\nNow ask you whence that wondrous light,\\nWhose fairy glow beguiled their sight\\nIt ne er was known yet gray-haired eld\\nA superstitious credence held\\nThat never did a mortal hand\\nWake its broad glare on Carrick strand; 430\\nNay, and that on the selfsame night\\nWhen Bruce crossed o er still gleams the\\nlight.\\nYearly it gleams o er mount and moor\\nAnd glittering wave and crimsoned shore\\nBut whether beam celestial, lent\\nBy Heaven to aid the king s descent,\\nOr fire hell-kindled from beneath\\nTo lure him to defeat and death,\\nOr were it but some meteor strange\\nOf such as oft through midnight range, 44a\\nStartling the traveller late and lone,\\nI know not and it ne er was known.\\nXVIII\\nNow up the rocky pass they drew,\\nAnd Ronald, to his promise true,\\nStill made his arm the stripling s stay,\\nTo aid him on the rugged way.\\nNow cheer thee, simple Amadine\\nWhy throbs that silly heart of thine\\nThat name the pirates to their slave\\nIn Gaelic t is the Changeling gave 450\\nDost thou not rest thee on my arm\\nDo not my plaid-folds hold thee warm\\nHath not the wild bull s treble hide\\nThis targe for thee and me supplied\\nIs not Clan-Colla s sword of steel\\nAnd, trembler, canst thou terror feel\\nCheer thee, and still that throbbing heart;\\nFrom Ronald s guard thou shalt not\\npart.\\nO many a shaft at random sent\\nFinds mark the archer little meant 460\\nAnd many a word at random spoken\\nMay soothe or wound a heart that s\\nbroken\\nHalf soothed, half grieved, half terrified,\\nClose drew the page to Ronald s side;\\nA wild delirious thrill of joy", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0379.jp2"}, "378": {"fulltext": "34*\\nTHE LORD OF THE ISLES\\nWas in that hour of agony,\\nAs up the steepy pass he strove,\\nFear, toil, and sorrow, lost in love\\nXIX\\nThe barrier of that iron shore,\\nThe rock s steep ledge, is now climbed\\no er; 470\\nAnd from the castle s distant wall,\\nFrom tower to tower the warders call:\\nThe sound swings over land and sea,\\nAnd marks a watchful enemy.\\nThey gained the Chase, a wide domain\\nLeft for the castle s sylvan reign\\nSeek not the scene; the axe, the plough,\\nThe boor s dull fence, have marred it now,\\nBut then soft swept in velvet green\\nThe plain with many a glade between, 480\\nWhose tangled alleys far invade\\nThe depth of the brown forest shade.\\nHere the tall fern obscured the lawn,\\nFair shelter for the sportive fawn;\\nThere, tufted close with copsewood green,\\nWas many a swelling hillock seen;\\nAnd all around was verdure meet\\nFor pressure of the fairies feet.\\nThe glossy holly loved the park,\\nThe yew-tree lent its shadow dark, 490\\nAnd many an old oak, worn and bare,\\nWith all its shivered boughs was there.\\nLovely between, the moonbeams fell\\nOn lawn and hillock, glade and dell.\\nThe gallant monarch sighed to see\\nThese glades so loved in childhood free,\\nBethinking that as outlaw now\\nHe ranged beneath the forest bough.\\nFast o er the moonlight Chase they sped.\\nWell knew the band that measured\\ntread 500\\nWhen, in retreat or in advance,\\nThe serried warriors move at once;\\nAnd evil were the luck if dawn\\nDescried them on the open lawn.\\nCopses they traverse, brooks they cross,\\nStrain up the bank and o er the moss.\\nFrom the exhausted page s brow\\nCold drops of toil are streaming now;\\nWith effort faint and lengthened pause,\\nHis weary step the stripling draws. 510\\nNay, droop not yet the warrior said\\nCome, let me give thee ease and aid\\nStrong are mine arms, and little care\\nA weight so slight as thine to bear.\\nWhat wilt thou not capricious boy\\nThen thine own limbs and strength employ\\nPass but this night and pass thy care,\\nI 11 place thee with a lady fair,\\nWhere thou shalt tune thy lute to tell\\nHow Ronald loves fair Isabel 52\\nWorn out, disheartened, and dismayed,\\nHere Amadine let go the plaid;\\nHis trembling limbs their aid refuse,\\nHe sunk among the midnight dews\\nXXI\\nWhat may be done the night is gone\\nThe Bruce s band moves swiftly on\\nEternal shame if at the brunt\\nLord Ronald grace not battle s front\\n1 See yonder oak within whose trunk\\nDecay a darkened cell hath sunk; 530\\nEnter and rest thee there a space,\\nWrap in my plaid thy limbs, thy face.\\nI will not be, believe me, far,\\nBut must not quit the ranks of war.\\nWell will I mark the bosky bourne,\\nAnd soon, to guard thee hence, return.\\nNay, weep not so, thou simple boy\\nBut sleep in peace and wake in joy.\\nIn sylvan lodging close bestowed,\\nHe placed the page and onward strode 540\\nWith strength put forth o er moss and\\nbrook,\\nAnd soon the marching band o ertook.\\nXXII\\nThus strangely left, long sobbed and wept\\nThe page till wearied out he slept\\nA rough voice waked his dream l Nay,,\\nhere,\\nHere by this thicket passed the deer\\nBeneath that oak old Ryno staid\\nWhat have we here A Scottish plaid\\nAnd in its folds a stripling laid\\nCome forth thy name and business\\ntell 550\\nWhat, silent then I guess thee well,\\nThe spy that sought old Cuthbert s cell,\\nWafted from Arran yester morn\\nCome, comrades, we will straight return.\\nOur lord may choose the rack should teach\\nTo this young lurcher use of speech.\\nThy bow-string, till I bind him fast.\\nNay, but he weeps and stands aghast;\\nUnbound we 11 lead him, fear it not;\\nT is a fair stripling, though a Scot. 560\\nThe hunters to the castle sped,\\nAnd there the hapless captive led.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0380.jp2"}, "379": {"fulltext": "CANTO FIFTH\\n349\\nXXIII\\nStout Clifford in the castle-court\\nPrepared him for the morning sport;\\nAnd now with Lorn held deep discourse,\\nNow gave command for hound and horse.\\nWar-steeds and palfreys pawed the ground,\\nAnd many a deer-dog howled around.\\nTo Amadine Lorn s well-known word\\nReplying to that Southern lord, 570\\nMixed with this clanging din, might seem\\nThe phantasm of a fevered dream.\\nThe tone upon his ringing ears\\nCame like the sounds which fancy hears\\nWhen in rude waves or roaring winds\\nSome words of woe the muser finds,\\nUntil more loudly and more near\\nTheir speech arrests the page s ear.\\nXXIV\\nAnd was she thus, said Clifford, lost\\nThe priest should rue it to his cost 580\\nWhat says the monk The holy sire\\nOwns that in masquer s quaint attire\\nShe sought his skiff disguised, unknown\\nTo all except to him alone.\\nBut, says the priest, a bark from Lorn\\nLaid them aboard that very morn,\\nAnd pirates seized her for their prey.\\nHe proffered ransom gold to pay\\nAnd they agreed but ere told o er,\\nThe winds blow loud, the billows roar; 590\\nThey severed and they met no more.\\nHe deems such tempests vexed the\\ncoast\\nShip, crew, and fugitive were lost.\\nSo let it be, with the disgrace\\nAnd scandal of her lofty race\\nThrice better she had ne er been born\\nThan brought her infamy on Lorn\\nXXV\\nLord Clifford now the captive spied;\\nWhom, Herbert, hast thou there he\\ncried.\\nA spy we seized within the Chase, 600\\nA hollow oak his lurking-place.\\nWhat tidings can the youth afford\\nHe plays the mute. Then ndose a\\ncord\\nUnless brave Lorn reverse the doom\\nFor his plaid s sake. Clan Colla s\\nloom,\\nSaid Lorn, whose careless glances trace\\nRather the vesture than the face,\\nClan-Colla s dames such tartans twine;\\nWearer nor plaid claims care of mine.\\nGive him, if my advice you crave, 610\\nHis own scathed oak; and let him wave\\nIn air unless, by terror wrung,\\nA frank confession find his tongue.\\nNor shall he die without his rite;\\nThou, Angus Roy, attend the sight,\\nAnd give Clan-Colla s dirge thy breath\\nAs they convey him to his death.\\nO brother cruel to the last\\nThrough the poor captive s bosom passed\\nThe thought, but, to his purpose true, 62a\\nHe said not, though he sighed, Adieu\\nXXVI\\nAnd will he keep his purpose still\\nIn sight of that last closing ill,\\nWhen one poor breath, one single word,\\nMay freedom, safety, life, afford\\nCan he resist the instinctive call\\nFor life that bids us barter all\\nLove, strong as death, his heart hath\\nsteeled,\\nHis nerves hath strung he will not\\nyield\\nSince that poor breath, that little word, 630\\nMay yield Lord Ronald to the sword.\\nClan-Colla s dirge is pealing wide,\\nThe griesly headsman s by his side\\nAlong the greenwood Chase they bend,\\nAnd now their march has ghastly end\\nThat old and shattered oak beneath,\\nThey destine for the place of death.\\nWhat thoughts are his, while all in vain\\nHis eye for aid explores the plain\\nWhat thoughts, while with a dizzy ear 640\\nHe hears the death-prayer muttered near\\nAnd must he die such death accurst,\\nOr will that bosom-secret burst\\nCold on his brow breaks terror s dew,\\nHis trembling lips are livid blue;\\nThe agony of parting life\\nHas nought to match that moment s strife\\nBut other witnesses are nigh,\\nWho mock at fear, and death defy\\nSoon as the dire lament was played 650\\nIt waked the lurking ambuscade.\\nThe Island Lord looked forth and spied\\nThe cause, and loud in fury cried,\\nBy Heaven, they lead the page to die,\\nAnd mock me in his agony\\nThey shall aby it On his arm", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0381.jp2"}, "380": {"fulltext": "35\u00c2\u00b0\\nTHE LORD OF THE ISLES\\nBruce laid strong grasp, They shall not\\nharm\\nA ringlet of the stripling s hair;\\nBut till I give the word forbear.\\nDouglas, lead fifty of our force 660\\nUp yonder hollow water-course,\\nAnd couch thee midway on the wold,\\nBetween the flyers and their hold\\nA spear above the copse displayed,\\nBe signal of the ambush made.\\nEdward, with forty spearmen straight\\nThrough yonder copse approach the gate,\\nAnd when thou hear st the battle-din\\nRush forward and the passage win,\\nSecure the drawbridge, storm the port, 670\\nAnd man and guard the castle-court.\\nThe rest move slowly forth with me,\\nIn shelter of the forest-tree,\\nTill Douglas at his post I see.\\nLike war-horse eager to rush on,\\nCompelled to wait the signal blown,\\nHid, and scarce hid, by greenwood bough,\\nTrembling with rage stands Ronald now,\\nAnd in his grasp his sword gleams blue,\\nSoon to be dyed with deadlier hue. 680\\nMeanwhile the Bruce with steady eye\\nSees the dark death-train moving by,\\nAnd heedful measures oft the space\\nThe Douglas and his band must trace,\\nEre they can reach their destined ground.\\nNow sinks the dirge s wailing sound,\\nNow cluster round the direful tree\\nThat slow and solemn company,\\nWhile hymn mistuned and muttered\\nprayer\\nThe victim for his fate prepare. 690\\nWhat glances o er the greenwood shade\\nThe spear that marks the ambuscade\\nNow, noble chief I leave thee loose\\nUpon them, Ronald said the Bruce.\\nXXIX\\nThe Bruce the Bruce to well-known\\ncry\\nHis native rocks and woods reply.\\nThe Bruce the Bruce in that dread\\nword\\nThe knell of hundred deaths was heard.\\nThe astonished Southern gazed at first\\nWhere the wild tempest was to burst 700\\nThat waked in that presaging name.\\nBefore, behind, around it came\\nHalf-armed, surprised, on every side\\nHemmed in, hewed down, they bled and\\ndied.\\nDeep in the ring the Bruce engaged,\\nAnd fierce Clan-Colla s broadsword raged\\nFull soon the few who fought were sped,\\nNor better was their lot who fled\\nAnd met mid terror s wild career\\nThe Douglas s redoubted spear 7 i C\\nTwo hundred yeomen on that morn\\nThe castle left, and none return.\\nXXX\\nNot on their flight pressed Ronald s brand,\\nA gentler duty claimed his hand.\\nHe raised the page where on the plain\\nHis fear had sunk him with the slain:\\nAnd twice that morn surprise well near\\nBetrayed the secret kept by fear;\\nOnce when with life returning came\\nTo the boy s lip Lord Ronald s name, 720-\\nAnd hardly recollection drowned\\nThe accents in a murmuring sound;\\nAnd once when scarce he could resist\\nThe chieftain s care to loose the vest\\nDrawn tightly o er his laboring breast.\\nBut then the Bruce s bugle blew,\\nFor martial work was yet to do.\\nXXXI\\nA harder task fierce Edward waits.\\nEre signal given the castle gates\\nHis fury had assailed 73 o\\nSuch was his wonted reckless mood,\\nYet desperate valor oft made good,\\nEven by its daring, venture rude\\nWhere prudence might have failed.\\nUpon the bridge his strength he threw,\\nAnd struck the iron chain in two,\\nBy which its planks arose;\\nThe warder next his axe s edge\\nStruck down upon the threshold ledge,\\nTwixt door and post a ghastly wedge 740\\nThe gate they may not close.\\nWell fought the Southern in the fray,\\nClifford and Lorn fought well that day,\\nBut stubborn Edward forced his way\\nAgainst a hundred foes.\\nLoud came the cry, The Bruce the\\nBruce\\nNo hope or in defence or truce,\\nFresh combatants pour in;\\nMad with success and drunk with gore,\\nThey drive the struggling foe before\\nAnd ward on ward they win.\\nUnsparing was the vengeful sword,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0382.jp2"}, "381": {"fulltext": "CANTO SIXTH\\n351\\nAnd limbs were lopped and life blood\\npoured,\\nThe cry of death and conflict roared,\\nAnd fearful was the din\\nThe startling horses plunged and flung,\\nClamored the dogs till turrets rung,\\nNor sunk the fearful cry\\nTill not a foeman was there found\\nAlive save those who on the ground 760\\nGroaned in their agony\\nXXXII\\nThe valiant Clifford is no more;\\nOn Ronald s broadsword streamed his gore.\\nBut better hap had he of Lorn,\\nWho, by the foeman backward borne,\\nYet gained with slender train the port\\nWhere lay his bark beneath the fort,\\nAnd cut the cable loose.\\nShort were his shrift in that debate,\\nThat hour of fury and of fate, 770\\nIf Lorn encountered Bruce\\nThen long and loud the victor shout\\nFrom turret and from tower rung out,\\nThe rugged vaults replied;\\nAnd from the donjon tower on high\\nThe men of Carrick may descry\\nSaint Andrew s cross in blazonry\\nOf silver waving wide\\nXXXIII\\nThe Bruce hath won his father s hall\\nWelcome, brave friends and comrades all,\\nWelcome to mirth and joy 781\\nThe first, the last, is welcome here,\\nFrom lord and chieftain, prince and peer,\\nTo this poor speechless boy.\\nGreat God once more my sire s abode\\nIs mine behold the floor I trode\\nIn tottering infancy\\nAnd there the vaulted arch whose sound\\nEchoed my joyous shout and bound\\nIn boyhood, and that rung around 790\\nTo youth s unthinking glee\\nO, first to thee, all-gracious Heaven,\\nThen to my friends, my thanks be\\ngiven\\nHe paused a space, his brow he crossed\\nThen on the board his sword he tossed,\\nYet steaming hot with Southern gore\\nFrom hilt to point t was crimsoned o er.\\nXXXIV\\nBring here, he said, the mazers four\\nMy noble fathers loved of yore.\\nThrice let them circle round the board, 800\\nThe pledge, fair Scotland s rights re-\\nstored\\nAnd he whose lip shall touch the wine\\nWithout a vow as true as mine,\\nTo hold both lands and life at nought\\nUntil her freedom shall be bought,\\nBe brand of a disloyal Scot\\nAnd lasting infamy his lot\\nSit, gentle friends our hour of glee\\nIs brief, we 11 spend it joyously\\nBlithest of all the sun s bright beams, 810\\nWhen betwixt storm and storm he gleams.\\nWell is our country s work begun,\\nBut more, far more, must yet be done.\\nSpeed messengers the country through;\\nArouse old friends and gather new;\\nWarn Lanark s knights to gird their mail,\\nRouse the brave sons of Teviotdale,\\nLet Ettrick s archers sharp their darts,\\nThe fairest forms, the truest hearts\\nCall all, call all from Reeds wair-Path 820\\nTo the wild confines of Cape- Wrath;\\nWide let the news through Scotland\\nring,\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nThe Northern Eagle claps his wing\\nCANTO SIXTH\\nO WHO that shared them ever shall f or-\\nThe emotions of the spirit-rousing time,\\nWhen breathless in the mart the couriers\\nmet\\nEarly and late, at evening and at prime\\nWhen the loud cannon and the merry\\nchime\\nHailed news on news, as field on field was\\nwon,\\nWhen Hope, long doubtful, soared at\\nlength sublime,\\nAnd our glad eyes, awake as day be-\\ngun,\\nWatched Joy s broad banner rise to meet\\nthe rising sun\\nO these were hours when thrilling joy\\nrepaid 10\\nA long, long course of darkness, doubts,\\nand fears\\nThe heart-sick faintness of the hope de-\\nlayed,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0383.jp2"}, "382": {"fulltext": "352\\nTHE LORD OF THE ISLES\\nThe waste, the woe, the bloodshed, and\\nthe tears,\\nThat tracked with terror twenty rolling\\nyears,\\nAll was forgot in that blithe jubilee\\nHer downcast eye even pale Affliction\\nrears,\\nTo sigh a thankful prayer amid the\\nglee\\nThat hailed the Despot s fall, and peace\\nand liberty\\nSuch news o er Scotland s hills trium-\\nphant rode\\nWhen gainst the invaders turned the\\nbattle s scale, 20\\nWhen Bruce s banner had victorious\\nflowed\\nO er Loudoun s mountain and in Ury s\\nvale;\\nWhen English blood oft deluged Doug-\\nlas-dale,\\nAnd fiery Edward routed stout Saint\\nJohn,\\nWhen Randolph s war-cry swelled the\\nsouthern gale,\\nAnd many a fortress, town, and tower\\nwas won,\\nAnd Fame still sounded forth fresh deeds\\nof glory done.\\nBlithe tidings flew from baron s tower\\nTo peasant s cot, to forest-bower,\\nAnd waked the solitary cell 30\\nWhere lone Saint Bride s recluses dwell.\\nPrincess no more, fair Isabel,\\nA votaress of the order now,\\nSay, did the rule that bid thee wear\\nDim veil and woollen scapulare,\\nAnd reft thy locks of dark-brown hair,\\nThat stern and rigid vow,\\nDid it condemn the transport high\\nWhich glistened in thy watery eye\\nWhen minstrel or when palmer told 40\\nEach fresh exploit of Bruce the bold\\nAnd whose the lovely form that shares\\nThy anxious hopes, thy fears, thy prayers\\nNo sister she of convent shade;\\nSo say these locks in lengthened braid,\\nSo say the blushes and the sighs,\\nThe tremors that unbidden rise,\\nWhen, mingled with the Bruce s fame,\\nThe brave Lord Ronald s praises came.\\nIll\\nBelieve, his father s castle won\\nAnd his bold enterprise begun,\\nThat Bruce s earliest cares restore\\nThe speechless page to Arran s shore:\\nNor think that long the quaint disguise\\nConcealed her from a sister s eyes;\\nAnd sister-like in love they dwell\\nIn that lone convent s silent cell.\\nThere Bruce s slow assent allows\\nFair Isabel the veil and vows;\\nAnd there, her sex s dress regained,\\nThe lovely Maid of Lorn remained,\\nUnnamed, unknown, while Scotland far\\nResounded with the din of war;\\nAnd many a month and many a day\\nIn calm seclusion wore away.\\nThese days, these months, to years ha\\nworn\\nWhen tidings of high weight were borne\\nTo that lone island s shore;\\nOf all the Scottish conquests made\\nBy the First Edward s ruthless blade 3\\nHis son retained no more,\\nNorthward of Tweed, but Stirling s tow-\\ners,\\nBeleaguered by King Robert s powers;\\nAnd they took term of truce,\\nIf England s King should not relieve\\nThe siege ere John the Baptist s eve,\\nTo yield them to the Bruce.\\nEngland was roused on every side\\nCourier and post and herald hied\\nTo summon prince and peer,\\nAt Berwick-bounds to meet their liege,\\nPrepared to raise fair Stirling s siege\\nWith buckler, brand, and spear.\\nThe term was nigh they mustered fast,\\nBy beacon and by bugle-blast\\nForth marshalled for the field\\nThere rode each knight of noble name,\\nThere England s hardy archers came,\\nThe land they trode seemed all on flame\\nWith bt nner, blade, and shield 90\\nAnd not famed England s powers alone,\\nRenowned in arms, the summons own;\\nFor Neustria s knights obeyed,\\nGascogne hath lent her horsemen good,\\nAnd Cambria, but of late subdued,\\nSent forth her mountain-multitude,\\nAnd Connoght poured from waste and\\nwood", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0384.jp2"}, "383": {"fulltext": "CANTO SIXTH\\n353\\nHer hundred tribes, whose sceptre rude\\nDark Eth O Connor swayed.\\nRight to devoted Caledon ioo\\nThe storm of war rolls slowly on\\nWith menace deep and dread\\nSo the dark clouds with gathering power\\nSuspend awhile the threatened shower,\\nTill every peak and summit lower\\nRound the pale pilgrim s head.\\nNot with such pilgrim s startled eye\\nKing Robert marked the tempest nigh\\nResolved the brunt to bide,\\nHis royal summons warned the land no\\nThat all who owned their king s command\\nShould instant take the spear and brand\\nTo combat at his side.\\nO, who may tell the sons of fame\\nThat at King Robert s bidding came\\nTo battle for the right\\nFrom Cheviot to the shores of Ross,\\nFrom Solway-Sands to Marshal s-Moss,\\nAll bouned them for the fight.\\nSuch news the royal courier tells 120\\nWho came to rouse dark Arran s dells;\\nBut farther tidings must the ear\\nOf Isabel in secret hear.\\nThese in her cloister walk next morn\\nThus shared she with the Maid of Lorn\\nVI\\nI My Edith, can I tell how dear\\nOur intercourse of hearts sincere\\nHath been to Isabel\\nJudge then the sorrow of my heart\\nWhen I must say the words, We part 130\\nThe cheerless convent-cell\\nWas not, sweet maiden, made for thee;\\nGo thou where thy vocation fr\u00c2\u00a3e\\nOn happier fortunes fell.\\nNor, Edith, judge thyself betrayed,\\nThough Robert knows that Lorn s high\\nmaid\\nAnd his poor silent page were one.\\nVersed in the fickle heart of man,\\nEarnest and anxious hath he looked i 39\\nHow Ronald s heart the message brooked\\nThat gave him with her last farewell\\nThe charge of Sister Isabel,\\nTo think upon thy better right\\nAnd keep the faith his promise plight.\\nForgive him for thy sister s sake\\nAt first if vain repinings wake\\nLong since that mood is gone\\nNow dwells he on thy juster claims,\\nAnd oft his breach of faith he blames\\nForgive him for thine own 1\\nNo never to Lord Ronald s bower\\nWill I again as paramour\\nNay, hush thee, too impatient maid,\\nUntil my final tale be said\\nThe good King Robert would engage\\nEdith once more his elfin page,\\nBy her own heart and her own eye\\nHer lover s penitence to try\\nSafe in his royal charge and free,\\nShould such thy final purpose be, 160\\nAgain unknown to seek the cell,\\nAnd live and die with Isabel.\\nThus spoke the maid King Robert s eye\\nMight have some glance of policy;\\nDunstaffnage had the monarch ta en,\\nAnd Lorn had owned King Robert s reign;\\nHer brother had to England fled,\\nAnd there in banishment was dead;\\nAmple, through exile, death, and flight,\\nO er tower and land was Edith s right; 170\\nThis ample right o er tower and laud\\nWere safe in Ronald s faithful hand.\\nVIII\\nEmbarrassed eye and blushing cheek\\nPleasure and shame and fear bespeak\\nYet much the reasoning Edith made:\\nHer sister s faith she must upbraid,\\nWho gave such secret, dark and dear,\\nIn council to another s ear.\\nWhy should she leave the peaceful cell\\nHow should she part with Isabel 180-\\nHow wear that strange attire agen\\nHow risk herself midst martial men\\nAnd how be guarded on the way\\nAt least she might entreat delay.\\nKind Isabel with secret smile\\nSaw and forgave the maiden s wile,\\nReluctant to be thought to move\\nAt the first call of truant love.\\nIX\\nO, blame her not when zephyrs wake 189\\nThe aspen s trembling leaves must shake\\nWhen beams the sun through April s\\nshower\\nIt needs must bloom, the violet flower;\\nAnd Love, howe er the maiden strive,\\nMust with reviving hope revive\\nA thousand soft excuses came", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0385.jp2"}, "384": {"fulltext": "354\\nTHE LORD OF THE ISLES\\nTo plead his cause gainst virgin shame.\\nPledged by their sires in earliest youth,\\nHe had her plighted faith and truth\\nThen, t was her liege s strict command,\\nAnd she beneath his royal hand 200\\nA ward in person and in land:\\nAnd, last, she was resolved to stay\\nOnly brief space one little day\\nClose hidden in her safe disguise\\nFrom all, but most from Ronald s eyes\\nBut once to see him more nor blame\\nHer wish to hear him name her name\\nThen to bear back to solitude\\nThe thought he had his falsehood rued\\nBut Isabel, who long had seen 210\\nHer pallid cheek and pensive mien,\\nAnd well herself the cause might know,\\nThough innocent, of Edith s woe,\\nJoyed, generous, that revolving time\\nGave means to expiate the crime.\\nHigh glowed her bosom as she said,\\nWell shall her sufferings be repaid\\nNow came the parting hour a band\\nFrom Arran s mountains left the land;\\nTheir chief, Fitz-Louis, had the care 220\\nThe speechless Amadine to bear\\nTo Bruce with honor, as behoved\\nTo page the monarch dearly loved.\\nThe king had deemed the maiden bright\\nShould reach him long before the fight,\\nBut storms and fate her course delay:\\nIt was on eve of battle-day\\nWhen o er the Gillie s-hill she rode.\\nThe landscape like a furnace glowed,\\nAnd far as e er the eye was borne 230\\nThe lances waved like autumn-corn.\\nIn battles four beneath their eye\\nThe forces of King Robert lie.\\nAnd one below the hill was laid,\\nReserved for rescue and for aid;\\nAnd three advanced formed vaward-line,\\nTwixt Bannock s brook and Ninian s shrine.\\nDetached was each, yet each so nigh\\nAs well might mutual aid supply.\\nBeyond, the Southern host appears, 240\\nA boundless wilderness of spears,\\nWhose verge or rear the anxious eye\\nStrove far, but strove in vain, to spy.\\nThick flashing in the evening beam,\\nGlaives, lances, bills, and banners gleam\\nAnd where the heaven joined with the hill,\\nWas distant armor flashing still,\\nSo wide, so far, the boundless host\\nSeemed in the blue horizon lost.\\nDown from the hill the maiden passed, 250\\nAt the wild show of war aghast;\\nAnd traversed first the rearward host,\\nReserved for aid where needed most.\\nThe men of Carrick and of Ayr,\\nLennox and Lanark too, were there,\\nAnd all the western land;\\nWith these the valiant of the Isles\\nBeneath their chieftains ranked their files\\nIn many a plaided band.\\nThere in the centre proudly raised, 260\\nThe Bruce s royal standard blazed,\\nAnd there Lord Ronald s banner bore\\nA galley driven by sail and oar.\\nA wild yet pleasing contrast made\\nWarriors in mail and plate arrayed\\nWith the plumed bonnet and the plaid\\nBy these Hebrideans worn;\\nBut O, unseen for three long years,\\nDear was the garb of mountaineers\\nTo the fair Maid of Lorn 270\\nFor one she looked but he was far\\nBusied amid the ranks of war\\nYet with affection s troubled eye\\nShe marked his banner boldly fly,\\nGave on the countless foe a glance,\\nAnd thought on battle s desperate chance.\\nXII\\nTo centre of the vaward-line\\nFitz-Louis guided Amadine.\\nArmed all on foot, that host appears\\nA serried mass of glimmering spears. 280\\nThere stood the Marchers warlike band,\\nThe warriors there of Lodon s land;\\nEttrick and Liddell bent the yew,\\nA band of archers fierce though few;\\nThe men of Nith and Annan s vale,\\nAnd the bold Spears of Teviotdale\\nThe dauntless Douglas these obey,\\nAnd the young Stuart s gentle sway.\\nNortheastward by Saint Ninian s shrine,\\nBeneath fierce Randolph s charge, com-\\nbine 29c\\nThe warriors whom the hardy North\\nFrom Tay to Sutherland sent forth.\\nThe rest of Scotland s war-array\\nWith Edward Bruce to westward lay,\\nWhere Bannock with his broken bank\\nAnd deep ravine protects their flank.\\nBehind them, screened by sheltering wood,\\nThe gallant Keith, Lord Marshal, stood:\\nHis men-at-arms bare mace and lance,\\nAnd plumes that wave and helms that\\nglance. 30\u00c2\u00b0", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0386.jp2"}, "385": {"fulltext": "CANTO SIXTH\\n355\\nThus fair divided by the king,\\nCentre and right and leftward wing\\nComposed his front; nor distant far\\nWas strong reserve to aid the war.\\nAnd t was to front of this array\\nHer guide and Edith made their way.\\nXIII\\nHere must they pause; for, in advance\\nAs far as one might pitch a lance,\\nThe monarch rode along the van,\\nThe foe s approaching force to scan, 310\\nHis line to marshal and to range,\\nAnd ranks to square, and fronts to change.\\nAlone he rode from head to heel\\nSheathed in his ready arms of steel;\\nNor mounted yet on war-horse wight,\\nBut, till more near the shock of fight,\\nReining a palfrey low and light.\\nA diadem of gold was set\\nAbove his bright steel basinet,\\nAnd clasped within its glittering twine 320\\nWas seen the glove of Argentine;\\nTruncheon or leading staff he lacks,\\nBearing instead a battle-axe.\\nHe ranged his soldiers for the fight\\nAccoutred thus, in open sight\\nOf either host. Three bowshots far,\\nPaused the deep front of England s war,\\nAnd rested on their arms awhile,\\nTo close and rank their warlike file,\\nAnd hold high council if that night 330\\nShould view the strife or dawning light.\\nXIV\\nO, gay yet fearful to behold,\\nFlashing with steel and rough with gold,\\nAnd bristled o er with bills and spears,\\nWith plumes and pennons waving fair,\\nWas that bright battle-front for there\\nBode England s king and peers:\\nAnd who, that saw that monarch ride,\\nHis kingdom battled by his side,\\nCould then his direful doom foretell 340\\nFair was his seat in knightly selle,\\nAnd in his sprightly eye was set\\nSome spark of the Plantagenet.\\nThough light and wandering was his\\nglance,\\nIt flashed at sight of shield and lance.\\nKnow st thou, he said, De Argentine,\\nYon knight who marshals thus their\\nline\\nThe tokens on his helmet tell\\nThe Bruce, my liege: I know him well.\\nAnd shall the audacious traitor brave 350\\nThe presence where our banners wave\\nSo please my liege, said Argentine,\\nWere he but horsed on steed like mine,\\nTo give him fair and knightly chance,\\nI would adventure forth my lance.\\nIn battle-day, the king replied,\\nNice tourney rules are set aside.\\nStill must the rebel dare our wrath\\nSet on him Sweep him from our path\\nAnd at King Edward s signal soon 360\\nDashed from the ranks Sir Henry Boune.\\nOf Hereford s high blood he came,\\nA race renowned for knightly fame.\\nHe burned before his monarch s eye\\nTo do some deed of chivalry.\\nHe spurred his steed, he couched his lance,\\nAnd darted on the Bruce at once.\\nAs motionless as rocks that bide\\nThe wrath of the advancing tide,\\nThe Bruce stood fast. Each breast beat\\nhigh 37 o\\nAnd dazzled was each gazing eye\\nThe heart had hardly time to think,\\nThe eyelid scarce had time to wink,\\nWhile on the king, like flash of flame,\\nSpurred to full speed the war-horse came\\nThe partridge may the falcon mock,\\nIf that slight palfrey stand the shock\\nBut, swerving from the knight s career,\\nJust as they met, Bruce shunned the spear.\\nOnward the baffled warrior bore 380\\nHis course but soon his course was\\no er\\nHigh in his stirrups stood the king,\\nAnd gave his battle-axe the swing.\\nRight on De Boune the whiles he passed\\nFell that stern dint the first the\\nlast\\nSuch strength upon the blow was put\\nThe helmet crashed like hazel-nut;\\nThe axe-shaft with its brazen clasp\\nWas shivered to the gauntlet grasp.\\nSprings from the blow the startled\\nhorse, 390\\nDrops to the plain the lifeless corse;\\nFirst of that fatal field, how soon,\\nHow sudden, fell the fierce De Boune\\nXVI\\nOne pitying glance the monarch sped\\nWhere on the field his foe lay dead;\\nThen gently turned his palfrey s head,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0387.jp2"}, "386": {"fulltext": "35 6\\nTHE LORD OF THE ISLES\\nAnd, pacing back his sober way,\\nSlowly he gained his own array.\\nThere round their king the leaders crowd,\\nAnd blame his recklessness aloud 400\\nThat risked gainst each adventurous\\nspear\\nA life so. valued and so dear.\\nHis broken weapon s shaft surveyed\\nThe king, and careless answer made,\\nMy loss may pay my folly s tax;\\nI ve broke my trusty battle-axe.\\nT was then Fitz-Louis bending low\\nDid Isabel s commission show;\\nEdith disguised at distance stands,\\nAnd hides her blushes with her hands. 410\\nThe monarch s brow has changed its\\nhue,\\nAway the gory axe he threw,\\nWhile to the seeming page he drew,\\nClearing war s terrors from his eye.\\nHer hand with gentle ease he took\\nWith such a kind protecting look\\nAs to a weak and timid boy\\nMight speak that elder brother s care\\nAnd elder brother s love were there.\\nXVII\\nFear not, he said, young Amadine 420\\nThen whispered, Still that name be thine.\\nFate plays her wonted fantasy,\\nKind Amadine, with thee and me,\\nAnd sends thee here in doubtful hour.\\nBut soon we are beyond her power;\\nFor on this chosen battle-plain,\\nVictor or vanquished, I remain.\\nDo thou to yonder hill repair;\\nThe followers of our host are there,\\nAnd all who may not weapons bear. 430\\nFitz-Louis, have him in thy care.\\nJoyful we meet, if all go well;\\nIf not, in Arran s holy cell\\nThou must take part with Isabel;\\nFor brave Lord Ronald too hath sworn,\\nNot to regain the Maid of Lorn\\nThe bliss on earth he covets most\\nWould he forsake his battle-post,\\nOr shun the fortune that may fall\\nTo Bruce, to Scotland, and to all. 440\\nBut, hark some news these trumpets\\ntell;\\nForgive my haste farewell fare-\\nwell\\nAnd in a lower voice he said,\\nBe of good cheer farewell, sweet\\nmaid\\nXVIII\\nWhat train of dust, with trumpet-sound\\nAnd glimmering spears, is wheeling round\\nOur leftward flank the monarch cried\\nTo Moray s Earl who rode beside.\\nLo round thy station pass the foes\\nRandolph, thy wreath hath lost a rose. 450\\nThe Earl his visor closed, and said\\nMy wreath shall bloom, or life shall\\nfade.\\nFollow, my household and they go\\nLike lightning on the advancing foe.\\nMy liege, said noble Douglas then,\\nEarl Randolph has but one to ten:\\nLet me go forth his band to aid\\nStir not. The error he hath made,\\nLet him amend it as he may;\\nI will not weaken mine array. 4 6o\\nThen loudly rose the conflict-cry,\\nAnd Douglas s brave heart swelled high,\\nMy liege, he said, with patient ear\\nI must not Moray s death-knell hear\\nThen go but speed thee back again.\\nForth sprung the Douglas with his train:\\nBut when they won a rising hill\\nHe bade his followers hold them still.\\nSee, see the routed Southern fly\\nThe Earl hath won the victory. 47 o\\nLo where yon steeds run masterless,\\nHis banner towers above the press.\\nRein up; our presence would impair\\nThe fame we come too late to share.\\nBack to the host the Douglas rode,\\nAnd soon glad tidings are abroad\\nThat, Dayncourt by stout Randolph slain,\\nHis followers fled with loosened rein.\\nThat skirmish closed the busy day,\\nAnd couched in battle s prompt array, 480\\nEach army on their weapons lay.\\nXIX\\nIt was a night of lovely June,\\nHigh rode in cloudless blue the moon,\\nDemayet smiled beneath her ray;\\nOld Stirling s towers arose in light,\\nAnd, twined in links of silver bright,\\nHer winding river lay.\\nAh gentle planet other sight\\nShall greet thee, next returning night,\\nOf broken arms and banners tore, 490\\nAnd marshes dark with human gore,\\nAnd piles of slaughtered men and horse,\\nAnd Forth that floats the frequent corse,\\nAnd many a wounded wretch to plain\\nBeneath thy silver light in vain", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0388.jp2"}, "387": {"fulltext": "CANTO SIXTH\\n357\\nBut now from England s host the cry\\nThou hear st of wassail revelry,\\nWhile from the Scottish legions pass\\nThe murmured prayer, the early mass\\nHere, numbers had presumption given; 500\\nThere, bands o ermatched sought aid from\\nHeaven.\\nxx\\nOn Gillie s-hill, whose height commands\\nThe battle-field, fair Edith stands\\nWith serf and page unfit for war,\\nTo eye the conflict from afar.\\nO, with what doubtful agony\\nShe sees the dawning tint the sky\\nNow on the Ochils gleams the sun,\\nAnd glistens now Demayet dun;\\nIs it the lark that carols shrill, 510\\nIs it the bittern s early hum\\nNo distant but increasing still,\\nThe trumpet s sound swells up the\\nhill,\\nWith the deep murmur of the drum.\\nResponsive from the Scottish host,\\nPipe-clang and bugle-sound were tossed,\\nHis breast and brow each soldier crossed\\nAnd started from the ground;\\nArmed and arrayed for instant fight, 519\\nRose archer, spearman, squire and knight,\\nAnd in the pomp of battle bright\\nThe dread battalia frowned.\\nXXI\\nNow onward and in open view\\nThe countless ranks of England drew,\\nDark rolling like the ocean-tide\\nWhen the rough west hath chafed his\\npride,\\nAnd his deep roar sends challenge wide\\nTo all that bars his way\\nIn front the gallant archers trode,\\nThe men-at-arms behind them rode, 530\\nAnd midmost of the phalanx broad\\nThe monarch held his sway.\\nBeside him many a war-horse fumes,\\nAround him waves a sea of plumes,\\nWhere many a knight in battle known,\\nAnd some who spurs had first braced on\\nAnd deemed that fight should see them\\nwon,\\nKing Edward s hests obey.\\nDe Argentine attends his side, 539\\nWith stout De Valence, Pembroke s pride,\\nSelected champions from the train\\nTo wait upon his bridle-rein.\\nUpon the Scottish foe he gazed\\nAt once before his sight amazed\\nSunk banner, spear, and shield;\\nEach weapon-point is downward sent,\\nEach warrior to the ground is bent.\\nThe rebels, Argentine, repent\\nFor pardon they have kneeled.\\nAy but they bend to other powers, 550\\nAnd other pardon sue than ours\\nSee where yon barefoot abbot stands\\nAnd blesses them with lifted hands\\nUpon the spot where they have kneeled\\nThese men will die or win the field.\\nThen prove we if they die or win\\nBid Gloster s Earl the fight begin.\\nXXII\\nEarl Gilbert waved his truncheon high\\nJust as the Northern ranks arose,\\nSignal for England s archery 560\\nTo halt and bend their bows.\\nThen stepped each yeoman forth a pace,\\nGlanced at the intervening space,\\nAnd raised his left hand high;\\nTo the right ear the cords they bring\\nAt once ten thousand bow-strings ring,\\nTen thousand arrows fly\\nNor paused on the devoted Scot\\nThe ceaseless fury of their shot;\\nAs fiercely and as fast 570\\nForth whistling came the gray-goose wing\\nAs the wild hailstones pelt and ring\\nAdown December s blast.\\nNor mountain targe of tough bull-hide,\\nNor lowland mail, that storm may bide;\\nWoe, woe to Scotland s bannered pride,\\nIf the fell shower may last\\nUpon the right behind the wood,\\nEach by his steed dismounted stood\\nThe Scottish chivalry 580\\nWith foot in stirrup, hand on mane,\\nFierce Edward Bruce can scarce restrain\\nHis own keen heart, his eager train,\\nUntil the archers gained the plain;\\nThen, Mount, ye gallants free\\nHe cried; and vaulting from the ground\\nHis saddle every horseman found.\\nOn high their glittering crests they toss,\\nAs springs the wild-fire from the moss;\\nThe shield hangs down on every breast, 590\\nEach ready lance is in the rest,\\nAnd loud shouts Edward Bruce,\\nForth, Marshal on the peasant foe\\nWe 11 tame the terrors of their bow,\\nAnd cut the bow-string loose", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0389.jp2"}, "388": {"fulltext": "358\\nTHE LORD OF THE ISLES\\nXXIII\\nThen spurs were dashed in chargers\\nflanks,\\nThey rushed among the archer ranks,\\nNo spears were there the shock to let,\\nNo stakes to turn the charge were set,\\nAnd how shall yeoman s armor slight 600\\nStand the long lance and mace of might\\nOr what may their short swords avail\\nGainst barbed horse and shirt of mail\\nAmid their ranks the chargers sprung,\\nHigh o er their heads the weapons swung,\\nAnd shriek and groan and vengeful shout\\nGive note of triumph and of rout\\nAwhile with stubborn hardihood\\nTheir English hearts the strife made good.\\nBorne down at length on every side, 610\\nCompelled to flight they scatter wide.\\nLet stags of Sherwood leap for glee,\\nAnd bound the deer of Dallom-Lee\\nThe broken vows of Bannock s shore\\nShall in the greenwood ring no more\\nRound Wakefield s merry May-pole now\\nThe maids may twine the summer bough,\\nMay northward look with longing glance\\nFor those that wont to lead the dance,\\nFor the blithe archers look in vain 620\\nBroken, dispersed, in flight o erta en,\\nPierced through, trode down, by thousands\\nslain,\\nThey cumber Bannock s bloody plain.\\nXXIV\\nThe king with scorn beheld their flight.\\nAre these, he said, our yeomen wight\\nEach braggart churl could boast before\\nTwelve Scottish lives his baldric bore\\nFitter to plunder chase or park\\nThan make a manly foe their mark.\\nForward, each gentleman and knight 630\\nLet gentle blood show generous might\\nAnd chivalry redeem the fight\\nTo rightward of the wild affray,\\nThe field showed fair and level way;\\nBut in mid-space the Bruce s care\\nHad bored the ground with many a pit,\\nWith turf and brushwood hidden yet,\\nThat formed a ghastly snare.\\nBushing, ten thousand horsemen came,\\nWith spears in rest and hearts on flame 640\\nThat panted for the shock\\nWith blazing crests and banners spread,\\nAnd trumpet-clang and clamor dread,\\nThe wide plain thundered to their tread\\nAs far as Stirling rock.\\nDown 1 down in headlong overthrow,\\nHorseman and horse, the foremost go,\\nWild floundering on the field\\nThe first are in destruction s gorge,\\nTheir followers wildly o er them\\nurge;\u00e2\u0080\u0094 650\\nThe knightly helm and shield,\\nThe mail, the acton, and the spear,\\nStrong hand, high heart, are useless here\\nLoud from the mass confused the cry\\nOf dying warriors swells on high,\\nAnd steeds that shriek in agony\\nThey came like mountain-torrent red\\nThat thunders o er its rocky bed;\\nThey broke like that same torrent s wave\\nWhen swallowed by a darksome cave. 660\\nBillows on billows burst and boil,\\nMaintaining still the stern turmoil,\\nAnd to their wild and tortured groan\\nEach adds new terrors of his own\\nxxv\\nToo strong in courage and in might\\nWas England yet to yield the fight.\\nHer noblest all are here;\\nNames that to fear were never known,\\nBold Norfolk s Earl De Brotherton,\\nAnd Oxford s famed De Vere. 670\\nThere Gloster plied the bloody sword,\\nAnd Berkley, Grey, and Hereford,\\nBottetourt and Sanzavere,\\nRoss, Montague, and Mauley came,\\nAnd Courtenay s pride, and Percy s fame\\nNames known too well in Scotland s war\\nAt Falkirk, Methven, and Dunbar,\\nBlazed broader yet in after years\\nAt Cressy red and fell Poitiers.\\nPembroke with these and Argentine 680\\nBrought up the rearward battle-line.\\nWith caution o er the ground they tread,\\nSlippery with blood and piled with dead,\\nTill hand to hand in battle set,\\nThe bills with spears and axes met,\\nAnd, closing dark on every side,\\nRaged the full contest far and wide.\\nThen was the strength of Douglas tried,\\nThen proved was Randolph s generous\\npride,\\nAnd well did Stewart s actions grace 690\\nThe sire of Scotland s royal race\\nFirmly they kept their ground;\\nAs firmly England onward pressed,\\nAnd down went many a noble crest,\\nAnd rent was many a valiant breast,\\nAnd Slaughter revelled round.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0390.jp2"}, "389": {"fulltext": "CANTO SIXTH\\n359\\nXXVI\\nUnflinching foot gainst foot was set,\\nUnceasing blow by blow was met;\\nThe groans of those who fell\\nWere drowned amid the shriller clang 700\\nThat from the blades and harness rang,\\nAnd in the battle-yell.\\nYet fast they fell, unheard, forgot,\\nBoth Southern fierce and hardy Scot;\\nAnd O, amid that waste of life\\nWhat various motives fired the strife\\nThe aspiring noble bled for fame, ^r\\nThe patriot for his country s claim;\\nThis knight his youthful strength to prove,\\nAnd that to win his lady s love: 710\\nSome fought from ruffian thirst of blood,\\nFrom habit some or hardihood.\\nBut ruffian stern and soldier good,\\nThe noble and the slave,\\nFrom various cause the same wild road,\\nOn the same bloody morning, trode\\nTo that dark inn, the grave\\nXXVII\\nThe tug of strife to flag begins,\\nThough neither loses yet nor wins.\\nHigh rides the sun, thick rolls the dust, 720,\\nAnd feebler speeds the blow and thrust.\\nDouglas leans on his war-sword now,\\nAnd Randolph wipes his bloody brow;\\nNor less had toiled each Southern knight\\nFrom morn till mid-day in the fight.\\nStrong Egremont for air must gasp,\\nBeauchamp undoes his visor-clasp,\\nAnd Montague must quit his spear,\\nAnd sinks thy falchion, bold De Vere\\nThe blows of Berkley fall less fast, 730\\nAnd gallant Pembroke s bugle-blast\\nHath lost its lively tone;\\nSinks, Argentine, thy battle-word,\\nAnd Percy s shout was fainter heard,\\nMy merry-men, fight on\\nXXVIII\\nBruce, with the pilot s wary eye,\\nThe slackening of the storm could spy.\\nOne effort more and Scotland s free\\nLord of the Isles, my trust in thee\\nIs firm as Ailsa Rock; 740\\nRush on with Highland sword and targe,\\nI with my Carrick spearmen charge;\\nNow forward to the shock\\nAt once the spears were forward thrown,\\nAgainst the sun the broadswords shone;\\nThe pibroch lent its maddening tone,\\nAnd loud King Robert s voice was\\nknown\\nCarrick, press on they fail, they fail\\nPress on, brave sons of Innisgail,\\nThe foe is fainting fast 750\\nEach strike for parent, child, and wife,\\nFor Scotland, liberty, and life,\\nThe battle cannot last\\nXXIX\\nThe fresh and desperate onset bore\\nThe foes three furlongs back and more,\\nLeaving their noblest in their gore.\\nAlone, De Argentine\\nYet bears on high his red-cross shield,\\nGathers the relics of the field,\\nRenews the ranks where they have\\nreeled, 760\\nAnd still makes good the line.\\nBrief strife but fierce his efforts raise,\\nA bright but momentary blaze.\\nFair Edith heard the Southern shout,\\nBeheld them turning from the rout,\\nHeard the wild call their trumpets sent\\nIn notes twixt triumph and lament.\\nThat rallying force, combined anew,\\nAppeared in her distracted view\\nTo hem the Islesmen round; 770\\nO God the combat they renew,\\nAnd is no rescue found\\nAnd ye that look thus tamely on,\\nAnd see your native land o erthrown,\\nO, are your hearts of flesh or stone\\nXXX\\nThe multitude that watched afar,\\nRejected from the ranks of war,\\nHad not unmoved beheld the fight\\nWhen strove the Bruce for Scotland s\\nright\\nEach heart had caught the patriot spark, 780\\nOld man and stripling, priest and clerk,\\nBondsman and serf; even female hand\\nStretched to the hatchet or the brand;\\nBut when mute Amadine they heard\\nGive to their zeal his signal-word\\nA frenzy fired the throng;\\nPortents and miracles impeach\\nOur sloth the dumb our duties\\nteach\\nAnd he that gives the mute his speech\\nCan bid the weak be strong. 790\\nTo us as to our lords are given\\nA native earth, a promised heaven;\\nTo us as to our lords belongs", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0391.jp2"}, "390": {"fulltext": "3 6\\nTHE LORD OF THE ISLES\\nThe vengeance for our nation s wrongs;\\nThe choice twixt death or freedom warms\\nOur breasts as theirs To arms to\\narms\\nTo arms they flew, axe, club, or spear\\nAnd mimic ensigns high they rear,\\nAnd, like a bannered host afar,\\nBear down on England s wearied war. 800\\nXXXI\\nAlready scattered o er the plain,\\nReproof, command, and counsel vain,\\nThe rearward squadrons fled amain\\nOr made but doubtful stay;\\nBut when they marked the seeming show\\nOf fresh and fierce and marshalled foe,\\nThe boldest broke array.\\nO, give their hapless prince his due\\nIn vain the royal Edward threw\\nHis person mid the spears, 810\\nCried, Fight to terror and despair,\\nMenaced and wept and tore his hair,\\nAnd cursed their caitiff fears;\\nTill Pembroke turned his bridle rein\\nAnd forced him from the fatal plain.\\nWith them rode Argentine until\\nThey gained the summit of the hill,\\nBut quitted there the train:\\nIn yonder field a gage I left,\\nI must not live of fame bereft; 820\\nI needs must turn again.\\nSpeed hence, my liege, for on your trace\\nThe fiery Douglas takes the chase,\\nI know his banner well.\\nGod send my sovereign joy and bliss,\\nAnd many a happier field than this\\nOnce more, my liege, farewell\\nAgain he faced the battle-field,\\nWildly they fly, are slain, or yield.\\nNow then, he said, and couched his\\nspear, 830\\nMy course is run, the goal is near;\\nOne effort more, one brave career,\\nMust close this race of mine.\\nThen in his stirrups rising high,\\nHe shouted lou$ his battle-cry,\\nSaint James for Argentine\\nAnd of the bold pursuers four\\nThe gallant knight from saddle bore;\\nBut not unharmed a lance s point\\nHas found his breastplate s loosened\\njoint, 840\\nAn axe has razed his crest;\\nYet still on Colonsay s fierce lord,\\nWho pressed the chase with gory sword,\\nHe rode with spear in rest,\\nAnd through his bloody tartans bored\\nAnd through his gallant breast.\\nNailed to the earth, the mountaineer\\nYet writhed him up against the spear,\\nAnd swung his broadsword round\\nStirrup, steel-boot, and cuish gave way 850\\nBeneath that blow s tremendous sway,\\nThe blood gushed from the wound;\\nAnd the grim Lord of Colonsay\\nHath turned him on the ground,\\nAnd laughed in death-pang that his blade\\nThe mortal thrust so well repaid.\\nXXXIII\\nNow toiled the Bruee, the battle done,\\nTo use his conquest boldly won;\\nAnd gave command for horse and spear\\nTo press the Southron s scattered rear, 860\\nNor let his broken force combine,\\nWhen the war-cry of Argentine\\nFell faintly on his ear;\\nSave, save his life, he cried, O, save\\nThe kind, the noble, and the brave\\nThe squadrons round free passage gave,\\nThe wounded knight drew near;\\nHe raised his red-cross shield no more,\\nHelm, cuish, and breastplate streamed with\\ngore,\\nYet, as he saw the king advance, 870\\nHe strove even then to couch his lance\\nThe effort was in vain\\nThe spur-stroke failed to rouse the horse;\\nWounded and weary, in mid course\\nHe stumbled on the plain.\\nThen foremost was the generous Bruce\\nTo raise his head, his helm to loose;\\nLord Earl, the day is thine\\nMy sovereign s charge and adverse fate\\nHave made our meeting all too late; 880\\nYet this may Argentine\\nAs boon from ancient comrade crave\\nA Christian s mass, a soldier s grave.\\nBruce pressed his dying hand its grasp\\nKindly replied but, in his clasp,\\nIt stiffened and grew cold\\n4 And, O farewell the victor cried,\\nOf chivalry the flower and pride,\\nThe arm in battle bold,\\nThe courteous mien, the noble race, 89\\nThe stainless faith, the manly face\\nBid Ninian s convent light their shrine\\nFor late-wake of De Argentine.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0392.jp2"}, "391": {"fulltext": "CONCLUSION\\n361\\nO er better knight on death-bier laid\\nTorch never gleamed nor mass was said\\nxxxv\\nNor for De Argentine alone\\nThrough Ninian s church these torches\\nshone\\nAnd rose the death-prayer s awful tone.\\nThat yellow lustre glimmered pale\\nOn broken plate and bloodied mail, 900\\nRent crest and shattered coronet,\\nOf baron, earl, and banneret;\\nAnd the best names that England knew\\nClaimed in the death-prayer dismal due.\\nYet mourn not, Land of Fame\\nThough ne er the Leopards on thy shield\\nRetreated from so sad a field\\nSince Norman William came.\\nOft may thine annals justly boast\\nOf battles stern by Scotland lost; 910\\nGrudge not her victory\\nWhen for her f reeborn rights she strove\\nRights dear to all who freedom love,\\nTo none so dear as thee\\nxxxvi\\nTurn we to Bruce whose curious ear\\nMust from Fitz-Louis tidings hear;\\nWith him a hundred voices tell\\nOf prodigy and miracle,\\nFor the mute page had spoke.\\nPage said Fitz-Louis, rather say 920\\nAn angel sent from realms of day\\nTo burst the English yoke.\\nI saw his plume and bonnet drop\\nWhen hurrying from the mountain top;\\nA lovely brow, dark locks that wave,\\nTo his bright eyes new lustre gave,\\nA step as light upon the green,\\nAs if his pinions waved unseen\\nI Spoke he with none With none\\none word\\nBurst when he saw the Island Lord 930\\nReturning from the battle-field.\\nWhat answer made the chief He\\nkneeled,\\nDurst not look up, but muttered low\\nSome mingled sounds that none might\\nknow,\\nAnd greeted him twixt joy and fear\\nAs being of superior sphere.\\nXXVII\\nEven upon Bannock s bloody plain\\nHeaped then with thousands of the slain,\\nMid victor monarch s musings high,\\nMirth laughed in good King Robert s\\neye: 94 o\\nAnd bore he such angelic air,\\nSuch noble front, such waving hair\\nHath Ronald kneeled to him he said;\\nThen must we call the church to aid\\nOur will be to the abbot known\\nEre these strange news are wider blown,\\nTo Cambuskenneth straight he pass\\nAnd deck the church for solemn mass,\\nTo pay for high deliverance given\\nA nation s thanks to gracious Heaven. 950\\nLet him array besides such state,\\nAs should on princes nuptials wait.\\nOurself the cause, through fortune s spite,\\nThat once broke short that spousal rite,\\nOurself will grace with early morn\\nThe bridal of the Maid of Lorn.\\nCONCLUSION\\nGo forth, my Song, upon thy venturous\\nway;\\nGo boldly forth; nor yet thy master\\nblame\\nWho chose no patron for his humble lay,\\nAnd graced thy numbers with no friendly\\nname\\nWhose partial zeal might smooth thy path\\nto fame.\\nThere was and O, how many sorrows\\ncrowd\\nInto these two brief words there was\\na claim\\nBy generous friendship given had fate\\nallowed,\\nIt well had bid thee rank the proudest of\\nthe proud\\nAll angel now yet little less than all\\nWhile still a pilgrim in our world below\\nWhat vails it us that patience to recall\\nWhich hid its own to soothe all other\\nwoes;\\nWhat vails to tell how Virtue s purest\\nglow\\nShone yet more lovely in a form so fair:\\nAnd, least of all, what vails the world\\nshould know\\nThat one poor garland, twined to deck\\nthy hair,\\nIs hung upon thy hearse to droop and\\nwither there", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0393.jp2"}, "392": {"fulltext": "THE FIELD OF WATERLOO\\nINTRODUCTORY NOTE\\nThe brief Advertisement which was the sole\\npreface Scott ever wrote to The Field of\\nWaterloo intimates the circumstances under\\nwhich it was written and the immediate pur-\\npose of its publication. It may be some\\napology for the imperfections of this poem,\\nthat it was composed hastily, and during a\\nshort tour upon the Continent, when the\\nauthor s labors were liable to frequent inter-\\nruption but its best apology is, that it was\\nwritten for the purpose of assisting the Water-\\nloo Subscription.\\nThe battle of Waterloo was fought in May,\\n1815, and Scott, fired by a spirited letter from\\none of the surgeons on the field to a brother in\\nEdinburgh, suddenly resolved in the middle of\\nJuly to go to Brussels and visit the battle-field.\\nAs an illustration of the slowness of travel at\\nthat time it may be noted that though he and his\\ncompanions left Edinburgh 28 July, they did\\nnot reach Harwich till 4 August, when they\\nhired a boat to take them to Helvoetsluys.\\nThe excursion was minutely chronicled in the\\nprose PauVs Letters to his Kinsfolk, and gave\\nrise to some animated personal letters printed\\nby Lockhart. The poem also appears to have\\nbeen begun and indeed practically completed en\\nroute.\\nScott wrote to Mr. Morritt, under date of\\n2 October, 1815, the poem will be out this\\nweek, and you shall have a copy by the Car-\\nlisle coach, which pray judge favorably, and\\nremember it is not always the grandest actions\\nw r hich are best adapted for the arts of poetry\\nand painting. I believe I shall give offence\\nto my old friends the Whigs, by not condoling\\nwith Buonaparte. Since his sentence of trans-\\nportation, he has begun to look wonderfully\\ncomely in their eyes. I would they had hanged\\nhim, that he might have died a perfect Adonis.\\nLockhart, at the close of chapter xxxv., gives\\na transcript of some notes written on the mar-\\ngin of the proof-sheets of the poem. John\\nBallantyne was at Abbotsford when the proof\\nwas ready, so his brother James sent the sheets\\nto him with his own comments, and John en-\\ntertained himself with recording below James s\\nnotes, the remarks which Scott made. Some\\nof the more interesting of these points will\\nbe found in the Notes at the end of this vol-\\nume.\\nThe timeliness of the publication, and its\\nmanner, for it appeared in October, 1815, in a\\nsmall volume, gave it immediate popularity.\\nIn writing to Lady Louisa Stuart, who had\\npraised it enthusiastically, Scott was not dis-\\nposed to be much elated by his success I\\nneed hardly say, he writes, that your applause\\nis always gratifying to me, but more particu-\\nlarly so when it encourages me to hope I have got\\ntolerably well out of a hazardous scrape. The\\nDuke of Wellington himself told me there was\\nnothing so dreadful as a battle won excepting\\nonly a battle lost. And lost or won, I can an-\\nswer for it, they are almost as severe upon the\\nbard who celebrates as the warrior who fights\\nthem. But I had committed myself in the\\npresent case, and like many a hot-headed man,\\nhad got into the midst of the fray without con-\\nsidering well how I was to clear myself out of\\nit. Scott went on in his letter to speak of the\\nother tasks that had been employing him, con-\\ncluding If you ask me why I do these things,\\nI would be much at a loss to give a good answer.\\nI have been tempted to write for fame, and\\nthere have been periods when I have been\\ncompelled to write for money. Neither of\\nthese motives now exist my fortune, though\\nmoderate, suffices my wishes, and I have heard\\nso many blasts from the trumpet of Fame, both\\ngood and evil, that I am hardly tempted to\\nsolicit her notice anew. But the habit of\\nthrowing my ideas into rhyme is not easily\\nconquered, and so, like Dogberry, I go on\\nbestowing my tediousness upon the public\\nThe poem was issued in a cheap form and\\nquickly surpassed in circulation both of the\\ntwo long poems which were freshest in the\\nmemory of readers, Rokeby and The Lord of the\\nLsles.\\n362", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0394.jp2"}, "393": {"fulltext": "THE FIELD OF WATERLOO\\n363\\nTHE FIELD OF WATERLOO\\nThough Valois braved young Edward s gentle hand,\\nAnd Albert rushed on Henry s way-worn band,\\nWith Europe s chosen sons, in arms renowned,\\nYet not on Vere s bold archers long they looked,\\nNor Audley s squires nor Mowbray s yeomen brooked,\\nThey saw their standard fall, and left their monarch bound.\\nAkenside.\\nTO\\nHER GRACE\\nTHE\\nDUCHESS OF WELLINGTON,\\nPRINCESS OF WATERLOO,\\nC, C, C,\\nTHE FOLLOWING VERSES\\nARE MOST RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED BY\\nTHE AUTHOR.\\nADVERTISEMENT\\nIt may be some apology for the imperfections of this poem, that it was composed hastily, and during a\\nshort tour upon the Continent, when the Author s labors were liable to frequent interruption but its best\\napology is, that it was written for the purpose of assisting the Waterloo Subscription.\\nAbbotsford, 1815.\\nFair Brussels, thou art far behind,\\nThough, lingering on the morning wind,\\nWe yet may hear the hour\\nPealed over orchard and canal,\\nWith voice prolonged and measured fall,\\nFrom proud Saint Michael s tower;\\nThy wood, dark Soignies, holds us now,\\nWhere the tall beeches glossy bough\\nFor many a league around,\\nWith birch and darksome oak between,\\nSpreads deep and far a pathless screen\\nOf tangled forest ground.\\nStems planted close by stems defy\\nThe adventurous foot the curious eye\\nFor access seeks in vain\\nAnd the brown tapestry of leaves,\\nStrewed on the blighted ground, receives\\nNor sun nor air nor rain.\\nNo opening glade dawns on our way,\\nNo streamlet glancing to the ray 20\\nOur woodland path has crossed;\\nAnd the straight causeway which we tread\\nProlongs a line of dull arcade,\\nUnvarying through the unvaried shade\\nUntil in distance lost.\\nA brighter, livelier scene succeeds\\nIn groups the scattering wood recedes,\\nHedge-rows, and huts, and sunny meads,\\nAnd corn-fields glance between;\\nThe peasant at his labor blithe 30\\nPlies the hooked staff and shortened\\nscythe\\nBut when these ears were green,\\nPlaced close within destruction s scope,\\nFull little was that rustic s hope", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0395.jp2"}, "394": {"fulltext": "3^4\\nTHE FIELD OF WATERLOO\\nTheir ripening to have seen\\nAnd, lo a hamlet and its fane\\nLet not the gazer with disdain\\nTheir architecture view;\\nFor yonder rude ungraceful shrine\\nAnd disproportioned spire are thine,\\nImmortal Waterloo\\nFear not the heat, though full and high\\nThe sun has scorched the autumn sky,\\nAnd scarce a forest straggler now\\nTo shade us spreads a greenwood bough;\\nThese fields have seen a hotter day\\nThan e er was fired by sunny ray.\\nYet one mile on yon shattered hedge\\nCrests the soft hill whose long smooth\\nridge\\nLooks on the field below, 50\\nAnd sinks so gently on the dale\\nThat not the folds of Beauty s veil\\nIn easier curves can flow.\\nBrief space from thence the ground again\\nAscending slowly from the plain\\nForms an opposing screen,\\nWhich with its crest of upland ground\\nShuts the horizon all around.\\nThe softened vale between\\nSlopes smooth and fair for courser s tread;\\nNot the most timid maid need dread 61\\nTo give her snow-white palfrey head\\nOn that wide stubble-ground;\\nNor wood nor tree nor bush are there,\\nHer course to intercept or scare,\\nNor fosse nor fence are found,\\nSave where from out her shattered bowers\\nRise Hougomont s dismantled towers.\\nIV\\nNow, see st thou aught in this lone scene\\nCan tell of that which late hath been? 70\\nA stranger might reply,\\nThe bare extent of stubble-plain\\nSeems lately lightened of its grain;\\nAnd yonder sable tracks remain\\nMarks of the peasant s ponderous wain\\nWhen harvest-home was nigh.\\nOn these broad spots of trampled ground\\nPerchance the rustics danced such round\\nAs Teniers loved to draw;\\nAnd where the earth seems scorched by\\nflame, 80\\nTo dress the homely feast they came,\\nAnd toiled the kerchiefed village dame\\nAround her fire of straw.\\nSo deem st thou so each mortal deems\\nOf that which is from that which seems\\nBut other harvest here\\nThan that which peasant s scythe demands\\nWas gathered in by sterner hands,\\nWith bayonet, blade, and spear.\\nNo vulgar crop was theirs to reap, 90\\nNo stinted harvest thin and cheap\\nHeroes before each fatal sweep\\nFell thick as ripened grain;\\nAnd ere the darkening of the day,\\nPiled high as autumn shocks there lay\\nThe ghastly harvest of the fray,\\nThe corpses of the slain.\\nVI\\nAy, look again that line so black\\nAnd trampled marks the bivouac, 99\\nYon deep-graved ruts the artillery s track,\\nSo often lost and won;\\nAnd close beside the hardened mud\\nStill shows where, fetlock-deep in blood,\\nThe fierce dragoon through battle s flood\\nDashed the hot war-horse on.\\nThese spots of excavation tell\\nThe ravage of the bursting shell\\nAnd feel st thou not the tainted steam\\nThat reeks against the sultry beam\\nFrom yonder trenched mound 1 10\\nThe pestilential fumes declare\\nThat Carnage has replenished there\\nHer garner-house profound.\\nFar other harvest-home and feast\\nThan claims the boor from scythe released\\nOn these scorched fields were known\\nDeath hovered o er the maddening rout,\\nAnd in the thrilling battle-shout\\nSent for the bloody banquet out\\nA summons of his own.\\nThrough rolling smoke the Demon s eye\\nCould well each destined guest espy.\\nWell could his ear in ecstasy\\nDistinguish every tone\\nThat filled the chorus of the fray\\nFrom cannon-roar and trumpet-bray,\\nFrom charging squadrons wild hurra,\\nFrom the wild clang that marked their\\nway,\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nDown to the dying groan\\nAnd the last sob of life s decay\\nWhen breath was all but flown.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0396.jp2"}, "395": {"fulltext": "THE FIELD OF WATERLOO\\n36 S\\nVIII\\nFeast on, stern foe of mortal life,\\nFeast on but think not that a strife\\nWith such promiscuous carnage rife\\nProtracted space may last;\\nThe deadly tug of war at length\\nMust limits find in human strength,\\nAnd cease when these are past.\\nVain hope that morn s o erclouded sun\\nHeard the wild shout of fight begun 140\\nEre he attained his height,\\nAnd through the war-smoke volumed high\\nStill peals that unremitted cry,\\nThough now he stoops to night.\\nFor ten long hours of doubt and dread,\\nFresh succors from the extended head\\nOf either hill the contest fed;\\nStill down the slope they drew,\\nThe charge of columns paused not,\\nNor ceased the storm of shell and shot; 150\\nFor all that war could do\\nOf skill and force was proved that day,\\nAnd turned not yet the doubtful fray\\nOn bloody Waterloo.\\nIX\\nPale Brussels then what thoughts were\\nthine,\\nWhen ceaseless from the distant line\\nContinued thunders came\\nEach burgher held his breath to hear\\nThese forerunners of havoc near,\\nOf rapine and of flame. 160\\nWhat ghastly sights were thine to meet,\\nWhen, rolling through thy stately street,\\nThe wounded showed their mangled plight\\nIn token of the unfinished fight,\\nAnd from each anguish-laden wain\\nThe blood-drops laid thy dust like rain\\nHow often in the distant drum\\nHeard st thou the fell invader come,\\nWhile Ruin, shouting to his band, 169\\nShook high her torch and gory brand\\nCheer thee, fair city From yon stand\\nImpatient still his outstretched hand\\nPoints to his prey in vain,\\nWhile maddening in his eager mood\\nAnd all unwont to be withstood,\\nHe fires the fight again.\\nOn On was still his stern exclaim\\nConfront the battery s jaws of flame\\nRush on the levelled gun\\nMy steel-clad cuirassiers, advance 180\\nEach Hulan forward with his lance,\\nMy Guard my chosen charge for\\nFrance,\\nFrance and Napoleon\\nLoud answered their acclaiming shout,\\nGreeting the mandate which sent out\\nTheir bravest and their best to dare\\nThe fate their leader shunned to share.\\nBut He, his country s sword and shield,\\nStill in the battle-front revealed\\nWhere danger fiercest swept the field, 190\\nCame like a beam of light,\\nIn action prompt, in sentence brief\\nSoldiers, stand firm exclaimed the chief,\\nEngland shall tell the fight\\nXI\\nOn came the whirlwind like the last\\nBut fiercest sweep of tempest-blast\\nOn came the whirlwind steel gleams\\nbroke\\nLike lightning through the rolling smoke\\nThe war was waked anew, 199\\nThree hundred cannon-mouths roared loud,\\nAnd from their throats with flash and\\ncloud\\nTheir showers of iron threw.\\nBeneath their fire in full career\\nRushed on the ponderous cuirassier,\\nThe lancer couched his ruthless spear,\\nAnd hurrying as to havoc near\\nThe cohorts eagles flew.\\nIn one dark torrent broad and strong\\nThe advancing onset rolled along,\\nForth harbingered by fierce acclaim, 210\\nThat from the shroud of smoke and flame\\nPealed wildly the imperial name.\\nXII\\nBut on the British heart were lost\\nThe terrors of the charging host;\\nFor not an eye the storm that viewed\\nChanged its proud glance of fortitude,\\nNor was one forward footstep staid,\\nAs dropped the dying and the dead.\\nFast as their ranks the thunders tear, 219\\nFast they renewed each serried square;\\nAnd on the wounded and the slain\\nClosed their diminished files again,\\nTill from their lines scarce spears lengths\\nthree\\nEmerging from the smoke they see\\nHelmet and plume and panoply\\nThen waked their fire at once", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0397.jp2"}, "396": {"fulltext": "3 66\\nTHE FIELD OF WATERLOO\\nEach musketeer s revolving knell,\\nAs fast, as regularly fell,\\nAs when they practise to display\\nTheir discipline on festal day. 230\\nThen down went helm and lance,\\nDown were the eagle banners sent,\\nDown reeling steeds and riders went,\\nCorselets were pierced and pennons rent;\\nAnd to augment the fray,\\nWheeled full against their staggering\\nflanks,\\nThe English horsemen s foaming ranks\\nForced their resistless way.\\nThen to the musket-knell succeeds\\nThe clash of swords, the neigh of\\nsteeds, 240\\nAs plies the smith his clanging trade,\\nAgainst the cuirass rang the blade;\\nAnd while amid their close array\\nThe well-served cannon rent their way,\\nAnd while amid their scattered band\\nRaged the fierce rider s bloody brand,\\nRecoiled in common rout and fear\\nLancer and guard and cuirassier,\\nHorsemen and foot, a mingled host,\\nTheir leaders fallen, their standards\\nlost. 250\\nXIII\\nThen, Wellington thy piercing eye\\nThis crisis caught of destiny\\nThe British host had stood\\nThat morn gainst charge of sword and\\nlance\\nAs their own ocean-rocks hold stance,\\nBut when thy voice had said, Advance\\nThey were their ocean s flood.\\nO thou whose inauspicious aim\\nHath wrought thy host this hour of shame,\\nThink st thou thy broken bands will\\nbide 260\\nThe terrors of yon rushing tide\\nOr will thy chosen brook to feel\\nThe British shock of levelled steel\\nOr dost thou turn thine eye\\nWhere coming squadrons gleam afar,\\nAnd fresher thunders wake the war,\\nAnd other standards fly\\nThink not that in yon columns file\\nThy conquering troops from distant\\nDyle\\nIs Blucher yet unknown 270\\nOr dwells not in thy memory still,\\nHeard frequent in thine hour of ill,\\nWhat notes of hate and vengeance thrill\\nIn Prussia s trumpet tone\\nWhat yet remains shall it be thine\\nTo head the relics of thy line\\nIn one dread effort more\\nThe Roman lore thy leisure loved,\\nAnd thou canst tell what fortune proved\\nThat chieftain who of yore 280\\nAmbition s dizzy paths essayed,\\nAnd with the gladiators aid\\nFor empire enterprised\\nHe stood the cast his rashness played,\\nLeft not the victims he had made,\\nDug his red grave with his own blade,\\nAnd on the field he lost was laid,\\nAbhorred but not despised.\\nBut if revolves thy fainter thought\\nOn safety howsoever bought 290\\nThen turn thy fearful rein and ride,\\nThough twice ten thousand men have died\\nOn this eventful day,\\nTo gild the military fame\\nWhich thou for life in traffic tame\\nWilt barter thus away.\\nShall future ages tell this tale\\nOf inconsistence faint and frail\\nAnd art thou he of Lodi s bridge,\\nMarengo s field, and Wagram s ridge 300\\nOr is thy soul like mountain-tide\\nThat, swelled by winter storm and shower,\\nRolls down in turbulence of power\\nA torrent fierce and wide;\\nReft of these aids, a rill obscure,\\nShrinking unnoticed, mean and poor,\\nWhose channel shows displayed\\nThe wrecks of its impetuous course,\\nBut not one symptom of the force\\nBy which these wrecks were made 310\\nxv\\nSpur on thy way since now thine ear\\nHas brooked thy veterans wish to hear,\\nWho as thy flight they eyed\\nExclaimed while tears of anguish came,\\nWrung forth by pride and rage and\\nshame\\n1 O, that he had but died\\nBut yet, to sum this hour of ill,\\nLook ere thou leavest the fatal hill\\nBack on yon broken ranks\\nUpon whose wild confusion gleams 320\\nThe moon, as on the troubled streams\\nWhen rivers break their banks,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0398.jp2"}, "397": {"fulltext": "THE FIELD OF WATERLOO\\n367\\nAnd to the ruined peasant s eye\\nObjects half seen roll swiftly by,\\nDown the dread current hurled\\nSo mingle banner, wain, and gun,\\nWhere the tumultuous flight rolls on\\nOf warriors who when morn begun\\nDefied a banded world.\\nXVI\\nList frequent to the hurrying rout, 330\\nThe stern pursuers vengeful shout\\nTells that upon their broken rear\\nRages the Prussian s bloody spear.\\nSo fell a shriek was none\\nWhen Beresina s icy flood\\nReddened and thawed with flame and\\nblood\\nAnd, pressing on thy desperate way,\\nRaised oft and long their wild hurra\\nThe children of the Don.\\nThine ear no yell of horror cleft 340\\nSo ominous when, all bereft\\nOf aid, the valiant Polack left\\nAy, left by thee found soldier s grave\\nIn Leipsic s corpse-encumbered wave.\\nFate, in these various perils past,\\nReserved thee still some future cast;\\nOn the dread die thou now hast thrown\\nHangs not a single field alone,\\nNor one campaign thy martial fame,\\nThy empire, dynasty, and name, 350\\nHave felt the final stroke;\\nAnd now o er thy devoted head\\nThe last stern vial s wrath is shed,\\nThe last dread seal is broke.\\nXVII\\nSince live thou wilt refuse not now\\nBefore these demagogues to bow,\\nLate objects of thy scorn and hate,\\nWho shall thy once imperial fate\\nMake wordy theme of vain debate.\\nOr shall we say thou stoop st less low 360\\nIn seeking refuge from the foe,\\nAgainst whose heart in prosperous life\\nThine hand hath ever held the knife\\nSuch homage hath been paid\\nBy Roman and by Grecian voice,\\nAnd there were honor in the choice,\\nIf it were freely made.\\nThen safely come in one so low,\\nSo lost, we cannot own a foe;\\nThough dear experience bid us end, 370\\nIn thee we ne er can hail a friend.\\nCome, howsoe er but do not hide\\nClose in thy heart that germ of pride\\nErewhile by gifted bard espied,\\nThat yet imperial hope\\nThink not that for a fresh rebound,\\nTo raise ambition from the ground,\\nWe yield thee means or scope.\\nIn safety come but ne er again\\nHold type of independent reign; 380\\nNo islet calls thee lord,\\nWe leave thee no confederate band,\\nNo symbol of thy lost command,\\nTo be a dagger in the hand\\nFrom which we wrenched the sword.\\nXVIII\\nYet, even in yon sequestered spot,\\nMay worthier conquest be thy lot\\nThan yet thy life has known;\\nConquest unbought by blood or harm,\\nThat needs nor foreign aid nor arm, 390\\nA triumph all thine own.\\nSuch waits thee when thou shalt control\\nThose passions wild, that stubborn soul,\\nThat marred thy prosperous scene\\nHear this from no unmoved heart,\\nWhich sighs, comparing what thou art\\nWith what thou mightst have been\\nXIX\\nThou too, whose deeds of fame renewed\\nBankrupt a nation s gratitude,\\nTo thine own noble heart must owe 400\\nMore than the meed she can bestow.\\nFor not a people s just acclaim,\\nNot the full hail of Europe s fame,\\nThy prince s smiles, thy state s decree,\\nThe ducal rank, the gartered knee,\\nNot these such pure delight afford\\nAs that, when hanging up thy sword,\\nWell mayst thou think, This honest steel\\nWas ever drawn for public weal;\\nAnd, such was rightful Heaven s de-\\ncree, 410\\nNe er sheathed unless with victory\\nxx\\nLook forth once more with softened heart\\nEre from the field of fame we part;\\nTriumph and sorrow border near,\\nAnd joy oft melts into a tear.\\nAlas what links of love that morn\\nHas War s rude hand asunder torn\\nF,or ne er was field so sternly fought,\\nAnd ne er was conquest dearer bought.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0399.jp2"}, "398": {"fulltext": "3 68\\nTHE FIELD OF WATERLOO\\nHere piled in common slaughter sleep 420\\nThose whom affection long shall weep\\nHere rests the sire that ne er shall strain\\nHis orphans to his heart again;\\nThe son whom on his native shore\\nThe parent s voice shall bless no more;\\nThe bridegroom who has hardly pressed\\nHis blushing consort to his breast;\\nThe husband whom through many a year\\nLong love and mutual faith endear.\\nThou canst not name one tender tie 430\\n6ut here dissolved its relics lie\\nO, when thou see st some mourner s veil\\nShroud her thin form and visage pale,\\nOr mark st the matron s bursting tears\\nStream when the stricken drum she hears,\\nOr see st how manlier grief suppressed\\nIs laboring in a father s breast,\\nWith no inquiry vain pursue\\nThe cause, but think on Waterloo\\nXXI\\nPeriod of honor as of woes, 440\\nWhat bright careers t was thine to\\nclose\\nMarked on thy roll of blood what names\\nTo Briton s memory and to Fame s\\nLaid there their last immortal claims\\nThou saw st in seas of gore expire\\nRedoubted Picton s soul of fire\\nSaw st in the mingled carnage lie\\nAll that of Ponsonby could die\\nDe Lancey change Love s bridal-wreath\\nFor laurels from the hand of Death 450\\nSaw st gallant Miller s failing eye\\nStill bent where Albion s banners fly,\\nAnd Cameron in the shock of steel\\nDie like the offspring of Lochiel;\\nAnd generous Gordon mid the strife\\nFall while he watched his leader s life.\\nAh though her guardian angel s shield\\nFenced Britain s hero through the field,\\nFate not the less her power made known\\nThrough his friends hearts to pierce his\\nown\\n460\\nForgive, brave dead, the imperfect lay\\nWho may your names, your numbers,\\nsav\\nWhat high-strung harp, what lofty line,\\nTo each the dear-earned praise assign,\\nFrom high-born chiefs of martial fame\\nTo the poor soldier s lowlier name\\nLightly ye rose that dawning day\\nFrom your cold couch of swamp and clay,\\nTo fill before the sun was low\\nThe bed that morning cannot know. 470\\nOft may the tear the green sod steep,\\nAnd sacred be the heroes sleep\\nTill time shall cease to run;\\nAnd ne er beside their noble grave\\nMay Briton pass and fail to crave\\nA blessing on the fallen brave\\nWho fought with Wellington\\nFarewell, sad field whose blighted face\\nWears desolation s withering trace;\\nLong shall my memory retain 4 8c\\nThy shattered huts and trampled grain,\\nWith every mark of martial wrong\\nThat scathe thy towers, fair Hougomont\\nYet though thy garden s green arcade\\nThe marksman s fatal post was made,\\nThough on thy shattered beeches fell\\nThe blended rage of shot and shell,\\nThough from thy blackened portals torn\\nTheir fall thy blighted fruit-trees mourn,\\nHas not such havoc bought a name 490\\nImmortal in the rolls of fame\\nYes Agincourt may be forgot,\\nAnd Cressy be an unknown spot,\\nAnd Blenheim s name be new;\\nBut still in story and in song,\\nFor many an age remembered long,\\nShall live the towers of Hougomont\\nAnd Field of Waterloo.\\nCONCLUSION\\nStern tide of human time that know st\\nnot rest,\\nBut, sweeping from the cradle to the\\ntomb,\\nBear st ever downward on thy dusky\\nbreast\\nSuccessive generations to their doom;\\nWhile thy capacious stream has equal\\nroom\\nFor the gay bark where Pleasure s\\nstreamers sport\\nAnd for the prison-ship of guilt and\\ngloom,\\nThe fisher-skiff and barge that bears a\\ncourt,\\nStill wafting onward all to one dark silent\\nport", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0400.jp2"}, "399": {"fulltext": "HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS: INTRODUCTORY NOTE 369\\nStern tide of time through what mys-\\nterious change 10\\nOf hope and fear have our frail barks\\nbeen driven\\nFor ne er before vicissitude so strange\\nWas to one race of Adam s offspring given.\\nAnd sure such varied change of sea and\\nheaven,\\nSuch unexpected bursts of joy and woe,\\nSuch fearful strife as that where we have\\nstriven,\\nSucceeding ages ne er again shall know\\nUntil the awful term when thou shalt cease\\nto flow.\\nWell hast thou stood, my Country the\\nbrave fight\\nHast well maintained through good re-\\nport and ill; 20\\nIn thy just cause and in thy native might,\\nAnd in Heaven s grace and justice con-\\nstant still;\\nWhether the banded prowess, strength,\\nand skill\\nOf half the world against thee stood\\narrayed,\\nOr when with better views and freer will\\nBeside thee Europe s noblest drew the\\nblade,\\nEach emulous in arms the Ocean Queen to\\naid.\\nWell art thou now repaid though\\nslowly rose,\\nAnd struggled long with mists thy blaze\\nof fame,\\nWhile like the dawn that in the orient\\nglows 30\\nOn the broad wave its earlier lustre\\ncame;\\nThen eastern Egypt saw the growing\\nflame,\\nAnd Maicla s myrtles gleamed beneath\\nits ray,\\nWhere first the soldier, stung with gener-\\nous shame,\\nRivalled the heroes of the watery way,\\nAnd washed in foemen s gore unjust re-\\nproach away.\\nNow, Island Empress, wave thy crest on\\nhigh,\\nAnd bid the banner of thy Patron flow,\\nGallant Saint George, the flower of chiv-\\nalry,\\nFor thou hast faced like him a dragon\\nfoe, 40\\nAnd rescued innocence from overthrow,\\nAnd trampled down like him tyrannic\\nmight,\\nAnd to the gazing world mayst proudly\\nshow\\nThe chosen emblem of thy sainted knight,\\nWho quelled devouring pride and vindi-\\ncated right.\\nYet mid the confidence of just renown,\\nRenown dear-bought, but dearest thus\\nacquired,\\nWrite, Britain, write the moral lesson\\ndown:\\nT is not alone the heart with valor fired,\\nThe discipline so dreaded and admired,\\nIn many a field of bloody conquest\\nknown 51\\nSuch may by fame be lured, by gold be\\nhired\\nT is constancy in the good cause alone\\nBest justifies the meed thy valiant sons\\nhave won.\\nHAROLD THE DAUNTLESS\\nINTRODUCTORY NOTE\\nIn the Introduction to The Lord of the Isles,\\nwhich he prefixed to the 1830 edition of his\\npoems, Scott refers to the mystification which\\nhe practised on the public by the anonymous\\nissue of The Bridal of Triermain, and the at-\\ntempt to father it on Lord Kinedder. He\\nthen says Upon another occasion I sent up\\nanother of these trifles, which, like schoolboys\\nkites, served to show how the wind of popular\\ntaste was setting. The manner was supposed\\nto be that of a rude minstrel or Scald, in op-\\nposition to The Bridal of Triermain, which was\\ndesigned to belong- rather to the Italian school.\\nThis new fugitive piece was called Harold the\\nDauntless and I am still astonished at my\\nhaving committed the gross error of selecting\\nthe very name which Lord Byron had made so\\nfamous. It encountered rather an odd fate.\\nMy ingenious friend, Mr. James Hogg, had\\npublished, about the same time, a work called\\nThe Poetic Mirror, containing imitations of the\\nprincipal living poets. There was in it a very", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0401.jp2"}, "400": {"fulltext": "37o HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS\\ngood imitation of my own style, which bore to treat him otherwise than as a jealous mistress\\nsuch a resemblance to Harold the Dauntless treats her lover.\\nthat there was no discovering- the original from It was published simply as by the author\\nthe imitation and I believe that many who of The Bridal of TriermainJ and no effort\\ntook the trouble of thinking upon the subject seems to have been made to turn aside attention\\nwere rather of opinion that my ingenious friend to Erskine, Gillies, or any one else. Although\\nwas the true, and not the fictitious, Simon Scott professed in one or two instances an in-\\nPure. Since this period, which was in the year terest in his work, it is pretty evident that it\\n1817, the Author has not been an intruder on appealed but slightly to his mind, now so ab-\\nthe public by any poetical work of importance. sorbed in larger ventures. I begin, he wrote\\nHarold the Dauntless was indeed the last to Morritt, to get too old and stupid, I think,\\npoem of any length that Scott wrote. When it for poetry, and will certainly never again ad-\\nappeared, in January, 1817, Scott was deep in venture on a grand scale and the next day he\\nthe multitudinous interests which swept him wrote to Lady Louisa Stuart I thought once\\naway from poetry, the enlargement of his do- I should have made it something clever, but\\nmain, the writing of the Waverley Novels, con- it turned vapid upon my imagination and I\\ntributions to the Annual Register and the various finished it at last with hurry and impatience,\\nliterary enterprises into which he was drawn Nobody knows, that has not tried the feverish\\nby the Ballantynes. He kept Harold by him, trade of poetry, how much it depends upon\\nafter finishing the Bridal, some two years, mood and whim I don t wonder, that in dis-\\nmaking a plaything of it, something to take missing all the other deities of Paganism, the\\nup, as Lockhart says, whenever the coach Muses should have been retained by common\\nbrought no proof-sheets to jog him as to serious consent for, in sober reality, writing good\\nmatters and poetry written under such con- verses seems to depend upon something sep-\\nditions is hardly likely to repay the writer or arate from the volition of the author.\\nHAROLD THE DAUNTLESS\\nA POEM IN SIX CANTOS\\nINTRODUCTION\\nThere is a mood of mind we all have known\\nOn drowsy eve or dark and lowering day,\\nWhen the tired spirits lose their sprightly tone\\nAnd nought can chase the lingering hours away.\\nDull on our soul falls Fancy s dazzling ray,\\nAnd Wisdom holds his steadier torch in vain,\\nObscured the painting seems, mistuned the lay,\\nNor dare we of our listless load complain,\\nFor who for sympathy may seek that cannot tell of pain\\nThe jolly sportsman knows such drearihood 10\\nWhen bursts in deluge the autumnal rain,\\nClouding that morn which threats the heath-cock s brood;\\nOf such in summer s drought the anglers plain,\\nWho hope the soft mild southern shower in vain;\\nBut more than all the discontented fair,\\nWhom father stern and sterner aunt restrain\\nFrom county-ball or race occurring rare,\\nWhile all her friends around their vestments gay prepare.\\nEnnui or, as our mothers called thee, Spleen\\nTo thee we owe full many a rare device; 20\\nThine is the sheaf of painted cards, I ween,\\nThe rolling billiard-ball, the rattling dice,\\nThe turning lathe for framing gimcrack nice;", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0402.jp2"}, "401": {"fulltext": "CANTO FIRST\\n37i\\nThe amateur s blotched pallet thou mayst claim,\\nRetort, and air-pump, threatening frogs and mice\\nMurders disguised by philosophic name\\nAnd much of trifling grave and much of buxom game.\\nThen of the books to catch thy drowsy glance\\nCompiled, what bard the catalogue may quote\\nPlays, poems, novels, never read but once;\\nBut not of such the tale fair Edgeworth wrote,\\nThat bears thy name and is thine antidote;\\nAnd not of such the strain my Thomson sung,\\nDelicious dreams inspiring by his note,\\nWhat time to Indolence his harp he strung;\\nO, might my lay be ranked that happier list among\\nEach hath his refuge whom thy cares assail.\\nFor me, I love my study-fire to trim,\\nAnd con right vacantly some idle tale,\\nDisplaying on the couch each listless limb,\\nTill on the drowsy page the lights grow dim\\nAnd doubtful slumber half supplies the theme;\\nWhile antique shapes of knight and giant grim,\\nDamsel and dwarf, in long procession gleam,\\nAnd the romancer s tale becomes the reader s dream.\\nT is thus my malady I well may bear,\\nAlbeit outstretched, like Pope s own Paridel,\\nUpon the rack of a too-easy chair;\\nAnd find to cheat the time a powerful spell\\nIn old romaunts of errantry that tell,\\nOr later legends of the Fairy-folk,\\nOr Oriental tale of Afrite fell,\\nOf Genii, Talisman, and broad-winged Roc,\\nThough taste may blush and frown, and sober reason mock.\\nOft at such season too will rhymes unsought\\nArrange themselves in some romantic lay,\\nThe which, as things unfitting graver thought,\\nAre burnt or blotted on some wiser day.\\nThese few survive and, proudly let me say,\\nCourt not the critic s smile nor dread his frown;\\nThey well may serve to while an hour away,\\nNor does the volume ask for more renown\\nThan Ennui s yawning smile, what time she drops it down.\\n50\\n60\\nCANTO FIRST\\nList to the valorous deeds that were done\\nBy Harold the Dauntless, Count Witikind s\\nCount Witikind came of a regal strain,\\nAnd roved with his Norsemen the land and\\nthe main.\\nWoe to the realms which he coasted for\\nthere\\nWas shedding of blood and rending of hair,\\nRape of maiden and slaughter of priest,\\nGathering of ravens and wolves to the feast:\\nWhen he hoisted his standard black,\\nBefore him was battle, behind him wrack, 10\\nAnd he burned the churches, that heathen\\nDane,\\nTo light his band to their barks again.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0403.jp2"}, "402": {"fulltext": "37 2\\nHAROLD THE DAUNTLESS\\nOn Erin s shores was his outrage known,\\nThe winds of France had his banners blown;\\nLittle was there to plunder, yet still\\nHis pirates had forayed on Scottish hill:\\nBut upon merry England s coast\\nMore frequent he sailed, for he won the\\nmost.\\nSo wide and so far his ravage they knew,\\nIf a sail but gleamed white gainst the\\nwelkin blue, 20\\nTrumpet and bugle to arms did call,\\nBurghers hastened to man the wall,\\nPeasants fled inland his fury to scape,\\nBeacons were lighted on headland and cape,\\nBells were tolled out, and aye as they rung\\nFearful and faintly the gray brothers sung,\\nBless us, Saint Mary, from flood and from\\nfire,\\nFrom famine and pest, and Count Witi-\\nkind s ire\\nin\\n\u00e2\u0080\u00a2He liked the wealth of fair England so well\\nThat he sought in her bosom as native to\\ndwell. 30\\nHe entered the Humber in fearful hour\\nAnd disembarked with his Danish power.\\nThree earls came against him with all their\\ntrain,\\nTwo hath he taken and one hath he slain.\\nCount Witikind left the Humber s rich\\nstrand,\\nAnd lie wasted and warred in Northumber-\\nland.\\nBut the Saxon king was a sire in age,\\nWeak in battle, in council sage\\nPeace of that heathen leader he sought,\\nGifts he gave and quiet he bought; 40\\nAnd the count took upon him the peace-\\nable style\\nOf a vassal and liegeman of Briton s broad\\nisle.\\nIV\\nTime will rust the sharpest sword,\\nTime will consume the strongest cord;\\nThat which moulders hemp and steel\\nMortal arm and nerve must feel.\\nOf the Danish band whom Count Witikind\\nled\\nMany waxed aged and many were dead:\\nHimself found his armor full weighty to\\nbear, 49\\nWrinkled his brows grew and hoary his hair;\\nHe leaned on a staff when his step went\\nabroad,\\nAnd patient his palfrey when steed he be-\\nstrode.\\nAs he grew feebler, his wildness ceased,\\nHe made himself peace with prelate and\\npriest,\\nMade his peace, and stooping his head\\nPatiently listed the counsel they said:\\nSaint Cuthbert s Bishop was holy and\\ngrave,\\nWise and good was the counsel he gave.\\nThou hast murdered, robbed, and spoiled,\\nTime it is thy poor soul were assoiled 6a\\nPriests didst thou slay and churches burn,\\nTime it is now to repentance to turn;\\nFiends hast thou worshipped with fiendish\\nrite,\\nLeave now the darkness and wend into lignt\\nO, while life and space are given,\\nTurn thee yet, and think of Heaven\\nThat stern old heathen his head he raised,\\nAnd on the good prelate he steadfastly\\ngazed;\\nGive me broad lands on the Wear and\\nthe T} 7 ne,\\nMy faith I will leave and I 11 cleave unto\\nthine. 7 o\\nVI\\nBroad lands he gave him on Tyne and\\nWear,\\nTo be held of the church by bridle and spear,\\nPart of Monkwearmouth, of Tynedale part,\\nTo better his will and to soften his heart:\\nCount Witikind was a joyful man,\\nLess for the faith than the lands that he wan.\\nThe high church of Durham is dressed for\\nthe day,\\nThe clergy are ranked in their solemn array:\\nThere came the count, in a bear-skin warm,\\nLeaning on Hilda his concubine s arm. 80\\nHe kneeled before Saint Cuthbert s shrine\\nWith patience unwonted at rites divine;\\nHe abjured the gods of heathen race\\nAnd he bent his head at the font of grace.\\nBut such was the grisly old proselyte s look,\\nThat the priest who baptized him grew\\npale and shook;\\nAnd the old monks muttered beneath their\\nhood,\\nOf a stern so stubborn can never spring\\ngood", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0404.jp2"}, "403": {"fulltext": "CANTO FIRST\\n373\\nVII\\nUp then arose that grim convertite, 89\\nHomeward he hied him when ended the rite\\nThe prelate in honor will with him ride\\nAnd feast in his castle on Tyne s fair side.\\nBanners and banderols danced in the wind,\\nMonks rode before them and spearmen\\nbehind;\\nOnward they passed, till fairly did shine\\nPennon and cross on the bosom of Tyne;\\nAnd full in front did that fortress lour\\nIn darksome strength with its buttress and\\ntower:\\nAt the castle gate was young Harold\\nthere,\\nCount Witikind s only offspring and heir.\\nVIII\\nYoung Harold was feared for his hardi-\\nhood, 10 1\\nHis strength of frame and his fury of mood.\\nRude he was and wild to behold,\\nWore neither collar nor bracelet of gold,\\nCap of vair nor rich array,\\nSuch as should grace that festal day:\\nHis doublet of bull s hide was all un-\\nbraced,\\nUncovered his head and his sandal un-\\nlaced:\\nHis shaggy black locks on his brow hung\\nlow,\\nAnd his eyes glanced through them a\\nswarthy glow; no\\nA Danish club in his hand he bore,\\nThe spikes were clotted with recent gore\\nAt his back a she-wolf and her wolf-cubs\\ntwain,\\nIn the dangerous chase that morning slain.\\nRude was the greeting his father he made,\\nNone to the bishop, while thus he\\nsaid:\\nWhat priest-led hypocrite art thou\\nWith thy humbled look and thy monkish\\nbrow,\\nLike a shaveling who studies to cheat his\\nvow\\nCanst thou be Witikind the Waster\\nknown, 120\\nRoyal Eric s fearless son,\\nHaughty Gunhilda s haughtier lord,\\nWho won his bride by the axe and sword;\\nFrom the shrine of Saint Peter the chalice\\nwho tore,\\nAnd melted to bracelets for Freya and\\nThor;\\nWith one blow of his gauntlet who burst\\nthe skull,\\nBefore Odin s stone, of the Mountain\\nBull?\\nThen ye worshipped with rites that to war-\\ngods belong,\\nWith the deed of the brave and the blow\\nof the strong;\\nAnd now, in thine age to dotage sunk, 130\\nWilt thou patter thy crimes to a shaven\\nmonk,\\nLay down thy mail-shirt for clothing of\\nhair,\\nFasting and scourge, like a slave, wilt thou\\nbear\\nOr, at best, be admitted in slothful bower\\nTo batten with priest and with paramour\\nO, out upon thine endless shame\\nEach Scald s high harp shall blast thy\\nfame,\\nAnd thy son will refuse thee a father s\\nname\\nIreful waxed old Witikind s look,\\nHis faltering voice with fury shook: 140\\nHear me, Harold of hardened heart\\nStubborn and wilful ever thou wert.\\nThine outrage insane I command thee to\\ncease,\\nFear my wrath and remain at peace\\nJust is the debt of repentance I ve paid,\\nRichly the church has a recompense made,\\nAnd the truth of her doctrines I prove\\nwith my blade,\\nBut reckoning to none of my actions I owe,\\nAnd least to my son such accounting will\\nshow.\\nWhy speak I to thee of repentance or\\ntruth, 150\\nWho ne er from thy childhood knew rea-\\nson or ruth\\nHence to the wolf and the bear in her den\\nThese are thy mates, and not rational men.\\nXI\\nGrimly smiled Harold and coldly replied,\\nWe must honor our sires, if we fear when\\nthey chide.\\nFor me, I am yet what thy lessons have\\nmade,\\nI was rocked in a buckler and fed from a\\nblade", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0405.jp2"}, "404": {"fulltext": "374\\nHAROLD THE DAUNTLESS\\nAn infant, was taught to clasp hands and\\nto shout\\nFrom the roofs of the tower when the flame\\nhad broke out;\\nIn the blood of slain foemen my finger to\\ndip, 160\\nAnd tinge with its purple my cheek and my\\nlip.-\\nT is thou know st not truth, that hast bar-\\ntered in eld\\nFor a price the brave faith that thine an-\\ncestors held.\\nWhen this wolf and the carcass he flung\\non the plain\\n1 Shall awake and give food to her nurslings\\nagain,\\nThe face of his father will Harold review;\\nTill then, aged heathen, young Christian,\\nadieu\\nXII\\nPriest, monk, and prelate stood aghast,\\nAs through the pageant the heathen passed.\\nA cross-bearer out of his saddle he flung, 170\\nLaid his hand on the pommel and into it\\nsprung.\\nLoud was the shriek and deep the groan\\nWhen the holy sign on the earth was\\nthrown\\nThe fierce old count unsheathed his brand,\\nBut the calmer prelate stayed his hand.\\nLet him pass free Heaven knows its\\nhour,\\nBut he must own repentance s power,\\nPray and weep, and penance bear,\\nEre he hold land by the Tyne and the\\nWear.\\nThus in scorn and in wrath from his father\\nis gone 180\\nYoung Harold the Dauntless, Count Witi-\\nkind s son.\\nXIII\\nHigh was the feasting in Witikind s hall,\\nRevelled priests, soldiers, and pagans, and\\nall;\\nAnd e en the good bishop was fain to endure\\nThe scandal which time and instruction\\nmight cure:\\nIt were dangerous, he deemed, at the first\\nto restrain\\nIn his wine and his wassail a half-christened\\nDane.\\nThe mead flowed around and the ale was\\ndrained dry,\\nWild was the laughter, the song, and the\\ncry;\\nWithKyrie Eleison came clamorously in 190\\nThe war-songs of Danesmen, Norweyan,\\nand Finn,\\nTill man after man the contention gave\\no er,\\nOutstretched on the rushes that strewed\\nthe hall floor;\\nAnd the tempest within, having ceased its\\nwild rout,\\nGave place to the tempest that thundered\\nwithout.\\nApart from the wassail in turret alone\\nLay flaxen-haired Gunnar, old Ermengarde s\\nson;\\nIn the train of Lord Harold that page was\\nthe first,\\nFor Harold in childhood had Ermengarde\\nnursed;\\nAnd grieved was young Gunnar his master\\nshould roam, 200\\nUnhoused and unfriended, an exile from\\nhome.\\nHe heard the deep thunder, the plashing of\\nrain,\\nHe saw the red lightning through shot-hole\\nand pane;\\nAnd O said the page, on the shelterless\\nwold\\nLord Harold is wandering in darkness and\\ncold\\nWhat though he was stubborn and wayward\\nand wild,\\nHe endured me because I was Ermen-\\ngarde s child,\\nAnd often from dawn till the set of the sun\\nIn the chase by his stirrup unbidden I run;\\nI would I were older, and knighthood could\\nbear, 2 10\\nI would soon quit the banks of the Tyne\\nand the Wear:\\nFor my mother s command with her last\\nparting breath\\nBade me follow her nursling in life and to\\ndeath.\\nIt pours and it thunders, it lightens amain,\\nAs if Lok the Destroyer had burst from\\nhis chain\\nAccursed by the church and expelled by\\nhis sire,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0406.jp2"}, "405": {"fulltext": "CANTO FIRST\\n375\\nNor Christian nor Dane give him shelter\\nor fire,\\nAnd this tempest what mortal may house-\\nless endure\\nUnaided, unmantled, he dies on the moor\\nWhate er comes of Gunnar, he tarries not\\nhere. 220\\nHe leapt from his couch and he grasped to\\nhis spear,\\nSought the hall of the feast. Undisturbed\\nby his tread,\\nThe wassailers slept fast as the sleep of\\nthe dead:\\nUngrateful and bestial his anger broke\\nforth,\\n4 To forget mid your goblets the pride of\\nthe North\\nAnd you, ye cowled priests who have plenty\\nin store,\\nMust give Gunnar for ransom a palfrey and\\nore.\\nXVI\\nThen, heeding full little of ban or of curse,\\nHe has seized on the Prior of Jorvaux s\\npurse:\\nSaint Mene holt s Abbot next morning has\\nmissed 230\\nHis mantle, deep furred from the cape to\\nthe wrist:\\nThe seneschal s keys from his belt he has\\nta en\\nWell drenched on that eve was old Hilde-\\nbrand s brain\\nTo the stable-yard he made his way\\nAnd mounted the bishop s palfrey gay,\\nCastle and hamlet behind him has cast\\nAnd right on his way to the moorland has\\nSore snorted the palfrey, unused to face\\nA weather so wild at so rash a pace;\\nSo long he snorted, so long he neighed, 240\\nThere answered a steed that was bound\\nbeside,\\nAnd the red flash of lightning showed there\\nwhere lay\\nHis master, Lord Harold, outstretched on\\nthe clay.\\nUp he started and thundered out, Stand\\nAnd raised the club in his deadly hand.\\nThe flaxen-haired Gunnar his purpose told,\\nShowed the palfrey and proffered the gold.\\nBack, back, and home, thou simple boy\\nThou canst not share my grief or joy:\\nHave I not marked thee wail and cry 250\\nWhen thou hast seen a sparrow die\\nAnd canst thou, as my follower should,\\nWade ankle-deep through foeman s blood,\\nDare mortal and immortal foe,\\nThe gods above, the fiends below,\\nAnd man on earth, more hateful still,\\nThe very fountain-head of ill\\nDesperate of life and careless of death,\\nLover of bloodshed and slaughter and\\nscathe,\\nSuch must thou be with me to roam, 260\\nAnd such thou canst not be back, and\\nhome\\nXVIII\\nYoung Gunnar shook like an aspen bough,\\nAs he heard the harsh voice and beheld\\nthe dark brow,\\nAnd half he repented his purpose and vow.\\nBut now to draw back were bootless shame,\\nAnd he loved his master, so urged his\\nclaim\\nAlas if my arm and my courage be\\nweak,\\nBear with me awhile for old Ermengarde s\\nsake\\nNor deem so lightly of Gunnar s faith\\nAs to fear he would break it for peril of\\ndeath. 270\\nHave I not risked it to fetch thee this\\ngold,\\nThis surcoat and mantle to fence thee from\\ncold?\\nAnd, did I bear a baser mind,\\nWhat lot remains if I stay behind\\nThe priests revenge, thy father s wrath,\\nA dungeon, and a shameful death.\\nWith gentler look Lord Harold eyed\\nThe page, then turned his head aside;\\nAnd either a tear did his eyelash stain,\\nOr it caught a drop of the passing rain. 280\\nArt thou an outcast, then quoth he\\nThe meeter page to follow me.\\nT were bootless to tell what climes they\\nsought,\\nVentures achieved, and battles fought;\\nHow oft with few, how oft alone,\\nFierce Harold s arm the field hath won.\\nMen swore his eye, that flashed so red\\nWhen each other glance was quenched with\\ndread,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0407.jp2"}, "406": {"fulltext": "37^\\nHAROLD THE DAUNTLESS\\nBore oft a light of deadly flame\\nThat ne er from mortal courage came. 290\\nThose limbs so strong, that mood so stern,\\nThat loved the couch of heath and fern,\\nAfar from hamlet, tower, and town,\\nMore than to rest on driven down;\\nThat stubborn frame, that sullen mood,\\nMen deemed must come of aught but good;\\nAnd they whispered the great Master Fiend\\nwas at one\\nWith Harold the Dauntless, Count Witi-\\nkind s son.\\nXX\\nYears after years had gone and fled,\\nThe good old prelate lies lapped in lead 300\\nIn the chapel still is shown\\nHis sculptured form on a marble stone,\\nWith staff and ring and scapulaire,\\nAnd folded hands in the act of prayer.\\nSaint Cuthbert s mitre is resting now\\nOn the haughty Saxon, bold Aldingar s\\nbrow;\\nThe power of his crosier he loved to ex-\\ntend\\nO er whatever would break or whatever\\nwould bend;\\nAnd now hath he clothed him in cope and\\nin pall,\\nAnd the Chapter of Durham has met at his\\ncall. 3 10\\nAnd hear ye not, brethren, the proud\\nbishop said,\\nThat our vassal, the Danish Count Witi-\\nkind s dead\\nAll his gold and his goods hath he given\\nTo holy Church for the love of Heaven,\\nAnd hath founded a chantry with stipend\\nand dole\\nThat priests and that beadsmen may pray\\nfor his soul:\\nHarold his son is wandering abroad,\\nDreaded by man and abhorred by God;\\nMeet it is not that such should heir\\nThe lands of the Church on the Tyne and\\nthe Wear, 320\\nAnd at her pleasure her hallowed hands\\nMay now resume these wealthy lands.\\nXXI\\nAnswered good Eustace, a canon old,\\nHarold is tameless and furious and bold\\nEver Renown blows a note of fame\\nAnd a note of fear when she sounds his\\nMuch of bloodshed and much of scathe\\nHave been their lot who have waked his\\nwrath.\\nLeave him these lands and lordships still,\\nHeaven in its hour may change his will; 330\\nBut if reft of gold and of living bare,\\nAn evil counsellor is despair.\\nMore had he said, but the prelate frowned,\\nAnd murmured his brethren who sate\\naround,\\nAnd with one consent have they given their\\ndoom\\nThat the Church should the lands of Saint\\nCuthbert resume.\\nSo willed the prelate and canon and dean\\nGave to his judgment their loud amen.\\nCANTO SECOND\\nT IS merry in greenwood thus runs the\\nold lay\\nIn the gladsome month of lively May,\\nWhen the wild birds song on stem and\\nspray\\nInvites to forest bower;\\nThen rears the ash his airy crest,\\nThen shines the birch in silver vest,\\nAnd the beech in glistening leaves is drest,\\nAnd dark between shows the oak s proud\\nbreast\\nLike a chieftain s frowning tower;\\nThough a thousand branches join their\\nscreen, 10\\nYet the broken sunbeams glance between\\nAnd tip the leaves with lighter green,\\nWith brighter tints the flower:\\nDull is the heart that loves not then\\nThe deep recess of the wildwood glen,\\nWhere roe and red-deer find sheltering den\\nWhen the sun is in his power.\\nLess merry perchance is the fading leaf\\nThat follows so soon on the gathered sheaf\\nWhen the greenwood loses the name; 20\\nSilent is then the forest bound,\\nSave the redbreast s note and the rustling\\nsound\\nOf frost nipt leaves that are dropping\\nround,\\nOr the deep-mouthed cry of the distant\\nhound\\nThat opens on his game:", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0408.jp2"}, "407": {"fulltext": "CANTO SECOND\\n377\\nYet then too I love the forest wide,\\nWhether the sun in splendor ride\\nAnd gild its many-colored side,\\nOr whether the soft and silvery haze 29\\nIn vapory folds o er the landscape strays,\\nAnd half involves the woodland maze,\\nLike an early widow s veil,\\nWhere wimpling tissue from the gaze\\nThe form half hides and half betrays\\nOf beauty wan and pale.\\nill\\nFair Metelill was a woodland maid,\\nHer father a rover of greenwood shade,\\nBy forest statutes undismayed,\\nWho lived by bow and quiver;\\nWell known was Wulfstane s archery 40\\nBy merry Tyne both on moor and lea,\\nThrough wooded Weardale s glens so free,\\nWell beside Stanhope s wildwood tree,\\nAnd well on Ganlesse river.\\nYet free though he trespassed on wood-\\nland game,\\nMore known and more feared was the wiz-\\nard fame\\nOf Jutta of Rookhope, the Outlaw s dame;\\nFeared when she frowned was her eye of\\nflame,\\nMore feared when in wrath she laughed\\nFor then, t was said, more fatal true 50\\nTo its dread aim her spell-glance flew\\nThan when from Wulfstane s bended yew\\nSprung forth the gray-goose shaft.\\nIV\\nYet had this fierce and dreaded pair,\\nSo Heaven decreed, a daughter fair;\\nNone brighter crowned the bed,\\nIn Britain s bounds, of peer or prince,\\nNor hath perchance a lovelier since\\nIn this fair isle been bred.\\nAnd nought of fraud or ire or ill 60\\nWas known to gentle Metelill,\\nA simple maiden she;\\nThe spells in dimpled smile that lie,\\nAnd a downcast blush, and the darts that\\nfl y\\nWith the sidelong glance of a hazel eye,\\nWere her arms and witchery.\\nSo young, so simple was she yet,\\nShe scarce could childhood s joys forget,\\nAnd still she loved, in secret set\\nBeneath the greenwood tree, 70\\nTo plait the rushy coronet\\nAnd braid with flowers her locks of jet,\\nAs when in infancy\\nYet could that heart so simple prove\\nThe early dawn of stealing love:\\nAh gentle maid, beware\\nThe power who, now so mild a guest,\\nGives dangerous yet delicious zest\\nTo the calm pleasures of thy breast,\\nWill soon, a tyrant o er the rest,\\nLet none his empire share.\\nOne morn in kirtle green arrayed\\nDeep in the wood the maiden strayed,\\nAnd where a fountain sprung\\nShe sate her down unseen to thread\\nThe scarlet berry s mimic braid,\\nAnd while the beads she strung,\\nLike the blithe lark whose carol gay\\nGives a good-morrow to the day,\\nSo lightsomely she sung. 90\\nVI\\nLord William was born in gilded bower,\\nThe heir of Wilton s lofty tower;\\nYet better loves Lord William now\\nTo roam beneath wild Rookhope s brow;\\nAnd William has lived where ladies fair\\nWith gawds and jewels deck their hair,\\nYet better loves the dew-drops still\\nThat pearl the locks of Metelill.\\nThe pious palmer loves, iwis, 99\\nSaint Cuthbert s hallowed beads to kiss;\\nBut I, though simple girl I be,\\nMight have such homage paid to me\\nFor did Lord William see me suit\\nThis necklace of the bramble s fruit,\\nHe fain but must not have his will\\nWould kiss the beads of Metelill.\\nMy nurse has told me many a tale,\\nHow vows of love are weak and frail\\nMy mother says that courtly youth\\nBy rustic maid means seldom sooth. no\\nWhat should they mean it cannot be\\nThat such a warning s meant for me,\\nFor nought O, nought of fraud or ill\\nCan William mean to Metelill\\nSudden she stops and starts to feel\\nA weighty hand, a glove of steel,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0409.jp2"}, "408": {"fulltext": "378\\nHAROLD THE DAUNTLESS\\nUpon her shrinking shoulders laid;\\nFearful she turned, and saw dismayed\\nA knight in plate and mail arrayed,\\nHis crest and bearing worn and frayed, 120\\nHis surcoat soiled and riven,\\nFormed like that giant race of yore\\nWhose long-continued crimes outwore\\nThe sufferance of Heaven.\\nStern accents made his pleasure known,\\nThough then he used his gentlest tone:\\nMaiden, he said, sing forth thy glee.\\nStart not sing on it pleases me.\\nVIII\\nSecured within his powerful hold,\\nTo bend her knee, her hands to fold, 130\\nWas all the maiden might;\\nAnd O, forgive, she faintly said,\\nThe terrors of a simple maid,\\nIf thou art mortal wight\\nBut if of such strange tales are told\\nUnearthly warrior of the wold,\\nThou comest to chide mine accents bold,\\nMy mother, Jutta, knows the spell\\nAt noon and midnight pleasing well\\nThe disembodied ear; 140\\nO, let her powerful charms atone\\nFor aught my rashness may have done,\\nAnd cease thy grasp of fear.\\nThen laughed the knight his laughter s\\nsound\\nHalf in the hollow helmet drowned;\\nHis barred visor then he raised,\\nAnd steady on the maiden gazed.\\nHe smoothed his brows, as best he might,\\nTo the dread calm of autumn night,\\nWhen sinks the tempest roar, 150\\nYet still the cautious fishers eye\\nThe clouds and fear the gloomy sky,\\nAnd haul their barks on shore.\\nDamsel, he said, be wise, and learn\\nMatters of weight and deep concern:\\nFrom distant realms I come,\\nAnd wanderer long at length have planned\\nIn this my native Northern land\\nTo seek myself a home.\\nNor that alone a mate I seek 160\\nShe must be gentle, soft, and meek,\\nNo lordly dame for me\\nMyself am something rough of mood\\nAnd feel the fire of royal blood,\\nAnd therefore do not hold it good\\nTo match in my degree.\\nThen, since coy maidens say my face\\nIs harsh, my form devoid of grace,\\nFor a fair lineage to provide\\nT is meet that my selected bride\\nIn lineaments be fair;\\nI love thine well till now I ne er\\nLooked patient on a face of fear,\\nBut now that tremulous sob and tear\\nBecome thy beauty rare.\\nOne kiss nay, damsel, coy it not\\nAnd now go seek thy parents cot,\\nAnd say a bridegroom soon I come\\nTo woo my love and bear her home.\\nHome sprung the maid without a pause, 180\\nAs leveret scaped from greyhound s jaws;\\nBut still she locked, howe er distressed,\\nThe secret in her boding breast;\\nDreading her sire, who oft forbade\\nHer steps should stray to distant glade.\\nNight came to her accustomed nook\\nHer distaff aged Jutta took,\\nAnd by the lamp s imperfect glow\\nRough Wulfstane trimmed his shafts and\\nbow.\\nSudden and clamorous from the ground 190\\nUpstarted slumbering brach and hound;\\nLoud knocking next the lodge alarms\\nAnd Wulfstane snatches at his arms,\\nWhen open flew the yielding door\\nAnd that grim warrior pressed the floor.\\nXI\\nAll peace be here What none replie\\nDismiss your fears and your surprise.\\nT is I that maid hath told my tale,\\nOr, trembler, did thy courage fail\\nIt recks not it is I demand\\nFair Metelill in marriage band\\nHarold the Dauntless I, whose name\\nIs brave men s boast and caitiff s shame.\\nThe parents sought each other s eyes\\nWith awe, resentment, and surprise\\nWulfstane, to quarrel prompt, began\\nThe stranger s size and thews to scan;\\nBut as he scanned his courage sunk,\\nAnd from unequal strife he shrunk.\\nThen forth to blight and blemish flies\\nThe harmful curse from Jutta s eyes;\\nYet, fatal howsoe er, the spell\\nOn Harold innocently fell\\nAnd disappointment and amaze\\nWere in the witch s wildered gaze.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0410.jp2"}, "409": {"fulltext": "CANTO SECOND\\n379\\nXII\\nBut soon the wit of woman woke,\\nAnd to the warrior mild she spoke:\\nHer child was all too young. A toy,\\nThe refuge of a maiden coy.\\nAgain, A powerful baron s heir 220\\nClaims in her heart an interest fair.\\nA trifle whisper in his ear\\nThat Harold is a suitor here\\nBaffled at length she sought delay:\\nf Would not the knight till morning stay\\nLate was the hour he there might rest\\nTill morn, their lodge s honored guest.\\nSuch were her words her craft might\\ncast\\nHer honored guest should sleep his last:\\nNo, not to-night but soon, he swore, 230\\nHe would return, nor leave them more.\\nThe threshold then his huge stride crost,\\nAnd soon he was in darkness lost.\\nXIII\\nAppalled awhile the parents stood,\\nThen changed their fear to angry mood,\\nAnd foremost fell their words of ill\\nOn unresisting Metelill:\\nWas she not cautioned and forbid,\\nForewarned, implored, accused, and chid,\\nAnd must she still to greenwood roam 240\\nTo marshal such misfortune home\\nHence, minion to thy chamber hence\\nThere prudence learn and penitence.\\nShe went her lonely couch to steep\\nIn tears which absent lovers weep;\\nOr if she gained a troubled sleep,\\nFierce Harold s suit was still the theme\\nAnd terror of her feverish dream.\\nXIV\\nScarce was she gone, her dame and sire\\nUpon each other bent their ire; 250\\nA woodsman thou and hast a spear,\\nAnd couldst thou such an insult bear\\nSullen he said, A man contends\\nWith men, a witch with sprites and fiends;\\nNot to mere mortal wight belong\\nYon gloomy brow and frame so strong.\\nBut thou is this thy promise fair,\\nThat your Lord William, wealthy heir\\nTo Ulrick, Baron of Witton-le-Wear,\\nShould Metelill to altar bear 260\\nDo all the spells thou boast st as thine\\nServe but to slay some peasant s kine,\\nHis grain in autumn s storms to steep,\\nOr thorough fog and fen to sweep\\nAnd hag-ride some poor rustic s sleep\\nIs such mean mischief worth the fame\\nOf sorceress and witch s name\\nFame, which with all men s wish conspires,\\nWith thy deserts and my desires,\\nTo damn thy corpse to penal fires 270\\nOut on thee, witch aroint aroint\\nWhat now shall put thy schemes in joint\\nWhat save this trusty arrow s point,\\nFrom the dark dingle when it flies\\nAnd he who meets it gasps and dies\\nXV\\nStern she replied, I will not wage\\nWar with thy folly or thy rage\\nBut ere the morrow s sun be low,\\nWulfstane of Rookhope, thou shalt know\\nIf I can venge me on a foe. 280\\nBelieve the while that whatso er\\nI spoke in ire of bow and spear,\\nIt is not Harold s destiny\\nThe death of pilfered deer to die.\\nBut he, and thou, and yon pale moon\\nThat shall be yet more pallid soon,\\nBefore she sink behind the dell\\nThou, she, and Harold too, shall tell\\nWhat Jutta knows of charm or spell.\\nThus muttering, to the door she bent 290\\nHer wayward steps and forth she went,\\nAnd left alone the moody sire\\nTo cherish or to slake his ire.\\nFar faster than belonged to age\\nHas Jutta made her pilgrimage.\\nA priest has met her as she passed,\\nAnd crossed himself and stood aghast:\\nShe traced a hamlet not a cur\\nHis throat would ope, his foot would stir;\\nBy crouch, by trembling, and by groan, 300\\nThey made her hated presence known\\nBut when she trode the sable fell,\\nWere wilder sounds her way to tell,\\nFor far was heard the fox s yell,\\nThe black-cock waked and faintly crew,\\nScreamed o er the moss the scared curlew;\\nWhere o er the cataract the oak\\nLay slant, was heard the raven s croak;\\nThe mountain-cat which sought his prey\\nGlared, screamed, and started from her\\nway. 3 10\\nSuch music cheered her journey lone\\nTo the deep dell and rocking stone:\\nThere with unhallowed hymn of praise\\nShe called a god of heathen days.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0411.jp2"}, "410": {"fulltext": "3 8o\\nHAROLD THE DAUNTLESS\\nXVII\\nINVOCATION\\nFrom thy Pomeranian throne,\\nHewn in rock of living stone,\\nWhere, to thy godhead faithful yet,\\nBend Esthonian, Finn, and Lett,\\nAnd their swords in vengeance whet,\\nThat shall make thine altars wet, 320\\nWet and red for ages more\\nWith the Christian s hated gore,\\nHear me, Sovereign of the Rock\\nHear me, mighty Zernebock\\nMightiest of the mighty known,\\nHere thy wonders have been shown;\\nHundred tribes in various tongue\\nOft have here thy praises sung;\\nDown that stone with Runic seamed\\nHundred victims blood hath streamed 330\\nNow one woman comes alone\\nAnd but wets it with her own,\\nThe last, the feeblest of thy flock,\\nHear and be present, Zernebock\\nHark he comes the night-blast cold\\nWilder sweeps along the wold;\\nThe cloudless moon grows dark and dim,\\nAnd bristling hair and quaking limb\\nProclaim the Master Demon nigh,\\nThose who view his form shall die 340\\nLo I stoop and veil my head;\\nThou who ridest the tempest dread,\\nShaking hill and rending oak\\nSpare me spare me, Zernebock\\nHe comes not yet Shall cold delay\\nThy votaress at her need repay\\nThou shall I call thee god or fiend\\nLet others on thy mood attend\\nWith prayer and ritual Jutta s arms\\nAre necromantic words and charms; 350\\nMine is the spell that uttered once\\nShall wake thy Master from his trance,\\nShake his red mansion-house of pain\\nAnd burst his seven times twisted\\nchain\\nSo com st thou ere the spell is spoke\\nI own thy presence, Zernebock.\\nDaughter of dust, the Deep Voice\\nsaid\\nShook while it spoke the vale for dread,\\nRocked on the base that massive stone,\\nThe Evil Deity to own, 36o\\nDaughter of dust not mine the power\\nThou seek st on Harold s fatal hour.\\nTwixt heaven and hell there is a strife\\nWaged for his soul and for his life,\\nAnd fain would we the combat win\\nAnd snatch him in his hour of sin.\\nThere is a star now rising red\\nThat threats him with an influence dread\\nWoman, thine arts of malice whet,\\nTo use the space before it set. 37 o\\nInvolve him with the church in strife,\\nPush on adventurous chance his life;\\nOurself will in the hour of need,\\nAs best we may, thy counsels speed.\\nSo ceased the Voice; for seven league:\\nround\\nEach hamlet started at the sound,\\nBut slept again as slowly died\\nIts thunders on the hill s brown side.\\nXIX\\nAnd is this all, said Jutta stern,\\nThat thou canst teach and I can learn 38.\\nHence to the land of fog and waste,\\nThere fittest is thine influence placed,\\nThou powerless, sluggish Deity\\nBut ne er shall Briton bend the knee\\nAgain before so poor a god.\\nShe struck the altar with her rod;\\nSlight was the touch as when at need\\nA damsel stirs her tardy steed;\\nBut to the blow the stone gave place,\\nAnd, starting from its balanced base, 390\\nRolled thundering down the moonlight\\ndell,\\nRe-echoed moorland, rock, and fell;\\nInto the moonlight tarn it dashed,\\nTheir shores the sounding surges lashed,\\nAnd there was ripple, rage, and foam;\\nBut on that lake, so dark and lone,\\nPlacid and pale the moonbeam shone\\nAs Jutta hied her home.\\nCANTO THIRD\\nGray towers of Durham there was\\nonce a time\\nI viewed your battlements with such\\nvague hope\\nAs brightens life in its first dawning\\nprime", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0412.jp2"}, "411": {"fulltext": "CANTO THIRD\\n38i\\nNot that e en then came within fancy s\\nscope\\nA vision vain of mitre, throne, or cope;\\nYet, gazing on the venerable hall,\\nHer Mattering dreams would in perspec-\\ntive ope\\nSome reverend room, some prebendary s\\nstall,\\nAnd thus Hope me deceived as she de-\\nceiveth all.\\nWell yet I love thy mixed and massive\\npiles, 10\\nHalf church of God, half castle gainst\\nthe Scot,\\nAnd long to roam these venerable aisles,\\nWith records stored of deeds long since\\nforgot\\nThere might I share my Surtees happier\\nlot,\\nWho leaves at will his patrimonial field\\nTo ransack every crypt and hallowed\\nspot,\\nAnd from oblivion rend the spoils they\\nyield,\\nRestoring priestly chant and clang of\\nknightly shield.\\nVain is the wish since other cares de-\\nmand\\nEach vacant hour, and in another\\nclime 20\\nBut still that northern harp invites my\\nhand\\nWhich tells the wonder of thine earlier\\ntime;\\nAnd fain its numbers would I now com-\\nmand\\nTo paint the beauties of that dawning\\nfair\\nWhen Harold, gazing from its lofty\\nstand\\nUpon the western heights of Beaure-\\npaire,\\nSaw Saxon Eadmer s towers begirt by\\nwinding Wear.\\nFair on the half-seen streams the sun-\\nbeams danced,\\nBetraying it beneath the woodland bank,\\nAnd fair between the Gothic turrets\\nglanced 3 o\\nBroad lights, and shadows fell on front\\nand flank,\\nWhere tower and buttress rose in mar-\\ntial rank,\\nAnd girdled in the massive donjon keep,\\nAnd from their circuit pealed o er bush\\nand bank\\nThe matin bell with summons long and\\ndeep,\\nAnd echo answered still with long-resound-\\ning sweep.\\nin\\nThe morning mists rose from the ground,\\nEach merry bird awakened round\\nAs if in revelry;\\nAfar the bugle s clanging sound 40\\nCalled to the chase the lagging hound;\\nThe gale breathed soft and free,\\nAnd seemed to linger on its way\\nTo catch fresh odors from the spray,\\nAnd waved it in its wanton play\\nSo light and gamesomely.\\nThe scenes which morning beams reveal,\\nIts sounds to hear, its gales to feel\\nIn all their fragrance round him steal,\\nIt melted Harold s heart of steel, 50\\nAnd, hardly wotting why,\\nHe doffed his helmet s gloomy pride\\nAnd hung it on a tree beside,\\nLaid mace and falchion by,\\nAnd on the greensward sate him down\\nAnd from his dark habitual frown\\nRelaxed his rugged brow\\nWhoever hath the doubtful task\\nFrom that stern Dane a boon to ask\\nWere wise to ask it now. 60\\nHis place beside young Gunnar took\\nAnd marked his master s softening look,\\nAnd in his eye s dark mirror spied\\nThe gloom of stormy thoughts subside,\\nAnd cautious watched the fittest tide\\nTo speak a warning word.\\nSo when the torrent s billows shrink,\\nThe timid pilgrim on the brink\\nWaits long to see them wave and sink\\nEre he dare brave the ford, 70\\nAnd often after doubtful pause\\nHis step advances or withdraws\\nFearful to move the slumbering ire\\nOf his stern lord, thus stood the squire\\nTill Harold raised his eye,\\nThat glanced as when athwart the shroud\\nOf the dispersing tempest-cloud\\nThe bursting sunbeams fly.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0413.jp2"}, "412": {"fulltext": "382\\nHAROLD THE DAUNTLESS\\nArouse thee, son of Ermengarde,\\nOffspring of prophetess and bard 80\\nTake harp and greet this lovely prime\\nWith some high strain of Runic rhyme,\\nStrong, deep, and powerful Peal it round\\nLike that loud bell s sonorous sound,\\nYet wild by fits, as when the lay\\nOf bird and bugle hail the day.\\nSuch was my grandsire Eric s sport\\nWhen dawn gleamed on his martial court.\\nHeymar the Scald with harp s high sound\\nSummoned the chiefs who slept around; 90\\nCouched on the spoils of wolf and bear,\\nThey roused like lions from their lair,\\nThen rushed in emulation forth\\nTo enhance the glories of the north.\\nProud Eric, mightiest of thy race,\\nWhere is thy shadowy resting-place\\nIn wild Valhalla hast thou quaffed\\nFrom foeman s skull metheglin draught,\\nOr wanderest where thy cairn was piled\\nTo frown o er oceans wide and wild 100\\nOr have the milder Christians given\\nThy refuge in their peaceful heaven\\nWhere er thou art, to thee are known\\nOur toils endured, our trophies won,\\nOur wars, our wanderings, and our woes.\\nHe ceased, and Gunnar s song arose.\\nVI\\nHawk and osprey screamed for joy\\nO er the beetling cliffs of Hoy,\\nCrimson foam the beach o erspread,\\nThe heath was dyed with darker red,\\nWhen o er Eric, Inguar s son,\\nDane and Northman piled the stone,\\nSinging wild the war-song stern,\\nRest thee, Dweller of the Cairn\\nWhere eddying currents foam and boil\\nBy Bersa s burgh and Grsemsay s isle,\\nThe seaman sees a martial form\\nHalf-mingled with the mist and storm.\\nIn anxious awe he bears away\\nTo moor his bark in Stromna s bay,\\nAnd murmurs from the bounding stern,\\nRest thee, Dweller of the Cairn\\nWhat cares disturb the mighty dead\\nEach honored rite was duly paid;\\nNo daring hand thy helm unlaced,\\nThy sword, thy shield, were near thee\\nplaced;\\nThy flinty couch no tear profaned:\\nWithout, with hostile blood twas stained;\\nWithin, t was lined with moss and fern,\\nThen rest thee, Dweller of the Cairn 130\\nHe may not rest: from realms afar\\nComes voice of battle and of war,\\nOf conquest wrought with bloody hand\\nOn Carmel s cliffs and Jordan s strand,\\nWhen Odin s warlike son could daunt\\nThe turbaned race of Terinagaunt.\\nVII\\nPeace, said the knight, the noble Scald\\nOur warlike fathers deeds recalled,\\nBut never strove to soothe the son\\nWith tales of what himself had done. 140\\nAt Odin s board the bard sits high\\nWhose harp ne er stooped to flattery,\\nBut highest he whose daring lay\\nHath dared unwf lcome truths to say.\\nWith doubtful smile young Gunnar eyed\\nHis master s looks and nought replied\\nBut well that smile his master led\\nTo construe what he left unsaid.\\nIs it to me, thou timid youth, i 49\\nThou fear st to speak unwelcome truth\\nMy soul no more thy censure grieves\\nThan frosts rob laurels of their leaves.\\nSay on and yet beware the rude\\nAnd wild distemper of my blood;\\nLoath were I that mine ire should wrong\\nThe youth that bore my shield so long,\\nAnd who, in service constant still,\\nThough weak in frame, art strong in\\nwill.\\nO quoth the page, even there de-\\npends 159\\nMy counsel there my warning tends\\nOft seems as of my master s breast\\nSome demon were the sudden guest;\\nThen at the first misconstrued word\\nHis hand is on the mace and sword,\\nFrom her firm seat his wisdom driven,\\nHis life to countless dangers given.\\nO, would that Gunnar could suffice\\nTo be the fiend s last sacrifice,\\nSo that, when glutted with my gore,\\nHe fled and tempted thee no more v t\\nVIII\\nThen waved his hand and shook his head\\nThe impatient Dane while thus he said", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0414.jp2"}, "413": {"fulltext": "CANTO THIRD\\n383\\nProfane not, youth it is not thine\\nTo judge the spirit of our line\\nThe bold Berserkar s rage divine,\\nThrough whose inspiring deeds are\\nwrought\\nPast human strength and human thought.\\nWhen full upon his gloomy soul\\nThe champion feels the influence roll,\\nHe swims the lake, he leaps the wall 180\\nHeeds not the depth, nor plumbs the\\nfall\\nUnshielded, mail-less, on he goes\\nSingly against a host of foes;\\nTheir spears he holds like withered reeds,\\nTheir mail like maiden s silken weeds\\nOne gainst a hundred will he strive,\\nTake countless wounds and yet survive.\\nThen rush the eagles to his cry\\nOf slaughter and of victory,\\nAnd blood he quaffs like Odin s bowl, 190\\nDeep drinks his sword, deep drinks his\\nsoul;\\nAnd all that meet him in his ire\\nHe gives to ruin, rout, and fire\\nThen, like gorged lion, seeks some den\\nAnd couches till he s man agen.\\nThou know st the signs of look and limb\\nWhen gins that rage to overbrim\\nThou know st when I am moved and\\nwhy;\\nAnd when thou see st me roll mine eye,\\nSet my teeth thus, and stamp my foot, 200\\nRegard thy safety and be mute;\\nBut else speak boldly out whate er\\nIs fitting that a knight should hear.\\nI love thee, youth. Thy lay has power\\nUpon my dark and sullen hour\\nSo Christian monks are wont to say\\nDemons of old were charmed away;\\nThen fear not I will rashly deem\\n111 of thy speech, whate er the theme. 209\\nIX\\nAs down some strait in doubt and dread\\nThe watchful pilot drops the lead,\\nAnd, cautious in the midst to steer,\\nThe shoaling channel sounds with fear;\\nSo, lest on dangerous ground he swerved,\\nThe page his master s brow observed,\\nPausing at intervals to fling\\nHis hand on the melodious string,\\nAnd to his moody breast apply\\nThe soothing charm of harmony,\\nWhile hinted half, and half exprest, 220\\nThis warning song conveyed the rest.\\n111 fares the bark with tackle riven,\\nAnd ill when on the breakers driven,\\n111 when the storm-sprite shrieks in air,\\nAnd the scared mermaid tears her hair;\\nBut worse when on her helm the hand\\nOf some false traitor holds command.\\n111 fares the fainting palmer, placed\\nMid Hebron s rocks or Rana s waste,\\n111 when the scorching sun is high, 230\\nAnd the expected font is dry,\\nWorse when his guide o er sand and heath,\\nThe barbarous Copt, has planned his death.\\n111 fares the knight with buckler cleft,\\nAnd ill when of his helm bereft,\\n111 when his steed to earth is flung,\\nOr from his grasp his falchion wrung;\\nBut worse, of instant ruin token,\\nWhen he lists rede by woman spoken.\\nHow now, fond boy\\nill,\\nSaid Harold, of fair Metelill\\nCanst thou think\\n240\\nShe may be fair, the page replied\\nAs through the strings he ranged,\\nShe may be fair; but yet, he cried,\\nAnd then the strain he changed,\\n1 She may be fair, he sang, but yet\\nFar fairer have I seen\\nThan she, for all her locks of jet\\nAnd eyes so dark and sheen.\\nWere I a Danish knight in arms, 250\\nAs one day I may be,\\nMy heart should own no foreign charms\\nA Danish maid for me\\nI love my father s northern land,\\nWhere the dark pine-trees grow,\\nAnd the bold Baltic s echoing strand\\nLooks o er each grassy oe.\\nI love to mark the lingering sun,\\nFrom Denmark loath to go,\\nAnd leaving on the billows bright, 260\\nTo cheer the short-lived summer night,\\nA path of ruddy glow.\\nBut most the northern maid I love,\\nWith breast like Denmark s snow", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0415.jp2"}, "414": {"fulltext": "3^4\\nHAROLD THE DAUNTLESS\\nAnd form as fair as Denmark s pine,\\nWho loves with purple heath to twine\\nHer locks of sunny glow;\\nAnd sweetly blend that shade of gold\\nWith the cheek s rosy hue,\\nAnd Faith might for her mirror hold 270\\nThat eye of matchless blue.\\nT is hers the manly sports to love\\nThat southern maidens fear,\\nTo bend the bow by stream and grove,\\nAnd lift the hunter s spear.\\nShe can her chosen champion s flight\\nWith eye undazzled see,\\nClasp him victorious from the strife,\\nOr on his corpse yield up her life,\\nA Danish maid for me 280\\nXI\\nThen smiled the Dane Thou canst so well,\\nThe virtues of our maidens tell,\\nHalf could I wish my choice had been\\nBlue eyes, and hair of golden sheen,\\nAnd lofty soul; yet what of ill\\nHast thou to charge on Metelill\\ni Nothing on her, young Gunnar said,\\n1 But her base sire s ignoble trade.\\nHer mother too the general fame\\nHath given to Jutta evil name, 290\\nAnd in her gray eye is a flame\\nArt cannot hide nor fear can tame.\\nThat sordid woodman s peasant cot\\nTwice have thine honored footsteps sought,\\nAnd twice returned with such ill rede\\nAs sent thee on some desperate deed.\\nXII\\nThou errest Jutta wisely said,\\nHe that comes suitor to a maid,\\nEre linked in marriage, should provide\\nLands and a dwelling for his bride 300\\nMy father s by the Tyne and Wear\\nI have reclaimed. O, all too dear\\nAnd all too dangerous the prize,\\nE en were it won, young Gunnar cries;\\nAnd then this Jutta s fresh device,\\nThat thou shouldst seek, a heathen Dane,\\nFrom Durham s priests a boon to gain\\nWhen thou hast left their vassals slain\\nIn their own halls Flashed Harold s\\neye,\\nThundered his voice False page, you\\nlie 310\\nThe castle, hall and tower, is mine,\\nBuilt by old Witikind on Tyne.\\nThe wild-cat will defend his den,\\nFights for her nest the timid wren;\\nAnd think st thou I 11 forego my right\\nFor dread of monk or monkish knight\\nUp and away, that deepening bell\\nDoth of the bishop s conclave tell.\\nThither will I in manner due,\\nAs Jutta bade, my claim to sue; 32*\\nAnd if to right me they are loath,\\nThen woe to church and chapter both\\nNow shift the scene and let the curtain fall.\\nAnd our next entry be Saint Cuthbert s hall.\\nCANTO FOURTH\\nFull many a bard hath sung the solemn\\ngloom\\nOf the long Gothic aisle and stone-ribbed\\nroof,\\nO er-canopying shrine and gorgeous tomb,\\nCarved screen, and altar glimmering far\\naloof\\nAnd blending with the shade a match-\\nless proof\\nOf high devotion, which hath now waxed\\ncold;\\nYet legends say that Luxury s brute hoof\\nIntruded oft within such sacred fold,\\nLike step of Bel s false priest tracked in\\nhis fane of old.\\nWell pleased am I, howe er, that when\\nthe rout 10\\nOf our rude neighbors whilome deigned\\nto come,\\nUncalled and eke unwelcome, to sweep out\\nAnd cleanse our chancel from the rags of\\nRome,\\nThey spoke not on our ancient fane the\\ndoom\\nTo which their bigot zeal gave o er their\\nown,\\nBut spared the martyred saint and storied\\ntomb,\\nThough papal miracles had graced the\\nstone,\\nAnd though the aisles still loved the organ s\\nswelling tone.\\nAnd deem not, though t is now my part\\nto paint\\nA prelate swayed by love of power and\\ngold, 20", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0416.jp2"}, "415": {"fulltext": "CANTO FOURTH\\n385\\nThat all who wore the mitre of our Saint\\nLike to ambitious Aldingar I hold;\\nSince both in modern times and days of\\nold\\nIt sate on those whose virtues might\\natone\\nTheir predecessors frailties trebly told:\\nMatthew and Morton we as such may\\nown\\nAnd such if fame speak truth the\\nhonored Barrington.\\nII\\nBut now to earlier and to ruder times,\\nAs subject meet, I tune my rugged\\nrhymes, 29\\nTelling how fairly the chapter was met,\\nAnd rood and books in seemly order set;\\nHuge brass-clasped volumes which the\\nhand\\nOf studious priest but rarely scanned,\\nNow on fair carved desk displayed,\\nT was theirs the solemn scene to aid.\\nO erhead with many a scutcheon graced\\nAnd quaint devices interlaced,\\nA labyrinth of crossing rows,\\nThe roof in lessening arches shows;\\nBeneath its shade placed proud and\\nhigh 40\\nWith footstool and with canopy,\\nSate Aldingar and prelate ne er\\nMore haughty graced Saint Cuthbert s\\nchair;\\nCanons and deacons were placed below,\\nIn due degree and lengthened row.\\nUnmoved and silent each sat there,\\nLike image in his oaken chair;\\nNor head nor hand nor foot they stirred,\\nNor lock of hair nor tress of beard;\\nAnd of their eyes severe alone 50\\nThe twinkle showed they were not stone.\\nIll\\nThe prelate was to speech addressed,\\nEach head sunk reverent on each breast;\\nBut ere his voice was heard without\\nArose a wild tumultuous shout,\\nOffspring of wonder mixed with fear,\\nSuch as in crowded streets we hear\\nHailing the flames that, bursting out,\\nAttract yet scare the rabble rout.\\nEre it had ceased a giant hand 60\\nShook oaken door and iron band\\nTill oak and iron both gave way,\\nClashed the long bolts, the hinges bray,\\nAnd, ere upon angel or saint they can\\ncall,\\nStands Harold the Dauntless in midst of\\nthe hall.\\nIV\\nNow save ye, my masters, both rocket and\\nrood,\\nFrom bishop with mitre to deacon with\\nhood\\nFor here stands Count Harold, old Witi-\\nkind s son,\\nCome to sue for the lands which his ances-\\ntors won.\\nThe prelate looked round him with sore\\ntroubled eye, 70\\nUnwilling to grant yet afraid to deny;\\nWhile each canon and deacon who heard\\nthe Dane speak,\\nTo be safely at home would have fasted a\\nweek:\\nThen Aldingar roused him and answered\\nagain,\\nThou suest for a boon which thou canst\\nnot obtain;\\nThe Church hath no fiefs for an unchris-\\ntened Dane.\\nThy father was wise, and his treasure hath\\ngiven\\nThat the priests of a chantry might hymn\\nhim to heaven;\\nAnd the fiefs which whilom e he possessed\\nas his due\\nHave lapsed to the Church, and been\\ngranted anew 80\\nTo Anthony Conyers and Alberic Vere,\\nFor the service Saint Cuthbert s blest ban-\\nner to bear\\nWhen the bands of the North come to foray\\nthe Wear;\\nThen disturb not our conclave with wran-\\ngling or blame,\\nBut in peace and in patience pass hence as\\nye came.\\nLoud laughed the stern Pagan, They re\\nfree from the care\\nOf fief and of service, both Conyers and\\nVere,\\nSix feet of your chancel is all they will\\nneed,\\nA buckler of stone and a corselet of lead.\\nHo, Gunnar the tokens and, sev-\\nered anew, 90", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0417.jp2"}, "416": {"fulltext": "3 86\\nHAROLD THE DAUNTLESS\\nA head and a hand on the altar he threw.\\nThen shuddered with terror both canon\\nand monk,\\nThey knew the glazed eye and the counte-\\nnance shrunk,\\nAnd of Anthony Conyers the half-grizzled\\nhair,\\nAnd the scar on the hand of Sir Alberic\\nVere.\\nThere was not a churchman or priest that\\nwas there\\nBut grew pale at the sight and betook him\\nto prayer.\\nVI\\nCount Harold laughed at their looks of\\nfear:\\nWas this the hand should your banner\\nbear 99\\nWas that the head should wear the casque\\nIn battle at the Church s task\\nWas it to such you gave the place\\nOf Harold with the heavy mace\\nFind me between the Wear and Tyne\\nA knight will wield this club of mine,\\nGive him my fiefs, and I will say\\nThere s wit beneath the cowl of gray.\\nHe raised it, rough with many a stain\\nCaught from crushed skull and spouting\\nbrain\\nHe wheeled it that it shrilly sung no\\nAnd the aisles echoed as it swung,\\nThen dashed it down with sheer descent\\nAnd split King Osric s monument.\\nHow like ye this music How trow ye\\nthe hand\\nThat can wield such a mace may be reft of\\nits land\\nNo answer I spare ye a space to agree,\\nAnd Saint Cuthbert inspire you, a saint if\\nhe be.\\nTen strides through your chancel, ten\\nstrokes on your bell,\\nAnd again I am with you grave fathers,\\nfarewell.\\nVII\\nHe turned from their presence, he clashed\\nthe oak door, 120\\nAnd the clang of his stride died away on\\nthe floor;\\nAnd his head from his bosom the prelate\\nuprears\\nWith a ghost-seer s look when the ghost\\ndisappears:\\nYe Priests of Saint Cuthbert, now give\\nme your rede,\\nFor never of counsel had bishop more\\nneed\\nWere the arch-fiend incarnate in flesh and\\nin bone,\\nThe language, the look, and the laugh were\\nhis own.\\nIn the bounds of Saint Cuthbert there is\\nnot a knight\\nDare confront in our quarrel yon goblin in\\nfight;\\nThen rede me aright to his claim to\\nreply, 130.\\nT is unlawful to grant and t is death to\\ndeny.\\nVIII\\nOn venison and malmsie that morning had\\nfed\\nThe Cellarer Vinsauf *t was thus that he\\nsaid:\\nDelay till to-morrow the Chapter s reply\\nLet the feast be spread fair and the wine\\nbe poured high:\\nIf he s mortal he drinks, if he drinks\\nhe is ours\\nHis bracelets of iron, his bed in oui\\ntowers.\\nThis man had a laughing eye,\\nTrust not, friends, when such you spy;\\nA beaker s depth he well could drain,\\nRevel, sport, and jest amain\\nThe haunch of the deer and the grape\\nbright dye\\nNever bard loved them better than I;\\nBut sooner than Vinsauf filled me m\\nwine,\\nPassed me his jest, and laughed at mine,\\nThough the buck were of Bearpark, of\\nBordeaux the vine,\\nWith the dullest hermit I d rather dine\\nOn an oaken cake and a draught of the\\nTyne.\\nIX\\nWalwayn the leech spoke next he knew\\nEach plant that loves the sun and dew, 150\\nBut special those whose juice can gain\\nDominion o er the blood and brain;\\nThe peasant who saw him by pale moon-\\nbeam\\nGathering such herbs by bank and stream\\nDeemed his thin form and soundless tread\\nWere those of wanderer from the dead", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0418.jp2"}, "417": {"fulltext": "CANTO FOURTH\\n387\\nVinsauf thy wine, he said, hath power,\\nOur gyves are heavy, strong our tower;\\nYet three drops from this flask of mine,\\nMore strong than dungeons, gyves, or\\nwine, 160\\nShall give him prison under ground\\nMore dark, more narrow, more profound.\\nShort rede, good rede, let Harold have\\nA dog s death and a heathen s grave.\\nI have lain on a sick man s bed,\\nWatching for hours for the leech s tread,\\nAs if I deemed that his presence alone\\nWere of power to bid my pain begone;\\nI have listed his words of comfort given,\\nAs if to oracles from heaven; 170\\nI have counted his steps from my chamber\\ndoor,\\nAnd blessed them when they were heard\\nno more\\nBut sooner than Walwayn my sick couch\\nshould nigh,\\nMy choice were by leech-craft unaided to\\ndie.\\nSuch service done in fervent zeal\\nThe Church may pardon and conceal,\\nThe doubtful prelate said, but ne er\\nThe counsel ere the act should hear.\\nAnselm of Jarrow, advise us now,\\nThe stamp of wisdom is on thy brow; 180\\nThy days, thy nights, in cloister pent,\\nAre still to mystic learning lent;\\nAnselm of Jarrow, in thee is my hope,\\nThou well mayst give counsel to prelate or\\npope.\\nXI\\nAnswered the prior, T is wisdom s use\\nStill to delay what we dare not refuse;\\nEre granting the boon he comes hither to\\nask,\\nShape for the giant gigantic task;\\nLet us see how a step so sounding can\\ntread\\nIn paths of darkness, danger, and dread; 190\\nHe may not, he will not, impugn our decree\\nThat calls but for proof of his chivalry;\\nAnd were Guy to return or Sir Bevis the\\nStrong,\\nOur wilds have adventure might cumber\\nthem long\\nThe Castle of Seven Shields Kind\\nAnselm, no more\\nThe step of the Pagan approaches the\\ndoor.\\nThe churchmen were hushed. In his\\nmantle of skin\\nWith his mace on his shoulder Count\\nHarold strode in.\\nThere was foam on his lips, there was fire\\nin his eye,\\nFor, chafed by attendance, his fury was\\nnigh. 200\\nHo Bishop, he said, dost thou grant\\nme my claim\\nOr must I assert it by falchion and flame\\nXII\\nOn thy suit, gallant Harold, the bishop\\nreplied,\\nIn accents which trembled, we may not\\ndecide\\nUntil proof of your strength and your valor\\nwe saw\\nT is not that we doubt them, but such is\\nthe law.\\nAnd would you, Sir Prelate, have Harold\\nmake sport\\nFor the cowls and the shavelings that herd\\nin thy court\\nSay what shall he do From the shrine\\nshall he tear\\nThe lead bier of thy patron and heave it in\\nair, 210\\nAnd through the long chancel make Cuth-\\nbert take wing\\nWith the speed of a bullet dismissed from\\nthe sling\\nNay, spare such probation, the cellarer\\nsaid,\\nFrom the mouth of our minstrels thy\\ntask shall be read.\\nWhile the wine sparkles high in the goblet\\nof gold\\nAnd the revel is loudest, thy task shall be\\ntold;\\nAnd thyself, gallant Harold, shall, hearing\\nit, tell\\nThat the bishop, his cowls, and his shave-\\nlings, meant well.\\nXIII\\nLoud revelled the guests and the goblets\\nloud rang,\\nBut louder the minstrel, Hugh Meneville,\\nsang; 220\\nAnd Harold, the hurry and pride of whose\\nsoul,\\nE en when verging to fury, owned music s\\ncontrol,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0419.jp2"}, "418": {"fulltext": "3 88\\nHAROLD THE DAUNTLESS\\nStill bent on the harper his broad sable eye,\\nAnd often untasted the goblet passed by;\\nThan wine or than wassail to him was more\\ndear\\nThe minstrel s high tale of enchantment to\\nhear;\\nAnd the bishop that day might of Vinsauf\\ncomplain\\nThat his art had but wasted his wine-casks\\nin vain.\\nXIV\\nTHE CASTLE OF THE SEVEN SHIELDS\\nA BALLAD\\nThe Druid Urien had daughters seven,\\nTheir skill could call the moon from hea-\\nven; 230\\nSo fair their forms and so high their fame\\nThat seven proud kings for their suitors\\nKing Mador and Rhys came from Powis\\nand Wales,\\nUnshorn was their hair and unpruned were\\ntheir nails\\nFrom Strath-Clyde was Ewain, and Ewain\\nwas lame,\\nAnd the red-bearded Donald from Gallo-\\nway came.\\nLot, King of Lodon, was hunchbacked from\\nyouth\\nDunmail of Cumbria had never a tooth;\\nBut Adolf of Bambrough, Northumber-\\nland s heir,\\nWas gay and was gallant, was young and\\nwas fair. 240\\nThere was strife mongst the sisters, for\\neach one would have\\nFor husband King Adolf, the gallant and\\nbrave\\nAnd envy bred hate, and hate urged them\\nto blows,\\nWhen the firm earth was cleft and the\\nArch-fiend arose\\nHe swore to the maidens their wish to ful-\\nfil\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nThey swore to the foe they would work by\\nhis will.\\nA spindle and distaff to each hath he given,\\nNow hearken my spell, said the Outcast\\nof heaven.\\nYe shall ply these spindles at midnight\\nhour, 249\\nAnd for every spindle shall rise a tower,\\nWhere the right shall be feeble, the wrong\\nshall have power,\\nAnd there shall ye dwell with your para-\\nBeneath the pale moonlight they sate on\\nthe wold,\\nAnd the rhymes which they chanted must\\nnever be told;\\nAnd as the black wool from the distaff they\\nsped,\\nWith blood from their bosom they mois-\\ntened the thread.\\nAs light danced the spindles beneath the\\ncold gleam,\\nThe castle arose like the birth of a\\ndream\\nThe seven towers ascended like mist from\\nthe ground,\\nSeven portals defend them, seven ditches\\nsurround. 260\\nWithin that dread castle seven monarchs\\nwere wed,\\nBut six of the seven ere the morning lay\\ndead;\\nWith their eyes all on fire and their dag-\\ngers all red,\\nSeven damsels surround the Northum-\\nbrian s bed.\\nSix kingly bridegrooms to death we have\\ndone,\\nSix gallant kingdoms King Adolf hath\\nwon,\\nSix lovely brides all his pleasure to do,\\nOr the bed of the seventh shall be husband-\\nless too.\\nWell chanced it that Adolf the night when\\nhe wed\\nHad confessed and had sained him e er\\nboune to his bed; 270\\nHe sprung from the couch and his broad-\\nsword he drew,\\nAnd there the seven daughters of Urien he\\nslew.\\nThe gate of the castle he bolted and sealed,\\nAnd hung o er each arch-stone a crown\\nand a shield;", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0420.jp2"}, "419": {"fulltext": "CANTO FIFTH\\n389\\nTo the cells of Saint Dunstan then wended\\nhis way,\\nAnd died in his cloister an anchorite gray.\\nSeven monarchs wealth in that castle lies\\nstowed,\\nThe foul fiends brood o er them like raven\\nand toad.\\nWhoever shall guesten these chambers\\nwithin,\\nFrom curfew till matins, that treasure\\nshall win. 280\\nBut manhood grows faint as the world\\nwaxes old\\nThere lives not in Britain a champion so\\nbold,\\nSo dauntless of heart and so prudent of\\nbrain,\\nAs to dare the adventure that treasure to\\ngain.\\nThe waste ridge of Cheviot shall wave\\nwith the rye,\\nBefore the rude Scots shall Northumber-\\nland fly,\\nAnd the flint cliffs of Bambro shall melt in\\nthe sun,\\nBefore that adventure be perilled and won.\\nXV\\nAnd is this my probation wild Harold\\nhe said,\\nWithin a lone castle to press a lone\\nbed 290\\nGood even, my lord bishop, Saint Cuth-\\nbert to borrow,\\nThe Castle of Seven Shields receives me\\nto-morrow.\\nCANTO FIFTH\\nDenmark s sage courtier to her princely\\nyouth,\\nGranting his cloud an ousel or a whale,\\nSpoke, though unwittingly, a partial\\ntruth;\\nFor Fantasy embroiders Nature s veil.\\nThe tints of ruddy eve or dawning pale,\\nOf the swart thunder cloud or silver\\nhaze,\\nAre but the ground-work of the rich de-\\ntail\\nWhich Fantasy with pencil wild portrays,\\nBlending what seems and is in the wrapt\\nmuser s gaze.\\nNor are the stubborn forms of earth and\\nstone 10\\nLess to the Sorceress s empire given;\\nFor not with unsubstantial hues alone,\\nCaught from the varying surge of vacant\\nheaven,\\nFrom bursting sunbeam or from flashing\\nlevin,\\nShe limns her pictures: on the earth, as\\nair,\\nArise her castles and her car is driven;\\nAnd never gazed the eye on scene so fair,\\nBut of its boasted charms gave Fancy half\\nthe share.\\nUp a wild pass went Harold, bent to\\nprove,\\nHugh Meneville, the adventure of thy\\nlay; 20\\nGunnar pursued his steps in faith and\\nlove,\\nEver companion of his master s way.\\nMidward their path, a rock of granite\\ngray\\nFrom the adjoining cliff had made de-\\nscent,\\nA barren mass yet with her drooping\\nspray\\nHad a young birch -tree crowned its\\nbattlement,\\nTwisting her fibrous roots through cranny,\\nflaw, and rent.\\nThis rock and tree could Gunnar s\\nthought engage\\nTill Fancy brought the tear-drop to his\\neye,\\nAnd at his master asked the timid\\npage, 30\\nWhat is the emblem that a bard should\\ns py\\nIn that rude rock and its green canopy\\nAnd Harold said, Like to the helmet\\nbrave\\nOf warrior slain in fight it seems to\\nlie,\\nAnd these same drooping boughs do o er\\nit wave\\nNot all unlike the plume his lady s favor\\ngave.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0421.jp2"}, "420": {"fulltext": "39\u00c2\u00b0\\nHAROLD THE DAUNTLESS\\nAh, no replied the page the ill-\\nstarred love\\nOf some poor maid is in the emblem\\nshown,\\nWhose fates are with some hero s inter-\\nwove,\\nAnd rooted on a heart to love un-\\nknown: 40\\nAnd as the gentle dews of heaven alone\\nNourish those drooping boughs, and as\\nthe scathe\\nOf the red lightning rends both tree and\\nstone,\\nSo fares it with her unrequited faith,\\nHer sole relief is tears her only refuge\\ndeath.\\nThou art a fond fantastic boy,\\nHarold replied, to females coy,\\nYet prating still of love;\\nEven so amid the clash of war\\nI know thou lov st to keep afar, 5c\\nThough destined by thy evil star\\nWith one like me to rove,\\nWhose business and whose joys are found\\nUpon the bloody battle-ground.\\nYet, foolish trembler as thou art,\\nThou hast a nook of my rude heart,\\nAnd thou and I will never part;\\nHarold would wrap the world in name\\nEre injury on Gunnar came.\\nIV\\nThe grateful page made no reply, 6c\\nBut turned to heaven his gentle eye,\\nAnd clasped his hands, as one who said,\\nMy toils my wanderings are o erpaid\\nThen in a gayer, lighter strain,\\nCompelled himself to speech again;\\nAnd, as they flowed along,\\nHis words took cadence soft and slow,\\nAnd liquid, like dissolving snow,\\nThey melted into song.\\nWhat though through fields of carnage\\nwide 70\\nI may not follow Harold s stride,\\nYet who with faithful Gunnar s pride\\nLord Harold s feats can see\\nAnd dearer than the couch of pride\\nHe loves the bed of gray wolf s hide,\\nWhen slumbering by Lord Harold s side\\nIn forest, field, or lea.\\n90\\nVI\\nBreak off said Harold, in a tone\\nWhere hurry and surprise were shown,\\nWith some slight touch of fear, 80\\nBreak off, we are not here alone;\\nA palmer form comes slowly on\\nBy cowl and staff and mantle known,\\nMy monitor is near.\\nNow mark him, Gunnar, needfully;\\nHe pauses by the blighted tree\\nDost see him, youth Thou couldst not se\\nWhen in the vale of Galilee\\nI first beheld his form,\\nNor when we met that other while\\nIn Cephalonia s rocky isle\\nBefore the fearful storm,\\nDost see him now The page, dis-\\ntraught\\nWith terror, answered, I see nought,\\nAnd there is nought to see,\\nSave that the oak s scathed boughs fling\\ndown\\nUpon the path a shadow brown\\nThat, like a pilgrim s dusky gown,\\nWaves with the waving tree/\\nVII\\nCount Harold gazed upon the oak 100\\nAs if his eyestrings would have broke,\\nAnd then resolvedly said,\\n1 Be what it will yon phantom gray\\nNor heaven nor hell shall ever say\\nThat for their shadows from his way\\nCount Harold turned dismayed:\\nI 11 speak him, though his accents fill\\nMy heart with that unwonted thrill\\nWhich vulgar minds call fear.\\nI will subdue it Forth he strode, no\\nPaused where the blighted oak-tree showed\\nIts sable shadow on the road,\\nAnd, folding on his bosom broad\\nHis arms, said, Speak I hear.\\nThe Deep Voice said, O wild of will,\\nFurious thy purpose to fulfil\\nHeart-seared and unrepentant still,\\nHow long, O Harold, shall thy tread\\nDisturb the slumbers of the dead\\nEach step in thy wild way thou makest, 120\\nThe ashes of the dead thou wakest;\\nAnd shout in triumph o er thy path\\nThe fiends of bloodshed and of wrath.\\nIn this thine hour, yet turn and hear\\nFor life is brief and judgment near.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0422.jp2"}, "421": {"fulltext": "CANTO FIFTH\\n39i\\nIX\\nThen ceased the Voice. The Dane re-\\nplied\\nIn tones where awe and inborn pride\\nFor mastery strove, In vain ye chide\\nThe wolf for ravaging the flock,\\nOr with its hardness taunt the rock, 130\\nI am as they my Danish strain\\nSends streams of fire through every vein.\\nAmid thy realms of goule and ghost,\\nSay, is the fame of Eric lost,\\nOr Witikind s the Waster, known\\nWhere fame or spoil was to be won;\\nWhose galleys ne er bore off a shore\\nThey left not black with flame\\nHe was my sire, and, sprung of him,\\nThat rover merciless and grim, 140\\nCan I be soft and tame?\\nPart hence and with my crimes no more\\nupbraid me,\\nI am that Waster s son and am but what\\nhe made me.\\nThe Phantom groaned the mountain\\nshook around,\\nThe fawn and wild doe started at the\\nsound,\\nThe gorse and fern did wildly round them\\nwave,\\nAs if some sudden storm the impulse gave.\\nAll thou hast said is truth yet on the\\nhead\\nOf that bad sire let not the charge be laid\\nThat he, like thee, with unrelenting pace 150\\nFrom grave to cradle ran the evil race\\nRelentless in his avarice and ire,\\nChurches and towns he gave to sword and\\nfire;\\nShed blood like water, wasted every land,\\nLike the destroying angel s burning brand;\\nFulfilled whate er of ill might be invented,\\nYes, all these things he did he did,\\nbut he repented\\nPerchance it is part of his punishment still\\nThat his offspring pursues his example of\\nBut thou, when thy tempest of wrath shall\\nnext shake thee, 160\\nGird thy loins for resistance, my son, and\\nawake thee;\\nIf thou yield st to thy fury, how tempted\\nsoever,\\nThe gate of repentance shall ope for thee\\nnever\\nXI\\nHe is gone, said Lord Harold and gazed\\nas he spoke;\\nThere is nought on the path but the shade\\nof the oak.\\nHe is gone whose strange presence my\\nfeeling oppressed,\\nLike the night-hag that sits on the slum-\\nberer s breast.\\nMy heart beats as thick as a fugitive s\\ntread,\\nAnd cold dews drop from my brow and\\nmy head.\\nHo Gunnar, the flasket yon almoner\\ngave; 170\\nHe said that three drops would recall\\nfrom the grave.\\nFor the first time Count Harold owns\\nleechcraft has power,\\nOr, his courage to aid, lacks the juice of a\\nflower\\nThe page gave the flasket, which Walwayn\\nhad filled\\nWith the juice of wild roots that his heart\\nhad distilled\\nSo baneful their influence on all that had\\nbreath,\\nOne drop had been frenzy and two had been\\ndeath.\\nHarold took it, but drank not; for jubilee\\nshrill\\nAnd music and clamor were heard on the\\nhill,\\nAnd down the steep pathway o er stock and\\no er stone 180\\nThe train of a bridal came blithesomely\\non;\\nThere was song, there was pipe, there was\\ntimbrel, and still\\nThe burden was, Joy to the fair Metelill\\nXII\\nHarold might see from his high stance\\nHimself unseen, that train advance,\\nWith mirth and melody;\\nOn horse and foot a mingled throng,\\nMeasuring their steps to bridal song\\nAnd bridal minstrelsy;\\nAnd ever when the blithesome rout 190\\nLent to the song their choral shout,\\nRedoubling echoes rolled about,\\nWhile echoing cave and cliff sent out\\nThe answering symphony\\nOf all those mimic notes which dwell\\nIn hollow rock and sounding dell.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0423.jp2"}, "422": {"fulltext": "39 2\\nHAROLD THE DAUNTLESS\\nXIII\\nJoy shook his torch above the band,\\nBy many a various passion fanned;\\nAs elemental sparks can feed\\nOn essence pure and coarsest weed, 200\\nGentle or stormy or refined,\\nJoy takes the colors of the mind.\\nLightsome and pure but unrepressed,\\nHe fired the bridegroom s gallant breast;\\nMore feebly strove with maiden fear,\\nYet still joy glimmered through the tear\\nOn the bride s blushing cheek that shows\\nLike dew-drop on the budding rose;\\nWhile Wulfstane s gloomy smile declared\\nThe glee that selfish avarice shared, 210\\nAnd pleased revenge and malice high\\nJoy s semblance took in Jutta s eye.\\nOn dangerous adventure sped,\\nThe witch deemed Harold with the dead,\\nFor thus that morn her demon said:\\nIf, ere the set of sun, be tied\\nThe knot twixt bridegroom and his bride,\\nThe Dane shall have no power of ill\\nO er William and o er MetelilL\\nAnd the pleased witch made answer,\\nThen 220\\nMust Harold have passed from the paths\\nof men\\nEvil repose may his spirit have,\\nMay hemlock and mandrake find root in\\nhis grave,\\nMay his death-sleep be dogged by dreams\\nof dismay,\\nAnd his waking be worse at the answer-\\ning day\\nXIV\\nSuch was their various mood of glee\\nBlent in one shout of ecstasy.\\nBut still when Joy is brimming highest,\\nOf sorrow and misfortune nighest,\\nOf Terror with her ague cheek, 230\\nAnd lurking Danger, sages speak:\\nThese haunt each path, but chief they lay\\nTheir snares beside the primrose way.\\nThus found that bridal band their path\\nBeset by Harold in his wrath.\\nTrembling beneath his maddening mood,\\nHigh on a rock the giant stood;\\nHis shout was like the doom of death\\nSpoke o er their heads that passed be-\\nneath.\\nHis destined victims might not spy 240\\nThe reddening terrors of his eye,\\nThe frown of rage that writhed his face,\\nThe lip that foamed like boar s in chase\\nBut all could see and, seeing, all\\nBore back to shun the threatened fall\\nThe fragment which their giant foe\\nRent from the cliff and heaved to throw.\\nxv\\nBackward they bore yet are there two\\nFor battle who prepare: 249\\nNo pause of dread Lord William knew\\nEre his good blade was bare;\\nAnd Wulfstane bent his fatal yew,\\nBut ere the silken cord he drew,\\nAs hurled from Hecla s thunder flew\\nThat ruin through the air\\nFull on the outlaw s front it came,\\nAnd all that late had human name,\\nAnd human face, and human frame,\\nThat lived and moved and had free will\\nTo choose the path of good or ill, 260\\nIs to its reckoning gone;\\nAnd nought of Wulfstane rests behind\\nSave that beneath that stone,\\nHalf-buried in the dinted clay,\\nA red and shapeless mass there lay\\nOf mingled flesh and bone\\nXVI\\nAs from the bosom of the sky\\nThe eagle darts amain,\\nThree bounds from yonder summit high\\nPlaced Harold on the plain. 270\\nAs the scared wild-fowl scream and fly,\\nSo fled the bridal train;\\nAs gainst the eagle s peerless might\\nThe noble falcon dares the fight,\\nBut dares the fight in vain,\\nSo fought the bridegroom; from his\\nhand\\nThe Dane s rude mace has struck his\\nbrand,\\nIts glittering fragments strew the sand,\\nIts lord lies on the plain.\\nNow, Heaven take noble William s\\npart, 280\\nAnd melt that yet unmelted heart,\\nOr, ere his bridal hour depart,\\nThe hapless bridegroom s slain\\nXVII\\nCount Harold s frenzied rage is high,\\nThere is a death-fire in his eye,\\nDeep furrows on his brow are trenched,\\nHis teeth are set, his hand is clenched,\\nThe foam upon his lip is white,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0424.jp2"}, "423": {"fulltext": "CANTO SIXTH\\n393\\nHis deadly arm is up to smite\\nBut, as the mace aloft he swung, 290\\nTo stop the blow young Gunnar sprung,\\nAround his master s knees he clung,\\nAnd cried, In mercy spare\\nO, think upon the words of fear\\nSpoke by that visionary Seer,\\nThe crisis he foretold is here,\\nGrant mercy, or despair\\nThis word suspended Harold s mood,\\nYet still with arm upraised he stood,\\nAnd visage like the headsman s rude 300\\nThat pauses for the sign.\\nO mark thee with the blessed rood,\\nThe page implored Speak word of\\ngood,\\nResist the fiend or be subdued\\nHe signed the cross divine\\nInstant his eye hath human light,\\nLess red, less keen, less fiercely bright;\\nHis brow relaxed the obdurate frown,\\nThe fatal mace sinks gently down,\\nHe turns and strides away; 310\\nYet oft, like revellers who leave\\nUnfinished feast, looks back to grieve,\\nAs if repenting the reprieve\\nHe granted to his prey.\\nYet still of forbearance one sign hath he\\ngiven,\\nAnd fierce Witikind s son made one step\\ntowards heaven.\\nXVIII\\nBut though his dreaded footsteps part,\\nDeath is behind and shakes his dart;\\nLord William on the plain is lying,\\nBeside him Metelill seems dying 320\\nBring odors essences in haste\\nAnd lo a flasket richly chased,\\nBut Jutta the elixir proves\\nEre pouring it for those she loves\\nThen Walwayn s potion was not wasted,\\nFor when three drops the hag had tasted\\nSo dismal was her yell,\\nEach bird of evil omen woke,\\nThe raven gave his fatal croak,\\nAnd shrieked the night-crow from the\\noak, 3 3 o\\nThe screech-owl from the thicket broke,\\nAnd fluttered down the dell\\nSo fearful was the sound and stern,\\nThe slumbers of the full-gorged erne\\nWere startled, and from furze and fern\\nOf forest and of fell\\nThe fox and famished wolf replied\\nFor wolves then prowled the Cheviot\\nside\\nFrom mountain head to mountain head\\nThe unhallowed sounds around were\\nsped; 340\\nBut when their latest echo fled\\nThe sorceress on the ground lay dead.\\nXIX\\nSuch was the scene of blood and woes\\nWith which the bridal morn arose\\nOf William and of Metelill;\\nBut oft, when dawning gins to spread,\\nThe summer morn peeps dim and red\\nAbove the eastern hill,\\nEre, bright and fair, upon his road\\nThe king of splendor walks abroad; 350\\nSo, when this cloud had passed away,\\nBright was the noontide of their day\\nAnd all serene its setting ray.\\nCANTO SIXTH\\nWell do I hope that this my minstrel\\ntale\\nWill tempt no traveller from southern\\nfields,\\nWhether in tilbury, barouche, or mail,\\nTo view the Castle of these Seven Proud\\nShields.\\nSmall confirmation its condition yields\\nTo Meneville s high lay, no towers are\\nseen\\nOn the wild heath but those that Fancy\\nbuilds,\\nAnd, save a fosse that tracks the moor\\nwith green,\\nIs nought remains to tell of what may there\\nhave been.\\nAnd yet grave authors, with the no small\\nwaste 10\\nOf their grave time, have dignified the spot\\nBy theories, to prove the fortress placed\\nBy Roman bands to curb the invading\\nScot.\\nHutchinson, Horseley, Camden, I might\\nquote,\\nBut rather choose the theory less civil\\nOf boors, who, origin of things forgot,\\nRefer still to the origin of evil,\\nAnd for their master-mason choose that\\nmaster-fiend the Devil.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0425.jp2"}, "424": {"fulltext": "394\\nHAROLD THE DAUNTLESS\\nTherefore, I say, it was on fiend-built\\ntowers\\nThat stout Count Harold bent his won-\\ndering gaze 20\\nWhen evening dew was on the heather\\nflowers,\\nAnd the last sunbeams made the moun-\\ntain blaze\\nAnd tinged the battlements of other days\\nWith the bright level light ere sinking\\ndown.\\nIllumined thus, the dauntless Dane sur-\\nveys\\nThe Seven Proud Shields that o er the\\nportal frown,\\nAnd on their blazons traced high marks of\\nold renown.\\nA wolf North Wales had on his armor-\\ncoat,\\nAnd Rhys of Powis-land a couchant stag;\\nStrath-Clwyd s strange emblem was a\\nstranded boat, 30\\nDonald of Galloway s a trotting nag;\\nA corn-sheaf gilt was fertile Lodon s\\nbrag;\\nA dudgeon dagger was by Dunmail\\nworn;\\nNorthumbrian Adolf gave a sea-beat\\ncrag\\nSurmounted by a cross such signs were\\nborne\\nUpon these antique shields, all wasted now\\nand worn.\\nill\\nThese scanned, Count Harold sought the\\ncastle-door,\\nWhose ponderous bolts were rusted to\\ndecay;\\nYet till that hour adventurous knight\\nforbore\\nThe unobstructed passage to essay. 40\\nMore strong than armed warders in\\narray,\\nAnd obstacle more sure than bolt or\\nbar,\\nSate in the portal Terror and Dismay,\\nWhile Superstition, who forbade to war\\nWith foes of other mould than mortal\\nclay,\\nCast spells across the gate and barred the\\nonward way.\\nVain now those spells; for soon with\\nheavy clank\\nThe feebly-fastened gate was inward\\npushed,\\nAnd, as it oped, through that emblazoned\\nrank\\nOf antique shields the wind of evening\\nrushed 50\\nWith sound most like a groan and then\\nwas hushed.\\nIs none who on such spot such sounds\\ncould hear\\nBut to his heart the blood had faster\\nrushed\\nYet to bold Harold s breast that throb\\nwas dear\\nIt spoke of danger nigh, but had no touch\\nof fear.\\nYet Harold and his page no signs have\\ntraced\\nWithin the castle that of danger showed;\\nFor still the halls and courts were wild\\nand waste,\\nAs through their precincts the adventur-\\ners trode.\\nThe seven huge towers rose stately, tall,\\nand broad, 60\\nEach tower presenting to their scru-\\ntiny _\\nA hall in which a king might make\\nabode,\\nAnd fast beside, garnished both proud\\nand high,\\nWas placed a bower for rest in which a\\nking might lie.\\nAs if a bridal there of late had been,\\nDecked stood the table in each gorgeous\\nhall;\\nAnd yet it was two hundred years, I\\nween,\\nSince date of that unhallowed festival.\\nFlagons and ewers and standing cups\\nwere all\\nOf tarnished gold or silver nothing\\nclear, 70\\nWith throne begilt and canopy of pall,\\nAnd tapestry clothed the walls with\\nfragments sear\\nFrail as the spider s mesh did that rich\\nwoof appear.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0426.jp2"}, "425": {"fulltext": "CANTO SIXTH\\n395\\nIn every bower, as round a hearse, was\\nhung\\nA dusky crimson curtain o er the bed,\\nAnd on each couch in ghastly wise were\\nflung\\nThe wasted relics of a monarch dead\\nBarbaric ornaments around were spread,\\nVests twined with gold and chains of\\nprecious stone,\\nAnd golden circlets, meet for monarch s\\nhead 80\\nWhile grinned, as if in scorn amongst\\nthem thrown,\\nThe wearer s fleshless skull, alike with dust\\nbestrewn.\\nFor these were they who, drunken with\\ndelight,\\nOn pleasure s opiate pillow laid their\\nhead,\\nFor whom the bride s shy footstep, slow\\nand light,\\nWas changed ere morning to the mur-\\nderer s tread.\\nFor human bliss and woe in the frail\\nthread\\nOf human life are all so closely twined\\nThat till the shears of Fate the texture\\nshred\\nThe close succession cannot be dis-\\njoined, 90\\nNor dare we from one hour judge that\\nwhich comes behind.\\nVI\\nBut where the work of vengeance had\\nbeen done,\\nIn that seventh chamber, was a sterner\\nsight;\\nThere of the witch-brides lay each skele-\\nton,\\nI Still in the posture as to death when\\ndight.\\nFor this lay prone, by one blow slain\\noutright;\\nAnd that, as one who struggled long in\\ndying;\\nOne bony hand held knife, as if to\\nsmite\\nOne bent on fleshless knees, as mercy\\ncrying;\\nOne lay across the door, as killed in act of\\nflying. 100\\nThe stern Dane smiled this charnel-\\nhouse to see,\\nFor his chafed thought returned to\\nMetelill;\\nAnd Well, he said, hath woman s per-\\nfidy,\\nEmpty as air, as water volatile,\\nBeen here avenged. The origin of\\nill\\nThrough woman rose, the Christian doc-\\ntrine saith;\\nNor deem I, Gunnar, that thy minstrel\\nskill\\nCan show example where a woman s\\nbreath\\nHath made a true-love vow, and tempted\\nkept her faith.\\nVII\\nThe minstrel boy half smiled, half\\nsighed, 1 10\\nAnd his half-filling eyes he dried,\\nAnd said, The theme I should but\\nwrong,\\nUnless it were my dying song\\nOur Scalds have said, in dying hour\\nThe Northern harp has treble power\\nElse could I tell of woman s faith,\\nDefying danger, scorn, and death.\\nFirm was that faith as diamond stone\\nPure and unflawed her love unknown\\nAnd unrequited; firm and pure, 120\\nHer stainless faith could all endure\\nFrom clime to clime, from place to\\nplace,\\nThrough want and danger and disgrace,\\nA wanderer s wayward steps could trace.\\nAll this she did, and guerdon none\\nRequired save that her burial-stone\\nShould make at length the secret known,\\nThus hath a faithful woman done.\\nNot in each breast such truth is laid,\\nBut Eivir was a Danish maid. 130\\n1 Thou art a wild enthusiast, said\\nCount Harold, for thy Danish maid;\\nAnd yet, young Gunnar, I will own\\nHers were a faith to rest upon.\\nBut Eivir sleeps beneath her stone\\nAnd all resembling her are gone.\\nWhat maid e er showed such constancy\\nIn plighted faith, like thine to me\\nBut couch thee, boy; the darksome shade", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0427.jp2"}, "426": {"fulltext": "39 6\\nHAROLD THE DAUNTLESS\\nFalls thickly round, nor be dismayed 140\\nBecause the dead are by.\\nThey were as we our little day\\nO erspent, and we shall be as they.\\nYet near me, Gunnar, be thou laid,\\nThy couch upon my mantle made,\\nThat thou mayst think, should fear in-\\nvade,\\nThy master slumbers nigh.\\nThus couched they in that dread abode,\\nUntil the beams of dawning glowed.\\nIX\\nAn altered man Lord Harold rose, 150\\nWhen he beheld that dawn unclose\\nThere s trouble in his eyes,\\nAnd traces on his brow and cheek\\nOf mingled awe and wonder speak:\\nMy page, he said, arise\\nLeave we this place, my page. No\\nmore\\nHe uttered till the castle door\\nThey crossed but there he paused and J\\nsaid,\\nMy wildness hath awaked the dead\\nDisturbed the sacred tomb 160\\nMethought this night I stood on high\\nWhere Hecla roars in middle sky,\\nAnd in her caverned gulfs could spy\\nThe central place of doom;\\nAnd there before my mortal eye\\nSouls of the dead came flitting by,\\nWhom fiends with many a fiendish cry\\nBore to that evil den\\nMy eyes grew dizzy and my brain\\nWas wildered, as the elvish train 170\\nWith shriek and howl dragged on amain\\nThose who had late been men.\\nWith haggard eyes and streaming hair,\\nJutta the Sorceress was there,\\nAnd there passed Wulfstane lately slain,\\nAll crushed and foul with bloody stain.\\nMore had I seen, but that uprose\\nA whirlwind wild and swept the snows;\\nAnd with such sound as when at need\\nA champion spurs his horse to speed, 180\\nThree armed knights rush on who lead\\nCaparisoned a sable steed.\\nSable their harness, and there came\\nThrough their closed visors sparks of\\nflame.\\nThe first proclaimed, in sounds of fear,\\nHarold the Dauntless, welcome here\\nThe next cried, Jubilee we ve won\\nCount Witikind the Waster s son\\nAnd the third rider sternly spoke, 189\\nMount, in the name of Zernebock\\nFrom us, O Harold, were thy powers,\\nThy strength, thy dauntlessness, are\\nours;\\nNor think, a vassal thou of hell,\\nWith hell can strive. The fiend spoke\\ntrue\\nMy inmost soul the summons knew,\\nAs captives know the knell\\nThat says the headsman s sword is bare\\nAnd with an accent of despair\\nCommands them quit their cell.\\nI felt resistance was in vain, 200\\nMy foot had that fell stirrup ta en,\\nMy hand was on the fatal mane,\\nWhen to my rescue sped\\nThat palmer s visionary form,\\nAnd like the passing of a storm\\nThe demons yelled and fled\\nXI\\nHis sable cowl flung back revealed\\nThe features it before concealed;\\nAnd, Gunnar, I could find\\nIn him whose counsels strove to stay 210\\nSo oft my course on wilful way\\nMy father Witikind\\nDoomed for his sins and doomed for mine\\nA wanderer upon earth to pine\\nUntil his son shall turn to grace\\nAnd smooth for him a resting-place.\\nGunnar, he must not haunt in vain\\nThis world of wretchedness and pain:\\nI 11 tame my wilful heart to live\\nIn peace to pity and forgive\\nAnd thou, for so the Vision said,\\nMust in thy Lord s repentance aid.\\nThy mother was a prophetess,\\nHe said, who by her skill could guess\\nHow close the fatal textures join\\nWhich knit thy thread of life with mine;\\nThen dark he hinted of disguise\\nShe framed to cheat too curious eyes\\nThat not a moment might divide\\nThy fated footsteps from my side. 23\\nMethought while thus my sire did teac\\nI caught the meaning of his speech,\\nYet seems its purport doubtful now.\\nHis hand then sought his thoughtfu\\nbrow\\nThen first he marked, that in the tower\\nHis glove was left at waking hour.\\n:o", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0428.jp2"}, "427": {"fulltext": "CANTO SIXTH\\n397\\nXII\\nTrembling at first and deadly pale,\\nHad Gunnar heard the visioned tale;\\nBut when he learned the dubious close\\nHe blushed like any opening rose, 240\\nAnd, glad to hide his tell-tale cheek,\\nHied back that glove of mail to seek;\\nWhen soon a shriek of deadly dread\\nSummoned his master to his aid.\\nXIII\\nWhat sees Count Harold in that bower\\nSo late his resting-place\\nThe semblance of the Evil Power,\\nAdored by all his race\\nOdin in living form stood there,\\nHis cloak the spoils of Polar bear; 250\\nFor plumy crest a meteor shed\\nIts gloomy radiance o er his head,\\nYet veiled its haggard majesty\\nTo the wild lightnings of his eye.\\nSuch height was his as when in stone\\nO er Upsal s giant altar shown:\\nSo flowed his hoary beard;\\nSuch was his lance of mountain-pine,\\nSo did his sevenfold buckler shine;\\nBut when his voice he reared, 260\\nDeep without harshness, slow and strong,\\nThe powerful accents rolled along,\\nAnd while he spoke his hand was laid\\nOn captive Gunnar s shrinking head.\\nHarold, he said, what rage is thine\\nTo quit the worship of thy line,\\nTo leave thy Warrior-God\\nWith me is glory or disgrace,\\nMine is the onset and the chase,\\nEmbattled hosts before my face 270\\nAre withered by a nod.\\nWilt thou then forfeit that high seat\\nDeserved by many a dauntless feat\\nAmong the heroes of thy line,\\nEric and fiery Thorarine\\nThou wilt not. Only I can give\\nThe joys for which the valiant live,\\nVictory and vengeance only I\\nCan give the joys for which they die,\\nThe immortal tilt the banquet full, 280\\nThe brimming draught from foeman s\\nskull.\\nMine art thou, witness this thy glove,\\nThe faithful pledge of vassal s love.\\nTempter, said Harold, firm of heart,\\nI charge thee, hence whate er thou art,\\nI do defy thee and resist\\nThe kindling frenzy of my breast,\\nWaked by thy words; and of my mail\\nNor glove nor buckler, splent nor nail,\\nShall rest with thee that youth release,\\nAnd, God or Demon, part in peace. 291\\nEivir, the Shape replied, is mine,\\nMarked in the birth-hour with my sign.\\nThink st thou that priest with drops of\\nspray\\nCould wash that blood-red mark away\\nOr that a borrowed sex and name\\nCan abrogate a Godhead s claim\\nThrilled this strange speech through\\nHarold s brain,\\nHe clenched his teeth in high disdain,\\nFor not his new-born faith subdued 300\\nSome tokens of his ancient mood.\\nNow, by the hope so lately given\\nOf better trust and purer heaven,\\nI will assail thee, fiend Then rose\\nHis mace, and with a storm of blows\\nThe mortal and the demon close.\\nXVI\\nSmoke rolled above, fire flashed around,\\nDarkened the sky and shook the ground\\nBut not the artillery of hell,\\nThe bickering lightning, nor the rock 3 ro\\nOf turrets to the earthquake s shock,\\nCould Harold s courage quell.\\nSternly the Dane his purpose kept,\\nAnd blows on blows resistless heaped,\\nTill quailed that demon form,\\nAnd for his power to hurt or kill\\nWas bounded by a higher will\\nEvanished in a storm.\\nNor paused the Champion of the North,\\nBut raised and bore his Eivir forth 320\\nFrom that wild scene of fiendish strife\\nTo light, to liberty, and life\\nHe placed her on a bank of moss,\\nA silver runnel bubbled by,\\nAnd new-born thoughts his soul engross,\\nAnd tremors yet unknown across\\nHis stubborn sinews fly,\\nThe while with timid hand the dew\\nUpon her brow and neck he threw,\\nAnd marked how life with rosy hue 330", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0429.jp2"}, "428": {"fulltext": "39\u00c2\u00a7\\nMISCELLANEOUS POEMS\\nOn her pale cheek revived anew\\nAnd glimmered in her eye.\\nInly he said, That silken tress\\nWhat blindness mine that could not\\nguess\\nOr how could page s rugged dress\\nThat bosom s pride belie\\nO, dull of heart, through wild and wave\\nIn search of blood and death to rave,\\nWith such a partner nigh\\nXVIII\\nThen in the mirrored pool he peered, 340\\nBlamed his rough locks and shaggy beard,\\nThe stains of recent conflict cleared,\\nAnd thus the Champion proved\\nThat he fears now who never feared,\\nAnd loves who never loved.\\nAnd Eivir life is on her cheek\\nAnd yet she will not move or speak,\\nNor will her eyelid fully ope;\\nPerchance it loves, that half-shut eye,\\nThrough its long fringe, reserved and\\nshy, 350\\nAffection s opening dawn to spy;\\nAnd the deep blush, which bids its dye\\nO er cheek and brow and bosom fly,\\nSpeaks shamefacedness and hope.\\nXIX\\nBut vainly seems the Dane to seek\\nFor terms his new-born love to speak,\\nFor words, save those of wrath and\\nwrong,\\nTill now were strangers to his tongue;\\nSo, when he raised the blushing maid,\\nIn blunt and honest terms he said 360\\nT were well that maids, when lovers\\nwoo,\\nHeard none more soft, were all as true\\nEivir since thou for many a day\\nHast followed Harold s wayward way,\\nIt is but meet that in the line\\nOf after-life I follow thine.\\nTo-morrow is Saint Cuthbert s tide,\\nAnd we will grace his altar s side,\\nA Christian knight and Christian bride;\\nAnd of Witikind s son shall the marvel be\\nsaid 370\\nThat on the same morn he was christened\\nand wed.\\nCONCLUSION\\nAnd now, Ennui, what ails thee, weary\\nmaid\\nAnd why these listless looks of yawning\\nsorrow\\nNo need to turn the page as if t were\\nlead,\\nOr fling aside the volume till to-mor-\\nrow.\\nBe cheered t is ended and I will\\nnot borrow,\\nTo try thy patience more, one anecdote\\nFrom Bartholine or Perinskiold or\\nSnorro.\\nThen pardon thou thy minstrel, who hath\\nwrote\\nA tale six cantos long, yet scorned to add\\na note. 380\\nMISCELLANEOUS POEMS\\nFrom the time when Scott wrote the first of\\nhis long poems, The Lay of the Last Minstrel,\\ntill he deliberately abandoned the writing of\\nlong poems in Harold the Dauntless, twelve\\nyears later, he wrote about twoscore poems,\\nand in the twelve years which then followed\\ntill he ceased writing altogether, only a dozen\\nmore, and a large number of these were occa-\\nsional. This does not take account, however,\\nof the bits of verse interspersed in the novels,\\nsome of which were among his most character-\\nistic pieces. In 1806, after publishing The Lay\\nof the Last Minstrel and before publishing\\nMarmion, Scott issued a collection of Ballads\\nand Lyrical Pieces, containing most of\\nmatter included in our division, Early Ballads\\nand Lyrics but not again was any collection\\nmade till his distribution of all his writings to-\\nward the end of his life. It has seemed best,\\nin our arrangement, not to interrupt the series\\nof long poems by inserting these scattered\\nverses between them, but to group them all in\\nthis general division, in as closely chronologi-\\ncal order as seemed practicable.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0430.jp2"}, "429": {"fulltext": "THE NORMAN HORSE-SHOE\\n399\\nTHE DYING BARD\\nThe Welsh tradition, says Scott, bears that\\na Bard, on his death-bed, demanded his harp,\\nand played the air [Daffwdz Gangwen] to\\nwhich these verses are adapted, requesting that\\nit might be performed at his funeral. Published\\nin 1806.\\nDinas Emlinn, lament; for the moment is\\nnigh,\\nWhen mute in the woodlands thine echoes\\nshall die:\\nNo more by sweet Teivi Cadwallon shall\\nrave,\\nAnd mix his wild notes with the wild dash-\\ning wave.\\nIn spring and in autumn thy glories of\\nshade\\nUnhonored shall flourish, unhonored shall\\nfade;\\nFor soon shall be lifeless the eye and the\\ntongue\\nThat viewed them with rapture, with rap-\\nture that sung.\\nThy sons, Dinas Emlinn, may march in\\ntheir pride,\\nAnd chase the proud Saxon from Prestatyn s\\nside\\nBut where is the harp shall give life to\\ntheir name\\nAnd where is the bard shall give heroes\\ntheir fame\\nAnd O, Dinas Emlinn thy daughters so\\nfair,\\nWho heave the white bosom and wave the\\ndark hair;\\nWhat tuneful enthusiast shall worship their\\neye,\\nWhen half of their charms with Cadwallon\\nshall die\\nThen adieu, silver Teivi I quit thy loved\\nscene\\nTo join the dim choir of the bards who\\nhave been;\\nWith Lewarch, and Meilor, and Merlin\\nthe Old,\\nAnd sage Taliessin, high harping to hold.\\nAnd adieu, Dinas Emlinn still green be\\nthy shades,\\nUnconquered thy warriors and matchless\\nthy maids\\nAnd thou whose faint warblings my weak-\\nness can tell,\\nFarewell, my loved harp my last trea-\\nsure, farewell\\nTHE NORMAN HORSE-SHOE\\nThe Welsh, inhabiting a mountainous coun-\\ntry, and possessing only an inferior breed of\\nhorses, were usually unable to encounter the\\nshock of the Anglo-Norman cavalry. Occa-\\nsionally, however, they were successful in re-\\npelling the invaders and the following verses\\nare supposed to celebrate a defeat of Clare,\\nEarl of Striguil and Pembroke, and of Neville,\\nBaron of Chepstow, Lords-Marchers of Mon-\\nmouthshire. Published in 1806.\\nRed glows the forge in Striguil s bounds,\\nAnd hammers din, and anvil sounds,\\nAnd armorers with iron toil\\nBarb many a steed for battle s broil.\\nFoul fall the hand which bends the steel\\nAround the courser s thundering heel,\\nThat e er shall dint a sable wound\\nOn fair Glamorgan s velvet ground\\nFrom Chepstow s towers ere dawn of morn\\nWas heard afar the bugle-horn,\\nAnd forth in banded pomp and pride\\nStout Clare and fiery Neville ride.\\nThey swore their banners broad should\\ngleam\\nIn crimson light on Rymny s stream;\\nThey vowed Caerphili s sod should feel\\nThe Norman charger s spurning heel.\\nAnd sooth they swore the sun arose,\\nAnd Rymny s wave with crimson glows;\\nFor Clare s red banner, floating wide,\\nRolled down the stream to Severn s tide\\nAnd sooth they vowed the trampled\\ngreen\\nShowed where hot Neville s charge had\\nbeen:\\nIn every sable hoof-tramp stood\\nA Norman horseman s curdling blood\\nOld Chepstow s brides may curse the toil\\nThat armed stout Clare for Cambrian broil;\\nTheir orphans long the art may rue,\\nFor Neville s war-horse forged the shoe.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0431.jp2"}, "430": {"fulltext": "400\\nMISCELLANEOUS POEMS\\nNo more the stamp of armed steed\\nShall dint Glamorgan s velvet mead;\\nNor trace be there in early spring\\nSave of the Fairies emerald ring.\\nTHE MAID OF TORO\\nA later draft, 1806, of a song- from The\\nHouse of Aspen. See above, p. 10.\\nO, low shone the sun on the fair lake of\\nToro,\\nAnd weak were the whispers that waved\\nthe dark wood,\\nAll as a fair maiden, bewildered in sorrow,\\nSorely sighed to the breezes and wept to\\nthe flood.\\nO saints, from the mansions of bliss lowly\\nbending\\nSweet Virgin, who hearest the suppliant s\\ncry!\\nNow grant my petition in anguish ascending,\\nMy Henry restore or let Eleanor die\\nAll distant and faint were the sounds of the\\nbattle,\\nWith the breezes they rise, with the\\nbreezes they fail,\\nTill the shout and the groan and the con-\\nflict s dread rattle,\\nAnd the chase s wild clamor, came load-\\ning the gale.\\nBreathless she gazed on the woodlands so\\ndreary;\\nSlowly approaching a warrior was seen\\nLife s ebbing tide marked his footsteps so\\nweary,\\nCleft was his helmet and woe was his\\n1 O, save thee, fair maid, for our armies are\\nflying\\nO, save thee, fair maid, for thy guardian\\nis low\\nDeadly cold on yon heath thy brave Henry\\nis lying,\\nAnd fast through the woodland ap-\\nproaches the foe.\\nScarce could he falter the tidings of sorrow,\\nAnd scarce could she hear them, be-\\nnumbed with despair:\\nAnd when the sun sunk on the sweet lake\\nof Toro,\\nForever he set to the Brave and the Fair.\\nTHE PALMER\\nPublished, 1806, in Haydn s Collection of\\nScottish Airs.\\n1 O open the door, some pity to show,\\nKeen blows the northern wind\\nThe glen is white with the drifted snow,\\nAnd the path is hard to find.\\nNo outlaw seeks your castle gate,\\nFrom chasing the king s deer,\\nThough even an outlaw s wretched state\\nMight claim compassion here.\\nA weary Palmer, worn and weak,\\nI wander for my sin;\\nO, open, for Our Lady s sake\\nA pilgrim s blessing win\\nI 11 give you pardons from the Pope,.\\nAnd reliques from o er the sea,\\nOr if for these you will not ope,\\nYet open for charity.\\nThe hare is crouching in her form,\\nThe hart beside the hind;\\nAn aged man amid the storm,\\nNo shelter can I find.\\nYou hear the Ettrick s sullen roar,\\nDark, deep, and strong is he,\\nAnd I must ford the Ettrick o er,\\nUnless you pity me.\\n1 The iron gate is bolted hard,\\nAt which I knock in vain;\\nThe owner s heart is closer barred,\\nWho hears me thus complain.\\nFarewell, farewell and Mary grant,.\\nWhen old and frail you be,\\nYou never may the shelter want\\nThat s now denied to me.\\nThe ranger on his couch lay warm,\\nAnd heard him plead in vain;\\nBut oft amid December s storm\\nHe 11 hear that voice again:\\nFor lo when through the vapors dank\\nMorn shone on Ettrick fair,\\nA corpse amid the alders rank,\\nThe Palmer weltered there.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0432.jp2"}, "431": {"fulltext": "WANDERING WILLIE\\n401\\nTHE MAID OF NEIDPATH\\nThere is a tradition in Tweeddale, says\\nSeott, that, when Neidpath Castle, near Pee-\\nbles, was inhabited by the Earls of March, a\\nmutual passion subsisted between a daughter\\nof that noble family and a son of the Laird\\nof Tushielaw, in Ettriek Forest. As the alli-\\nance was thought unsuitable by her parents,\\nthe young man went abroad. During his ab-\\nsence the lady fell into a consumption and at\\nlength, as the only means of saving her life,\\nher father consented that her lover should be\\nrecalled. On the day when he was expected\\nto pass through Peebles, on the road to Tushie-\\nlaw, the young lady, though much exhausted,\\ncaused herself to be carried to the balcony of\\na house in Peebles belonging to the family,\\nthat she might see him as he rode past. Her\\nanxiety and eagerness gave such force to her\\norgans, that she is said to have distinguished\\nhis horse s footsteps at an incredible distance.\\nBut Tushielaw, unprepared for the change in\\nher appearance, and not expecting to see her\\nin that place, rode on without recognizing her,\\nor even slackening his pace. The lady was\\nunable to support the shock and, after a short\\nstruggle, died in the arms of her attendants.\\nPublished, 1806, in Haydn s Collection of Scot-\\ntish Airs.\\nO, lovers eyes are sharp to see,\\nAnd lovers ears in hearing;\\nAnd love in life s extremity\\nCan lend an hour of cheering.\\nDisease had been in Mary s bower,\\nAnd slow decay from mourning,\\nThough now she sits on Neidpath s tower\\nTo watch her love s returning.\\nAll sunk and dim her eyes so bright,\\nHer form decayed by pining,\\nTill through her wasted hand at night\\nYou saw the taper shining;\\nBy fits, a sultry hectic hue\\nAcross her cheek were flying;\\nBy fits, so ashy pale she grew,\\nHer maidens thought her dying.\\nYet keenest powers to see and hear\\nSeemed in her frame residing;\\nBefore the watch-dog pricked his ear,\\nShe heard her lover s riding;\\nEre scarce a distant form was kenned,\\nShe knew, and waved to greet him;\\nAnd o er the battlement did bend,\\nAs on the wing to meet him.\\nHe came he passed an heedless gaze,\\nAs o er some stranger glancing;\\nHer welcome, spoke in faltering phrase,\\nLost in his courser s prancing\\nThe castle arch, whose hollow tone\\nReturns each whisper spoken,\\nCould scarcely catch the feeble moan\\nWhich told her heart was broken.\\nWANDERING WILLIE\\nPublished, 1806, in Haydn s Collection of\\nScottish Airs.\\nAll joy was bereft me the day that you left\\nme,\\nAnd climbed the tall vessel to sail yon\\nwide sea;\\nO weary betide it I wandered beside it,\\nAnd banned it for parting my Willie and\\nme.\\nFar o er the wave hast thou followed thy\\nfortune,\\nOft fought the squadrons of France and\\nof Spain;\\nAe kiss of welcome s worth twenty at\\nparting,\\nNow I hae gotten my Willie again.\\nWhen the sky it was mirk, and the winds\\nthey were wailing,\\nI sat on the beach wi the tear in my ee,\\nAnd thought o the bark where my Willie\\nwas sailing,\\nAnd wished that the tempest could a*\\nblaw on me.\\nNow that thy gallant ship rides at her\\nmooring,\\nNow that my wanderer s in safety at\\nhame,\\nMusic to me were the wildest winds\\nroaring,\\nThat e er o er Inch-Keith drove the dark\\nocean faem.\\nWhen the lights they did blaze, and the\\nguns they did rattle,\\nAnd blithe was each heart for the great\\nvictory,\\nIn secret I wept for the dangers of battle,\\nAnd thy glory itself was scarce comfort\\nto me.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0433.jp2"}, "432": {"fulltext": "402\\nMISCELLANEOUS POEMS\\nBut now shalt thou tell, while I eagerly\\nlisten,\\nOf each bold adventure and every brave\\nscar;\\nAnd trust me, I 11 smile, though my een\\nthey may glisten,\\nFor sweet after danger s the tale of the\\n\u00e2\u0096\u00a0war.\\nAnd O, how we doubt when there s dis-\\ntance tween lovers,\\nWhen there s naething to speak to the\\nheart thro the ee\\nHow often the kindest and warmest prove\\nrovers,\\nAnd the love of the faithfullest ebbs like\\nthe sea\\nTill, at times could I help it I pined\\nand I pondered\\nIf love could change notes like the bird\\non the tree\\nNow I 11 ne er ask if thine eyes may hae\\nwandered;\\nEnough, thy leal heart has been constant\\nto me.\\nWelcome, from sweeping o er sea and\\nthrough channel,\\nHardships and danger despising for\\nfame,\\nFurnishing story for glory s bright an-\\nnal,\\nWelcome, my wanderer, to Jeanie and\\nhame\\nEnough now thy story in annals of glory\\nHas humbled the pride of France, Hol-\\nland, and Spain;\\nNo more shalt thou grieve me, no more\\nshalt thou leave me,\\nI never will part with my Willie again.\\nHEALTH TO LORD MELVILLE\\nAm Carrickfergus\\nThe impeachment of Lord Melville was\\namong- the first measures of the new (Whig)\\nGovernment and personal affection and grati-\\ntude graced as well as heightened the zeal\\nwith which Scott watched the issue of this, in\\nhis eyes, vindictive proceeding but, though\\nthe ex-minister s ultimate acquittal was, as to\\nall the charges involving his personal honor,\\ncomplete, it must now be allowed that the in-\\nvestigation brought out many circumstances\\nby no means creditable to his discretion and\\nthe rejoicings of his friends ought not, there-\\nfore, to have been scornfully jubilant. Such\\nthey were, however at least in Edinburgh\\nand Scott took his share in them by inditing a\\nsong, which was sung by James Ballantyne,\\nand received with clamorous applauses, at a\\npublic dinner given in honor of the event, on\\nthe 27th of June, 1806. Lockhart s Life of\\nScott, Chapter xvi.\\nSince here we are set in array round the\\ntable,\\nFive hundred good fellows well met in a\\nhall,\\nCome listen, brave boys, and I 11 sing as\\nI m able,\\nHow innocence triumphed and pride got\\na fall.\\nBut push round the claret\\nCome, stewards, don t spare it\\nWith rapture you 11 drink to the toast that\\nI give;\\nHere, boys,\\nOff with it merrily\\nMelville for ever, and long may he live\\nWhat were the Whigs doing, when boldly\\npursuing,\\nPitt banished Rebellion, gave Treason a\\nstring;\\nWhy, they swore on their honor, for\\nArthur O Connor,\\nAnd fought hard for Despard against\\ncountry and king.\\nWell, then, we knew, boys,\\nPitt and Melville were true boys,\\nAnd the tempest was raised by the friends\\nof Reform.\\nAh woe\\nWeep to his memory;\\nLow lies the pilot that weathered the\\nstorm\\nAnd pray, don t you mind when the Blues\\nfirst were raising,\\nAnd we scarcely could think the house\\nsafe o er our heads\\nWhen villains and coxcombs, French poli-\\ntics praising,\\nDrove peace from our tables and sleep\\nfrom our beds", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0434.jp2"}, "433": {"fulltext": "HUNTING SONG\\n403\\nOur hearts they grew bolder\\nWhen, musket on shoulder,\\nStepped forth our old Statesmen example\\nto give.\\nCome, boys, never fear,\\nDrink the Blue grenadier\\nHere s to old Harry, and long may he\\nlive\\nThey would turn us adrift, though rely,\\nsir, upon it,\\nOur own faithful chronicles warrant us\\nthat\\nThe free mountaineer and his bonny blue\\nbonnet\\nHave oft gone as far as the regular s\\nhat.\\nWe laugh at their taunting,\\nFor all we are wanting\\nIs license our life for our country to\\ngive.\\nOff with it merrily\\nHorse, foot, and artillery,\\nEach loyal Volunteer, long may he live\\nT is not us alone, boys the Army and\\nNavy\\nHave each got a slap mid their politic\\npranks;\\nCornwallis cashiered, that watched winters\\nto save ye,\\nAnd the Cape called a bauble unworthy\\nof thanks.\\nBut vain is their taunt,\\nNo soldier shall want\\nThe thanks that his country to valor can\\ngive:\\nCome, boys,\\nDrink it off merrily,\\nSir David and Popham, and long may they\\nlive\\nAnd then our revenue Lord knows how\\nthey viewed it,\\nWhile each petty statesman talked lofty\\nand big;\\nBut the beer-tax was weak, as if Whit-\\nbread had brewed it,\\nAnd the pig-iron duty a shame to a\\nIn vain is their vaunting,\\nToo surely there s wanting\\nI What judgment, experience, and steadiness\\ngive:\\nDrink about merrily,\\nHealth to sage Melville, and long may he\\nlive\\nOur King, too our Princess I dare not\\nsay more, sir,\\nMay Providence watch them with mercy\\nand might I\\nWhile there s one Scottish hand that can\\nwag a claymore, sir,\\nThey shall ne er want a friend to stand\\nup for their right.\\nBe damned he that dare not,\\nFor my part, I 11 spare not\\nTo beauty afflicted a tribute to give.\\nFill it up steadily,\\nDrink it off readily\\nHere s to the Princess, and long may she\\nlive\\nAnd since we must not set Auld Reekie in\\nglory,\\nAnd make her brown visage as light as\\nher heart;\\nTill each man illumine his own upper\\nstory,\\nNor law-book nor lawyer shall force us\\nto part.\\nIn Grenville and Spencer,\\nAnd some few good men, sir,\\nHigh talents we honor, slight difference\\nforgive\\nBut the Brewer we 11 hoax,\\nTallyho to the Fox,\\nAnd drink Melville for ever, as long as we\\nlive\\nHUNTING SONG\\nPublished in Edinburgh Annual Register,\\n1808.\\nWaken, lords and ladies gay,\\nOn the mountain dawns the day,\\nAll the jolly chase is here,\\nWith hawk and horse and hunting-spear\\nHounds are in their couples yelling,\\nHawks are whistling, horns are knelling,\\nMerrily, merrily, mingle they,\\nWaken, lords and ladies gay.\\nWaken, lords and ladies gay,\\nThe mist has left the mountain gray,\\nSpringlets in the dawn are steaming,\\nDiamonds on the brake are gleaming:", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0435.jp2"}, "434": {"fulltext": "4\u00c2\u00b04\\nMISCELLANEOUS POEMS\\nAnd foresters have busy been\\nTo track the buck in thicket green;\\nNow we come to chant our lay,\\ni Waken, lords and ladies gay.\\nWaken, lords and ladies gay,\\nTo the green- wood haste away;\\nWe can show you where he lies,\\nFleet of foot and tall of size;\\nWe can show the marks he made,\\nWhen gainst the oak his antlers frayed;\\nYou shall see him brought to bay,\\n1 Waken, lords and ladies gay.\\nLouder, louder chant the lay,\\nWaken, lords and ladies gay\\nTell them youth and mirth and glee\\nRun a course as well as we;\\nTime, stern huntsman, who can balk,\\nStanch as hound and fleet as hawk\\nThink of this and rise with day,\\nGentle lords and ladies gay.\\nSONG\\n1808\\nO, say not, my love, with that mortified air,\\nThat your spring-time of pleasure is\\nflown,\\nNor bid me to maids that are younger\\nrepair\\nFor those raptures that still are thine\\nThough April his temples may wreathe\\nwith the vine,\\nIts tendrils in infancy curled,\\nT is the ardor of August matures us the\\nwine\\nWhose life-blood enlivens the world.\\nThough thy form that was fashioned as\\nlight as a fay s\\nHas assumed a proportion more round,\\nAnd thy glance that was bright as a fal-\\ncon s at gaze\\nLooks soberly now on the ground,\\nEnough, after absence to meet me again\\nThy steps still with ecstasy move;\\nEnough, that those dear sober glances\\nretain\\nFor me the kind language of love.\\nTHE RESOLVE\\nWRITTEN IN IMITATION OF AN OLD\\nENGLISH POEM, 1809\\nSeott wrote of this to his brother Thomas,\\nwho had guessed its authorship, when it was\\npublished anonymously It is mine and it is\\nnot or, to be less enigmatical, it is an old\\nfragment, which I coopered up into its present\\nstate with the purpose of quizzing certain\\njudges of poetry, who have been extremely de-\\nlighted, and declare that no living poet could\\nwrite in the same exquisite taste.\\nMy wayward fate I needs must plain,\\nThough bootless be the theme;\\nI loved and was beloved again,\\nYet all was but a dream:\\nFor, as her love was quickly got,\\nSo it was quickly gone;\\nNo more I 11 bask in flame so hot,\\nBut coldly dwell alone.\\nNot maid more bright than maid was e er\\nMy fancy shall beguile,\\nBy flattering word or feigned tear,\\nBy gesture, look, or smile:\\nNo more I 11 call the shaft fair shot,\\nTill it has fairly flown,\\nNor scorch me at a flame so hot\\nI 11 rather freeze alone.\\nEach ambushed Cupid I 11 defy\\nIn cheek or chin or brow,\\nAnd deem the glance of woman s eye\\nAs weak as woman s vow:\\nI 11 lightly hold the lady s heart,\\nThat is but lightly won;\\nI 11 steel my breast to beauty s art,\\nAnd learn to live alone.\\nThe flaunting torch soon blazes out,\\nThe diamond s ray abides;\\nThe flame its glory hurls about,\\nThe gem its lustre hides;\\nSuch gem I fondly deemed was mine,\\nAnd glowed a diamond stone,\\nBut, since each eye may see it shine,\\nI 11 darkling dwell alone.\\nNo waking dreams shall tinge my thought\\nWith dyes so bright and vain,\\nNo silken net so slightly wrought\\nShall tangle me again:\\nNo more I 11 pay so dear for wit,\\nI 11 live upon mine own,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0436.jp2"}, "435": {"fulltext": "PROLOGUE\\n405\\nNor shall wild passion trouble it,\\nI 11 rather dwell alone.\\nAnd thus I 11 hush my heart to rest,\\nThy loving labor s lost\\nThou shalt no more be wildly blest,\\nTo be so strangely crost:\\nThe widowed turtles mateless die,\\nr The phoenix is but one;\\nThey seek no loves no more will I\\nI 11 rather dwell alone.\\nEPITAPH\\nDESIGNED FOR A MONUMENT IN LICH-\\nFIELD CATHEDRAL, AT THE BURIAL-\\nPLACE OF THE FAMILY OF MISS\\nSEWARD\\n1809\\nAmid these aisles where once his precepts\\nshowed\\nThe heavenward pathway which in life he\\ntrode,\\nThis simple tablet marks a Father s bier,\\nAnd those he loved in life in death are\\nnear;\\nFor him, for them, a Daughter bade it rise,\\nMemorial of domestic charities.\\nStill wouldst thou know why o er the mar-\\nble spread\\nIn female grace the willow droops her\\nhead;\\nWhy on her branches, silent and unstrung,\\nThe minstrel harp is emblematic hung;\\nWhat poet s voice is smothered here in\\ndust\\nTill waked to join the chorus of the just,\\nLo one brief line an answer sad supplies,\\nHonored, beloved, and mourned, here\\nSeward lies\\nHer worth, her warmth of heart, let\\nfriendship say,\\nGo seek her genius in her living lay.\\nPROLOGUE\\nTO MISS BAILLIE S PLAY\\nFAMILY LEGEND\\nOF\\nThe enclosed jangling verses, Scott writes\\nto Lady Abercorn from Edinburgh January 21,\\n1810, are the only effort I have made in\\nrhyme since I came to Edinburgh for the win-\\nter. They were written within this hour and\\nare to be spoken to a beautiful tragedy of\\nJoanna Baillie, founded upon a Highland\\nstory of the Old Time.\\nT is sweet to hear expiring Summer s\\nsigh,\\nThrough forests tinged with russet, wail\\nand die;\\nT is sweet and sad the latest notes to hear\\nOf distant music, dying on the ear;\\nBut far more sadly sweet on foreign strand\\nWe list the legends of our native land,\\nLinked as they come with every tender tie,\\nMemorials dear of youth and infancy.\\nChief thy wild tales, romantic Caledon,\\nWake keen remembrance in each hardy\\nson.\\nWhether on India s burning coasts he toil\\nOr till Acadia s winter-fettered soil,\\nHe hears with throbbing heart and mois-\\ntened eyes,\\nAnd, as he hears, what dear illusions rise\\nIt opens on his soul his native dell,\\nThe woods wild waving and the water s\\nswell;\\nTradition s theme, the tower that threats\\nthe plain,\\nThe mossy cairn that hides the hero slain;\\nThe cot beneath whose simple porch were\\ntold\\nBy gray-haired patriarch the tales of old,\\nThe infant group that hushed their sports\\nthe while,\\nAnd the dear maid who listened with a\\nsmile.\\nThe wanderer, while the vision warms his\\nbrain,\\nIs denizen of Scotland once again.\\nAre such keen feelings to the crowd\\nconfined,\\nAnd sleep they in the poet s gifted mind\\nO no For she, within whose mighty\\npage\\nEach tyrant Passion shows his woe and\\nrage,\\nHas felt the wizard influence they inspire,\\nAnd to your own traditions tuned her lyre.\\nYourselves shall judge whoe er has\\nraised the sail\\nBy Mull s dark coast has heard this even-\\ning s tale.\\nThe plaided boatman, resting on his oar,\\nPoints to the fatal rock amid the roar", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0437.jp2"}, "436": {"fulltext": "406\\nMISCELLANEOUS POEMS\\nOf whitening waves, and tells whate er to-\\nnight\\nOur humble stage shall offer to your sight;\\nProudly preferred that first our efforts\\ngive\\nScenes glowing from her pen to breathe\\nand live;\\nMore proudly yet, should Caledon approve\\nThe filial token of a daughter s love.\\nTHE POACHER\\nThis imitation of Crabbe was pubb shed along\\nwith The Bridal of Trier main and Harold the\\nDauntless in the Edinburgh Annual Register for\\n1809. See supra, p. 283. Crabbe on seeing the\\nverses said This man, whoever he is, can do\\nall that I can, and something more.\\nWelcome, grave stranger, to our green\\nretreats\\nWhere health with exercise and freedom\\nmeets\\nThrice welcome, sage, whose philosophic\\nplan\\nBy nature s limits metes the rights of\\nman;\\nGenerous as he who now for freedom\\nbawls,\\nNow gives full value for true Indian\\nshawls\\nO er court, o er custom-house, his shoe\\nwho flings,\\nNow bilks excisemen and now bullies\\nkings.\\nLike his, I ween, thy comprehensive mind\\nHolds laws as mouse-traps baited for man-\\nkind: IO\\nThine eye applausive each sly vermin sees,\\nThat balks the snare yet battens on the\\ncheese;\\nThine ear has heard with scorn instead of\\nawe\\nOur buckskinned justices expound the law,\\nWire-draw the acts that fix for wires the\\npain,\\nAnd for the netted partridge noose the\\nswain;\\nAnd thy vindictive arm would fain have\\nbroke\\nThe last light fetter of the feudal yoke,\\nTo give the denizens of wood and wild,\\nNature s free race, to each her free-born\\nchild. 20\\nHence hast thou marked with grief fair\\nLondon s race,\\nMocked with the boon of one poor Easter\\nchase,\\nAnd longed to send them forth as free as\\nwhen\\nPoured o er Chantilly the Parisian train,\\nWhen musket, pistol, blunderbuss, com-\\nbined,\\nAnd scarce the field-pieces were left be-\\nhind\\nA squadron s charge each leveret s heart\\ndismayed,\\nOn every covey fired a bold brigade;\\nLa Douce Humanite approved the sport,\\nFor great the alarm indeed, yet small the\\nhurt; 30\\nShouts patriotic solemnized the day,\\nAnd Seine re-echoed Vive la Liberte\\nBut mad Citoyen, meek Monsieur again,\\nWith some few added links resumes his\\nchain.\\nThen, since such scenes to France no more\\nare known,\\nCome, view with me a hero of thine own,\\nOne whose free actions vindicate the cause\\nOf sylvan liberty o er feudal laws.\\nSeek we yon glades where the proud oak\\no ertops 39\\nWide-waving seas of birch and hazel copse,\\nLeaving between deserted isles of land\\nWhere stunted heath is patched with ruddy\\nsand,\\nAnd lonely on the waste the yew is seen\\nOr straggling hollies spread a brighter\\ngreen.\\nHere, little worn and winding dark and\\nsteep,\\nOur scarce marked path descends yon\\ndingle deep:\\nFollow but heedful, cautious of a trip\\nIn earthly mire philosophy may slip.\\nStep slow and wary o er that swampy\\nstream,\\nTill, guided by the charcoal s smothering\\nsteam, 50\\nWe reach the frail yet barricaded door\\nOf hovel formed for poorest of the poor;\\nNo hearth the fire, no vent the smoke re-\\nceives,\\nThe walls are wattles and the covering\\nleaves;\\nFor, if such hut, our forest statutes say,\\nRise in the progress of one night and day", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0438.jp2"}, "437": {"fulltext": "THE POACHER\\n407\\n5 Though placed where still the Conqueror s\\nhests o erawe,\\nAnd his son s stirrup shines the badge of\\nlaw\\nThe builder claims the unenviable boon,\\nTo tenant dwelling, framed as slight and\\nsoon 60\\nAs wigwam wild that shrouds the native\\nfrore\\nOn the bleak coast of frost-barred Labrador.\\nApproach and through the unlatticed\\nwindow peep\\nNay, shrink not back, the inmate is asleep;\\nSunk mid yon sordid blankets till the sun\\nStoop to the west, the plunderer s toils are\\ndone.\\nLoaded and primed and prompt for desper-\\nate hand,\\nRifle and fowling-piece beside him stand;\\nWhile round the hut are in disorder laid\\nThe tools and booty of his lawless trade 70\\nFor force or fraud, resistance or escape,\\nThe crow, the saw, the bludgeon, and the\\ncrape.\\nHis pilfered powder in yon nook he hoards,\\nAnd the filched lead the church s roof\\naffords\\nHence shall the rector s congregation fret,\\nThat while his sermon s dry his walls are\\nwet.\\nThe fish-spear barbed, the sweeping net are\\nthere,\\nDoe-hides, and pheasant plumes, and skins\\nof hare,\\nCordage for toils and wiring for the snare.\\nBartered for game from chase or warren\\nwon, 80\\nYon cask holds moonlight, run when moon\\nwas none;\\nAnd late-snatched spoils lie stowed in hutch\\napart\\nTo wait the associate higgler s evening cart.\\nLook on his pallet foul and mark his rest:\\nWhat scenes perturbed are acting in his\\nbreast\\nHis sable brow is wet and wrung with pain,\\nAnd his dilated nostril toils in vain;\\nFor short and scant the breath each effort\\ndraws,\\nAnd twixt each effort Nature claims a\\npause.\\nBeyond the loose and sable neckcloth\\nstretched, 90\\nHis sinewy throat seems by convulsion\\ntwitched,\\nWhile the tongue falters, as to utterance\\nloath,\\nSounds of dire import watchword, threat,\\nand oath.\\nThough, stupefied by toil and drugged with\\ngin\\nThe body sleep, the restless guest within\\nNow plies on wood and wold his lawless\\ntrade,\\nNow in the fangs of justice wakes dis-\\nmayed.\\nWas that wild start of terror and de-\\nspair,\\nThose bursting eyeballs and that wildered\\nair, 99\\nSigns of compunction for a murdered hare\\nDo the locks bristle and the eyebrows\\narch\\nFor grouse or partridge massacred in\\nMarch\\nNo, scoffer, no Attend, and mark with\\nawe,\\nThere is no wicket in the gate of law\\nHe that would e er so lightly set ajar\\nThat awful portal must undo each bar:\\nTempting occasion, habit, passion, pride,\\nWill join to storm the breach and force the\\nbarrier wide.\\nThat ruffian, whom true men avoid and\\ndread,\\nWhom bruisers, poachers, smugglers, call\\nBlack Ned, no\\nWas Edward Mansell once the lightest\\nheart\\nThat ever played on holiday his part\\nThe leader he in every Christmas game,\\nThe harvest-feast grew blither when he\\ncame,\\nAnd liveliest on the chords the bow did\\nglance\\nWhen Edward named the tune and led the\\ndance.\\nKind was his heart, his passions quick and\\nstrong,\\nHearty his laugh, and jovial was his song;\\nAnd if he loved a gun, his father swore,\\nT was but a trick of youth would soon be\\no er, 120\\nHimself had done the same some thirty\\nyears before.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0439.jp2"}, "438": {"fulltext": "408\\nMISCELLANEOUS POEMS\\nBut he whose humors spurn law s awful\\nyoke\\nMust herd with those by whom law s bonds\\nare broke;\\nThe common dread of justice soon allies\\nThe clown who robs the warren or excise\\nWith sterner felons trained to act more\\ndread,\\nEven with the wretch by whom his fellow\\nbled.\\nThen, as in plagues the foul contagions pass,\\nLeavening and festering the corrupted\\nmass,\\nGuilt leagues with guilt while mutual mo-\\ntives draw, i 3 o\\nTheir hope impunity, their fear the law;\\nTheir foes, their friends, their rendezvous\\nthe same,\\nTill the revenue balked or pilfered game\\nFlesh the young culprit, and example leads\\nTo darker villany and direr deeds.\\nWild howled the wind the forest glades\\nalong,\\nAnd oft the owl renewed her dismal song;\\nAround the spot where erst he felt the\\nwound,\\nRed William s spectre walked his midnight\\nround.\\nWhen o er the swamp he cast his blighting\\nlook, 140\\nFrom the green marshes of the stagnant\\nbrook\\nThe bittern s sullen shout the sedges shook\\nThe waning moon with storm-presaging\\ngleam\\nNow gave and now withheld her doubtful\\nbeam;\\nThe old Oak stooped his arms, then flung\\nthem high,\\nBellowing and groaning to the troubled sky,\\nT was then that, couched amid the brush-\\nwood sear,\\nIn Malwood-walk young Mansell watched\\nthe deer:\\nThe fattest buck received his deadly shot\\nThe watchful keeper heard and sought the\\nspot. 150\\nStout were their hearts, and stubborn was\\ntheir strife\\nO erpowered at length the Outlaw drew\\nhis knife.\\nNext morn a corpse was found upon the\\nfell\\nThe rest his waking agony may tell\\nTHE BOLD DRAGOON\\nOR, THE PLAIN OF BADAJOS\\nThis song was written shortly after the bat-\\ntle of Badajos, April, 1812, for a Yeomanry\\nCavalry dinner.\\nT was a Mare chal of France, and he fain\\nwould honor gain,\\nAnd he longed to take a passing glance at\\nPortugal from Spain;\\nWith his flying guns this gallant gay,\\nAnd boasted corps d arme e\\nO, he feared not our dragoons with thei\\nlong swords boldly riding,\\nWhack, fal de ral, etc.\\nTo Campo Mayor come, he had quietly sa\\ndown,\\nJust a fricassee to pick while his soldiers\\nsacked the town,\\nWhen, t was peste morbleu mon\\nGe ne ral,\\nHear the English bugle-call\\nAnd behold the light dragoons with their\\nlong swords boldly riding,\\nWhack, fal de ral, etc.\\nRight about went horse and foot, artillery\\nand all,\\nAnd, as the devil leaves a house, they turn\\nbled through the wall;\\nThey took no time to seek the door,\\nBut, best foot set before\\nO, they ran from our dragoons with thei\\nlong swords boldly riding,\\nWhack, fal de ral, etc.\\nThose valiant men of France they ha(\\nscarcely fled a mile,\\nWhen on their flank there soused at once\\nthe British rank and file\\nFor Long, De Grey, and Otway then\\nNe er minded one to ten,\\nBut came on like light dragoons with theii\\nlong swords boldly riding,\\nWhack, fal de ral, etc.\\nThree hundred British lads they made\\nthree thousand reel,\\nTheir hearts were made of English oak\\ntheir swords of Sheffield steel,\\nTheir horses were in Yorkshire bred,\\nAnd Beresford them led;", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0440.jp2"}, "439": {"fulltext": "SONG\\n409\\nSo huzza for brave dragoons with their\\nlong swords boldly riding,\\nWhack, fal de ral, etc.\\nThen here s a health to Wellington, to\\nBeresford, to Long,\\nAnd a single word of Bonaparte before I\\nclose my song:\\nThe eagles that to fight he brings\\nShould serve his men with wings,\\nWhen they meet the bold dragoons with\\ntheir long swords boldly riding,\\nWhack, fal de ral, etc.\\nON THE MASSACRE OF GLENCOE\\n1814\\nI O, tell me, Harper, wherefore flow\\nThy wayward notes of wail and woe\\nFar down the desert of Glencoe,\\nWhere none may list their melody\\nSay, harp st thou to the mists that fly,\\nOr to the dun-deer glancing by,\\nOr to the eagle that from high\\nScreams chorus to thy minstrelsy\\nNo, not to these, for they have rest,\\nThe mist-wreath has the mountain-crest,\\nThe stag his lair, the erne her nest,\\nAbode of lone security.\\nBut those for whom I pour the lay,\\nNot wild-wood deep nor mountain gray,\\nNot this deep dell that shrouds from\\nday,\\nCould screen from treacherous cruelty.\\nTheir flag was furled and mute their\\ndrum,\\nThe very household dogs were dumb,\\nUnwont to bay at guests that come\\nIn guise of hospitality.\\nHis blithest notes the piper plied,\\nHer gayest snood the maiden tied,\\nThe dame her distaff flung aside\\nTo tend her kindly housewifery.\\nI The hand that mingled in the meal\\nAt midnight drew the felon steel,\\nAnd gave the host s kind breast to feel\\nMeed for his hospitality\\nThe friendly hearth which warmed that\\nhand\\nAt midnight armed it with the brand\\nThat bade destruction s flames expand\\nTheir red and fearful blazonry.\\nThen woman s shriek was heard in vain,\\nNor infancy s unpitied plain,\\nMore than the warrior s groan, could gain\\nRespite from ruthless butchery\\nThe winter wind that whistled shrill,\\nThe snows that night that cloked the hill,\\nThough wild and pitiless, had still\\nFar more than Southern clemency.\\nLong have my harp s best notes been gone,\\nFew are its strings and faint their tone,\\nThey can but sound in desert lone\\nTheir gray-haired master s misery.\\nWere each gray hair a minstrel string,\\nEach chord should imprecations fling,\\nTill startled Scotland loud should ring,\\nRevenge for blood and treachery\\nSONG\\nFOR THE ANNIVERSARY MEETING OF THE\\nPITT CLUB OF SCOTLAND\\n1814\\nO, dread was the time, and more dread-\\nful the omen,\\nWhen the brave on Marengo lay slaugh-\\ntered in vain,\\nAnd beholding broad Europe bowed down\\nby her foemen,\\nPitt closed in his anguish the map of\\nher reign\\nNot the fate of broad Europe could bend\\nhis brave spirit\\nTo take for his country the safety of\\nshame;\\nO, then in her triumph remember his merit,\\nAnd hallow the goblet that flows to his\\nname.\\nRound the husbandman s head while he\\ntraces the furrow\\nThe mists of the winter may mingle with\\nrain,\\nHe may plough it with labor and sow it\\nin sorrow,\\nAnd sigh while he fears he has sowed it\\nin vain;\\nHe may die ere his children shall reap in\\ntheir gladness,\\nBut the blithe harvest-home shall re-\\nmember his claim", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0441.jp2"}, "440": {"fulltext": "4i o\\nMISCELLANEOUS POEMS\\nAnd their jubilee-shout shall be softened\\nwith sadness,\\nWhile they hallow the goblet that flows\\nto his name.\\nThough anxious and timeless his life was\\nexpended,\\nIn toils for our country preserved by his\\ncare,\\nThough he died ere one ray o er the nations\\nascended,\\nTo light the long darkness of doubt and\\ndespair\\nThe storms he endured in our Britain s\\nDecember,\\nThe perils his wisdom foresaw and o er-\\ncame,\\nIn her glory s rich harvest shall Britain\\nremember,\\nAnd hallow the goblet that flows to his\\nname.\\n^Nor forget His gray head who, all dark in\\naffliction,\\nIs deaf to the tale of our victories won,\\nAnd to sounds the most dear to paternal\\naffection,\\nThe shout of his people applauding his\\nSon;\\nBy his firmness unmoved in success and\\ndisaster,\\nBy his long reign of virtue, remember\\nhis claim\\nWith our tribute to Pitt join the praise of\\nhis Master,\\nThough a tear stain the goblet that flows\\nto his name.\\nYet again fill the wine-cup and change the\\nsad measure,\\nThe rites of our grief and our gratitude\\npaid,\\nTo our Prince, to our Heroes, devote the\\nbright treasure,\\nThe wisdom that planned, and the zeal\\nthat obeyed\\nFill Wellington s cup till it beam like his\\nglory,\\nForget not our own brave Dalhousie\\nand Graeme;\\nA thousand years hence hearts shall bound\\nat their story,\\nAnd hallow the goblet that flows to their\\nfame.\\nLINES\\nADDRESSED TO RANALD MACDONALD,\\nESQ., OF STAFFA\\nThese lines were written in the album kept\\nat the Sound of Ulva Inn, in the month of Au-\\ngust, 1814.\\nStaffa, sprung from high Macdonald,\\nWorthy branch of old Clan-Ranald\\nStaffa king of all kind fellows\\nWell befall thy hills and valleys,\\nLakes and inlets, deeps and shallows\\nCliffs of darkness, caves of wonder,\\nEchoing the Atlantic thunder;\\nMountains which the gray mist covers,\\nWhere the Chieftain spirit hovers,\\nPausing while his pinions quiver,\\nStretched to quit our land forever\\nEach kind influence reign above thee\\nWarmer heart twixt this and Staffa\\nBeats not than in heart of Staffa\\nPHAROS LOQUITUR\\nThese lines were written in the album of the\\nBell Rock Lighthouse, on a visit thither July\\n30, 1814, by the commissioners, and Scott.\\nThe account of the visit is made by R. L.\\nStevenson s father.\\nFar in the bosom of the deep,\\nO er these wild shelves my watch I keep\\nA ruddy gem of changeful light,\\nBound on the dusky brow of night,\\nThe seaman bids my lustre hail,\\nAnd scorns to strike his timorous sail.\\nLETTER IN VERSE\\nON the voyage with the commission\\ners of northern lights\\nOf the letters which Scott wrote to his friends\\nduring those happy six weeks, I have recov-\\nered only one, and it is, thanks to the leisure of\\nthe yacht, in verse. The strong and easy hero-\\nics of the first section prove, I think, that Mr.\\nCanning did not err when he told him that if\\nhe chose he might emulate even Dryden s com-\\nmand of that noble measure and the dancing\\nanapaests of the second show that he could\\nwith equal facility have rivalled the gay graces", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0442.jp2"}, "441": {"fulltext": "LETTER IN VERSE\\n411\\nof Cotton, Anstey, or Moore. Lockhart, Life,\\nChapter xxxiii.\\nTO HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF BUCCLEUCH\\nLighthouse Yacht in the Sound of Lerwick,\\nZetland, 8th August, 1814.\\nHealth to the chieftain from his clans-\\nman true\\nFrom her true minstrel, health to fair\\nBuccleuch\\nHealth from the isles where dewy Morning\\nweaves\\nHer chaplet with the tints that Twilight\\nleaves;\\nWhere late the sun scarce vanished from\\nthe sight,\\nAnd his bright pathway graced the short-\\nlived night,\\nThough darker now as autumn s shades\\nextend\\nThe north winds whistle and the mists\\nascend\\nHealth from the land where eddying whirl-\\nwinds toss\\nThe storm-rocked cradle of the Cape of\\nNoss; 10\\nOn outstretched cords the giddy engine\\nslides,\\nHis own strong arm the bold adventurer\\nguides,\\nAnd he that lists such desperate feat to\\ntry\\nMay, like the sea-mew, skim twixt surf\\nand sky,\\nAnd feel the mid-air gales around him\\nblow,\\nAnd see the billows rage five hundred feet\\nbelow.\\nHere, by each stormy peak and desert\\nshore,\\nThe hardy islesman tugs the daring oar,\\nPractised alike his venturous course to\\nkeep\\nThrough the white breakers or the pathless\\ndeep, 20\\nBy ceaseless peril and by toil to gain\\nA wretched pittance from the niggard\\nmain.\\nAnd when the worn-out drudge old ocean\\nleaves,\\nWhat comfort greets him and what hut\\nreceives\\nLady the worst your presence ere has\\ncheered\\nWhen want and sorrow fled as you ap-\\npeared\\nWere to a Zetlander as the high dome\\nOf proud Drumlanrig to my humble home.\\nHere rise no groves and here no gardens\\nblow,\\nHere even the hardy heath scarce dares to\\ngrow; 30\\nBut rocks on rocks, in mist and storm\\narrayed,\\nStretch far to sea their giant colonnade,\\nWith many a cavern seamed, the dreary\\nhaunt\\nOf the dun seal and swarthy cormorant.\\nWild round their rifted brows, with fre-\\nquent cry\\nAs of lament, the gulls and gannets fly,\\nAnd from their sable base with sullen\\nsound\\nIn sheets of whitening foam the waves re-\\nbound.\\nYet even these coasts a touch of envy\\ngain\\nFrom those whose land has known oppres-\\nsion s chain; 40\\nFor here the industrious Dutchman comes,\\nonce more\\nTo moor his fishing craft by Bressay s\\nshore,\\nGreets every former mate and brother tar,\\nMarvels how Lerwick scaped the rage of\\nwar,\\nTells many a tale of Gallic outrage done,\\nAnd ends by blessing God and Wellington.\\nHere too the Greenland tar, a fiercer guest,\\nClaims a brief hour of riot, not of rest;\\nProves each wild frolic that in wine has\\nbirth,\\nAnd wakes the land with brawls and bois-\\nterous mirth. 50\\nA sadder sight on yon poor vessel s prow\\nThe captive Norseman sits in silent woe,\\nAnd eyes the flags of Britain as they flow.\\nHard fate of war, which bade her terrors\\nsway\\nHis destined course and seize so mean a\\nprey,\\nA bark with planks so warped and seams\\nso riven\\nShe scarce might face the gentlest airs of\\nheaven:\\nPensive he sits, and questions oft if none\\nCan list his speech and understand his\\nmoan;", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0443.jp2"}, "442": {"fulltext": "412\\nMISCELLANEOUS POEMS\\nIn vain no Islesman now can use the\\ntongue 60\\nOf the bold Norse from whom their lineage\\nsprung.\\nNot thus of old the Norsemen hither came,\\nWon by the love of danger or of fame\\nOn every storm-beat cape a shapeless\\ntower\\nTells of their wars, their conquests, and\\ntheir power;\\nFor ne er for Grecia s vales nor Latian\\nland\\nWas fiercer strife than for this barren\\nstrand;\\nA race severe, the isle and ocean lords\\nLoved for its own delight the strife of\\nswords\\nWith scornful laugh the mortal pang de-\\nfied, 70\\nAnd blest their gods that they in battle\\ndied.\\nSuch were the sires of Zetland s simple\\nrace,\\nAnd still the eye may faint resemblance\\ntrace\\nIn the blue eye, tall form, proportion fair,\\nThe limbs athletic, and the long light\\nhair\\nSuch was the mien, as Scald and Minstrel\\nsings,\\nOf fair-haired Harold, first of Norway s\\nKings\\nBut their high deeds to scale these crags\\nconfined,\\nTheir only welfare is with waves and wind.\\nWhy should I talk of Mousa s castle\\ncoast 80\\nWhy of the horrors of the Sunburgh Host\\nMay not these bald disjointed lines suf-\\nfice,\\nPenned while my comrades whirl the rat-\\ntling dice\\nWhile down the cabin skylight lessening\\nshine\\nThe rays, and eve is chased with mirth and\\nwine\\nImagined, while down Mousa s desert bay\\nOur well-trimmed vessel urged her nimble\\nway,\\nWhile to the freshening breeze she leaned\\nher side,\\nAnd bade her bowsprit kiss the foamy\\ntide?\\nSuch are the lays that Zetland Isles\\nsupply; 9 o\\nDrenched with the drizzly spray and drop-\\nping sky,\\nWeary and wet, a sea-sick minstrel I.\\nW. Scott.\\nPOSTSCRIPTUM\\nKirkwall, Orkney, Aug. 13, 1814.\\nIn respect that your Grace has com-\\nmissioned a Kraken,\\nYou will please be informed that they sel-\\ndom are taken;\\nIt is January two years, the Zetland folks\\nsay,\\nSince they saw the last Kraken in Scallo-\\nway bay;\\nHe lay in the offing a fortnight or more,\\nBut the devil a Zetlander put from the\\nshore,\\nThough bold in the seas of the North to\\nassail\\nThe morse and the sea-horse, the grampus\\nand whale. 100\\nIf your Grace thinks I m writing the thing\\nthat is not,\\nYou may ask at a namesake of ours, Mr.\\nScott\\nHe s not from our clan, though his merits\\ndeserve it,\\nBut springs, I m informed, from the Scotts\\nof Scotstarvet;\\nHe questioned the folks who beheld it with\\neyes,\\nBut they differed confoundedly as to its\\nsize.\\nFor instance, the modest and diffident\\nswore\\nThat it seemed like the keel of a ship and\\nno more\\nThose of eyesight more clear or of fancy\\nmore high\\nSaid it rose like an island twixt ocean and\\nsky\\nBut all of the hulk had a steady opinion\\nThat t was sure a live subject of Neptune s\\ndominion\\nAnd I think, my Lord Duke, your Grace\\nhardly would wish,\\nTo cumber your house, such a kettle of fish,\\nHad your order related to night-caps or\\nhose\\nOr mittens of worsted, there s plenty of\\nthose.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0444.jp2"}, "443": {"fulltext": "SONGS AND VERSES FROM WAVERLEY\\n4i3\\nj Or would you be pleased but to fancy a\\nwhale\\nAnd direct me to send it by sea or by\\nmail\\nThe season, I m told, is nigh over, but\\nstill\\nI could get you one fit for the lake at\\nBowhill. 120\\nIndeed, as to whales, there s no need to\\nbe thrifty,\\nSince one day last fortnight two hundred\\nand fifty,\\nPursued by seven Orkneymen s boats and\\nno more,\\nBetwixt Truffness and Luffness were\\ndrawn on the shore S\\nYou 11 ask if I saw this same wonderful\\nsight;\\nI own that I did not, but easily might\\nFor this mighty shoal of leviathans lay\\nOn our lee-beam a mile, in the loop of the\\nbay,\\nAnd the islesmen of Sanda were all at the\\nspoil,\\nAnd flinching so term it the blubber\\nto boil; 130\\nYe spirits of lavender, drown the reflec-\\ntion\\nThat awakes at the thoughts of this odor-\\nous dissection.\\nTo see this huge marvel full fain would we\\ngo,\\nBut Wilson, the wind, and the current\\nsaid no.\\nWe have now got to Kirkwall, and needs I\\nmust stare\\nWhen I think that in verse I have once\\ncalled it fair\\nT is a base little borough, both dirty and\\nmean\\nThere is nothing to hear and there s\\nnought to be seen,\\nSave a church where of old times a prelate\\nharangued,\\nAnd a palace that s built by an earl that\\nwas hanged. 140\\nBut farewell to Kirkwall aboard we are\\ngoing,\\nThe anchor s a-peak and the breezes are\\nblowing;\\nOur commodore calls all his band to their\\nplaces,\\nAnd t is time to release you good-night\\nto your Graces\\nSONGS AND VERSES FROM\\nWAVERLEY\\nSo much of the preceding prose is given\\nwith these separate pieces as will furnish the\\nneeded setting.\\nAND DID YE NOT HEAR OF A MIRTH\\nBEFELL\\nTo the tune of I have been a Fiddler, etc.\\nThe following song, which has been since\\nborrowed by the worshipful author of the fa-\\nmous History of Fryar Bacon, has been with\\ndifficulty deciphered. It seems to have been\\nsung on occasion of carrying home the bride.\\nAppendix to General Preface.\\nAnd did ye not hear of a mirth befell\\nThe morrow after a wedding day,\\nAnd carrying a bride at home to dwell\\nAnd away to Tewin, away, away.\\nThe quintain was set, and the garlands\\nwere made,\\nT is pity old customs should ever decay\\nAnd woe be to him that was horsed on a\\njade,\\nFor he carried no credit away, away.\\nWe met a concert of fiddle-de-dees;\\nWe set them a-cockhorse, and made\\nthem play\\nThe winning of Bullen, and Upsey-frees,\\nAnd away to Tewin, away, away\\nThere was ne er a lad in all the parish\\nThat would go to the plough that day;\\nBut on his fore-horse his wench he carries,\\nAnd away to Tewin, away, away\\nThe butler was quick, and the ale he did\\ntap,\\nThe maidens did make the chamber full\\ngay;\\nThe servants did give me a fuddling cup,\\nAnd I did carry t away, away.\\nThe smith of the town his liquor so took,\\nThat he was persuaded that the ground\\nlooked blue;\\nAnd I dare boldly be sworn on a book,\\nSuch smiths as he there s but a few.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0445.jp2"}, "444": {"fulltext": "414\\nMISCELLANEOUS POEMS\\nA posset was made, and the women did sip,\\nAnd simpering said, they could eat no\\nmore;\\nFull many a maiden was laid on the lip,\\nI 11 say no more, but give o er, give o er.\\nLATE, WHEN THE AUTUMN EVENING\\nFELL\\nFrom Chapter v. His tutor, or, I should\\nsay, Mr. Pembroke, for he scarce assumed the\\nname of tutor, picked up about Edward s\\nroom some fragments of irregular verse, which\\nhe appeared to have composed under the influ-\\nence of the agitating feelings occasioned by\\nthis sudden page being turned up to him in\\nthe book of life, i. e., his being appointed cap-\\ntain in a regiment of dragoons.\\nLate, when the autumn evening fell\\nOn Mirkwood-Mere s romantic dell,\\nThe lake returned, in chastened gleam,\\nThe purple cloud, the golden beam:\\nReflected in the crystal pool,\\nHeadland and bank lay fair and cool;\\nThe weather-tinted rock and tower,\\nEach drooping tree, each fairy flower,\\nSo true, so soft, the mirror gave,\\nAs if there lay beneath the wave,\\nSecure from trouble, toil, and care,\\nA world than earthly world more fair.\\nBut distant winds began to wake,\\nAnd roused the Genius of the Lake\\nHe heard the groaning of the oak,\\nAnd donned at once his sable cloak,\\nAs warrior, at the battle cry,\\nInvests him with his panoply:\\nThen, as the whirlwind nearer pressed,\\nHe gan to shake his foamy crest\\nO er furrowed brow and blackened cheek,\\nAnd bade his surge in thunder speak.\\nIn wild and broken eddies whirled,\\nFlitted that fond ideal world;\\nAnd, to the shore in tumult tost,\\nThe realms of fairy bliss were lost.\\nYet, with a stern delight and strange,\\nI saw the spirit-stirring change\\nAs warred the wind with wave and wood.\\nUpon the ruined tower I stood,\\nAnd felt my heart more strongly bound,\\nResponsive to the lofty sound,\\nWhile, joying in the mighty roar,\\nI mourned that tranquil scene no more.\\nSo, on the idle dreams of youth\\nBreaks the loud trumpet-call of truth,\\nBids each fair vision pass away,\\nLike landscape on the lake that lay,\\nAs fair, as flitting, and as frail,\\nAs that which fled the autumn gale\\nFor ever dead to fancy s eye\\nBe each gay form that glided by,\\nWhile dreams of love and lady s charms\\nGive place to honor and to arms\\nHI\\n1 THE KNIGHT S TO THE MOUNTAIN\\nFrom Chapter ix. The questioned party\\nreplied, and, like the witch of Thalaba,\\nstill his speech was song.\\nThe knight s to the mountain\\nHis bugle to wind;\\nThe lady s to greenwood\\nHer garland to bind.\\nThe bower of Burd Ellen\\nHas moss on the floor,\\nThat the step of Lord William\\nBe silent and sure.\\nIV\\nIT S UP GLEMBARCHAN S BRAES I GAED\\nFrom Chapter xi. Balmawhapple could\\nhold no longer, but broke in what he called\\na d d good song, composed by Gibby Caeth-\\nrowit, the Piper of Cupar; and, without wasting\\nmore time, struck up,\\nIt s up Glembarchan s braes I gaed,\\nAnd o er the bent of Killiebraid,\\nAnd mony a weary cast I made\\nTo cuittle the moor-fowl s tail.\\nIf up a bonny black-cock should spring,\\nTo whistle him down wi a slug in his\\nwing,\\nAnd strap him on to my lunzie string,\\nRight seldom would I fail.\\nHIE AWAY, HIE AWAY\\nFrom Chapter xii. The stamping of horses\\nwas now heard in the court, and Davie s voice\\nsinging to the two large deer greyhounds,\\nHie away, hie away,\\nOver bank and over brae,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0446.jp2"}, "445": {"fulltext": "SONGS AND VERSES FROM WAVERLEY\\n4i5\\nWhere the copsewood is the greenest,\\nWhere the fountains glisten sheenest,\\nWhere the lady-fern grows strongest,\\nWhere the morning dew lies longest,\\nWhere the black-cock sweetest sips it,\\nWhere the fairy latest trips it:\\nHie to haunts right seldom seen,\\nLovely, lonesome, cool, and green,\\nOver bank and over brae,\\nHie away, hie away.\\nST. swithin s chair\\nFrom Chapter xiii. The -view of the old\\ntower, or fortalice, introduced some family an-\\necdotes and tales of Scottish chivalry, which\\nthe Baron told with great enthusiasm. The\\nprojecting peak of an impending crag, which\\nrose near it, had acquired the name of St.\\nSwithin s Chair. It was the scene of a peculiar\\nsuperstition, of which Mr. Kubrick mentioned\\nsome curious particulars, which reminded Wa-\\nverley of a rhyme quoted by Edgar in King\\nLear and Rose was called upon to sing a little\\nlegend in which they had been interwoven by\\nsome village poet,\\nWho, nameless as the race from which he sprung,\\nSaved other names, but left his own unsung.\\n1 The sweetness of her voice, and the simple\\nbeauty of her music, gave all the advantage\\nwhich the minstrel could have desired, and\\nwhich his poetry so much wanted.\\nOn Hallow-Mass Eve, ere you boune ye to\\nrest,\\nEver beware that your couch be blessed;\\nSign it with cross, and sain it with bead,\\nSing the Ave and say the Creed.\\nFor on Hallow-Mass Eve the Night-Hag\\nwill ride,\\nAnd all her nine-fold sweeping on by her\\nside,\\nWhether the wind sing lowly or loud,\\nSailing through moonshine or swathed in\\nthe cloud.\\nThe Lady she sate in St. Swithin s Chair,\\nThe dew of the night has damped her\\nhair:\\nHer cheek was pale, but resolved and high\\nWas the word of her lip and the glance of\\nher eye.\\nShe muttered the spell of Swithin bold,\\nWhen his naked foot traced the midnight\\nwold,\\nWhen he stopped the Hag as she rode the\\nnight,\\nAnd bade her descend and her promise\\nplight.\\nHe that dare sit on St. Swithin s Chair\\nWhen the Night-Hag wings the troubled\\nair,\\nQuestions three, when he speaks the spell,\\nHe may ask, and she must tell.\\nThe Baron has been with King Robert his\\nliege,\\nThese three long years in battle and siege-\\nNews are there none of his weal or his\\nwoe,\\nAnd fain the Lady his fate would know.\\nShe shudders and stops as the charm she\\nspeaks;\\nIs it the moody owl that shrieks\\nOr is that sound, betwixt laughter and\\nscream,\\nThe voice of the Demon who haunts the\\nstream\\nThe moan of the wind sunk silent and low,\\nAnd the roaring torrent had ceased to flow;\\nThe calm was more dreadful than raging\\nstorm,\\nWhen the cold gray mist brought the\\nghastly form\\nVII\\nyoung men will love thee more\\nfair and more fast\\nFrom Chapter xiv. The next day Edward\\narose betimes, and, in a morning walk around\\nthe house and its vicinity, came suddenly upon\\na small court in front of the dog-kennel, where\\nhis friend Davie was employed about his four-\\nfooted charge. One quick glance of his eye\\nrecognized Waverley, when, instantly turning\\nhis back, as if he had not observed him, he be-\\ngan to sing part of an old ballad.\\nYoung men will love thee more fair and\\nmore fast\\nHeard ye so merry the little bird sing", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0447.jp2"}, "446": {"fulltext": "416\\nMISCELLANEOUS POEMS\\nOld men s love the longest will last,\\nAnd the throstle-cock s head is under his\\nwing.\\nThe young man s wrath is like light straw\\non fire;\\nHeard ye so merry the little bird sing\\nBut like red-hot steel is the old man s ire,\\nAnd the throstle-cock s head is under his\\nwing.\\nThe young man will brawl at the evening\\nboard;\\nHeard ye so merry the little bird sing\\nBut the old man will draw at the dawning\\nthe sword,\\nAnd the throstle-cock s head is under his\\nwing.\\nVIII\\nFLORA MACIVOR S SONG\\nFrom Chapter xxii.\\nThere is mist on the mountain, and night\\non the vale,\\nBut more dark is the sleep of the sons of\\nthe Gael.\\nA stranger commanded it sunk on the\\nland,\\nIt has frozen each heart and benumbed\\nevery hand\\nThe dirk and the target lie sordid with\\ndust,\\nThe bloodless claymore is but reddened\\nwith rust;\\nOn the hill or the glen if a gun should\\nappear,\\nit is only to war with the heath-cock or\\ndeer.\\nThe deeds of our sires if our bards should\\nrehearse,\\nLet a blush or a blow be the meed of their\\nverse\\nBe mute every string and be hushed every\\ntone\\nThat shall bid us remember the fame that\\nis flown\\nBut the dark hours of night and of slumber\\nare past,\\nThe morn on our mountains is dawning at\\nlast;\\nGlenaladale s peaks are illumed with the\\nrays,\\nAnd the streams of Glenfinnan leap bright\\nin the blaze.\\nO high-minded Moray the exiled the\\ndear\\nIn the blush of the dawning the Standard\\nuprear\\nWide, wide to the winds of the north let it\\nLike the sun s latest flash when the tempest\\nis nigh\\nYe sons of the strong, when that dawning\\nshall break,\\nNeed the harp of the aged remind you to\\nwake\\nThat dawn never beamed on your fore-\\nfathers eye,\\nBut it roused each high chieftain to van-\\nquish or die.\\nO, sprung from the Kings who in Islay\\nkept state,\\nProud chiefs of Clan-Ranald, Glengary, and\\nSleat\\nCombine like three streams from one\\nmountain of snow,\\nAnd resistless in union rush down on the\\nfoe!\\nTrue son of Sir Evan, undaunted Lochiel,\\nPlace thy targe on thy shoulder and burnish\\nthy steel\\nRough Keppoch, give breath to thy bugle s\\nbold swell,\\nTill far Coryarrick resound to the knell\\nStern son of Lord Kenneth, high chief of\\nKintail,\\nLet the stag in thy standard bound wild in\\nthe gale\\nMay the race of Clan-Gillian, the fearless\\nand free,\\nRemember Glenlivet, Harlaw, and Dundee\\nLet the clan of gray Fingon, whose offspring\\nhas given\\nSuch heroes to earth and such martyrs to\\nheaven,\\nUnite with the race of renowned Rorri\\nMore,\\nTo launch the long galley and stretch to\\nthe oar", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0448.jp2"}, "447": {"fulltext": "SONGS AND VERSES FROM WAVERLEY\\n4i7\\nHow Mac-Shimei will joy when their chief\\nshall display\\nThe yew-crested bonnet o er tresses of\\ngray\\nHow the race of wronged Alpine and mur-\\ndered Glencoe\\nShall shout for revenge when they pour on\\nthe foe\\nYe sons of brown Dermid, who slew the\\nwild boar,\\nResume the pure faith of the great Callum-\\nMore\\nMac-Niel of the Islands, and Moy of the\\nLake,\\nFor honor, for freedom, for vengeance\\nawake\\nAwake on your hills, on your islands awake,\\nBrave sons of the mountain, the frith, and\\nthe lake\\nT is the bugle but not for the chase is\\nthe call;\\nT is the pibroch s shrill summons but not\\nto the hall.\\nT is the summons of heroes for conquest or\\ndeath,\\nWhen the banners are blazing on mountain\\nand heath;\\nThey call to the dirk, the claymore, and the\\ntarge,\\nTo the march and the muster, the line and\\nthe charge.\\nBe the brand of each chieftain like Fin s in\\nhis ire\\nMay the blood through his veins flow like\\ncurrents of fire\\nBurst the base foreign yoke as your sires\\ndid of yore\\nOr die like your sires, and endure it no\\nmore\\nIX\\nTO AN OAK TREE\\nIN THE CHURCHYARD OF IN THE HIGH-\\nLANDS OF SCOTLAND, SAID TO MARK THE\\nGRAVE OF CAPTAIN WOGAN, KILLED IN 1649.\\nFrom Chapter xxix. The letter from the\\nChief contained Flora s lines on the fate of\\nCaptain Wogan, whose enterprising character\\nis so well drawn by Clarendon. He had origi-\\nnally engaged in the service of the Parliament,\\nbut had abjured that party upon the execution\\nof Charles I. and upon hearing that the royal\\nstandard was set up by the Earl of Glencairn\\nand General Middleton in the Highlands of\\nScotland, took leave of Charles II., who was\\nthen at Paris, passed into England, assembled\\na body of cavaliers in the neighbourhood of\\nLondon, and traversed the kingdom, which had\\nbeen so long under domination of the usurper,\\nby marches conducted with such skill, dex-\\nterity, and spirit, that he safely united his\\nhandful of horsemen with the body of High-\\nlanders then in arms. After several months of\\ndesultory warfare, in which Wogan s skill and\\ncourage gained him the highest reputation, he\\nhad the misfortune to be wounded in a danger-\\nous manner, and no surgical assistance being\\nwithin reach, he terminated his short but glori-\\nous career.\\nEmblem of England s ancient faith,\\nFull proudly may thy branches wave,\\nWhere loyalty lies low in death,\\nAnd valor fills a timeless grave.\\nAnd thou, brave tenant of the tomb\\nRepine not if our clime deny,\\nAbove* thine honored sod to bloom,\\nThe flowerets of a milder sky.\\nThese owe their birth to genial May;\\nBeneath a fiercer sun they pine,\\nBefore the winter storm decay\\nAnd can their worth be type of thine\\nNo for mid storms of Fate opposing,\\nStill higher swelled thy dauntless heart,\\nAnd, while Despair the scene was clos-\\ning*\\nCommenced thy brief but brilliant part.\\nT was then thou sought st on Albyn s hill,\\n(When England s sons the strife re-\\nsigned,)\\nA rugged race resisting still,\\nAnd unsubdued, though unrefined.\\nThy death s hour heard no kindred wail,\\nNo holy knell thy requiem rung;\\nThy mourners were the plaided Gael,\\nThy dirge the clamorous pibroch sung.\\nYet who, in Fortune s summer-shine\\nTo waste life s longest term away,\\nWould change that glorious dawn of thine\\nThough darkened ere its noontide day", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0449.jp2"}, "448": {"fulltext": "4i8\\nMISCELLANEOUS POEMS\\nBe thine the Tree whose dauntless boughs\\nBrave summer s drought and winter s\\ngloom\\nRome bound with oak her patriot s brows,\\nAs Albyn shadows Wogan s tomb.\\nWE ARE BOUND TO DRIVE THE BUL-\\nLOCKS.\\nFrom Chapter xxxviii. The clan of Mac-\\nFarlane, occupying the fastnesses of the -west-\\nern side of Loch Lomond, were great depreda-\\ntors on the Low Country; and as their excursions\\nwere made usually by night, the moon was\\nproverbially called their lantern. Their cele-\\nbrated pibroch of Hoggil nam Bo, which is the\\nname of their gathering tune, intimates similar\\npractices, the sense being\\nWe are bound to drive the bullocks,\\nAll by hollows, hirsts, and hillocks,\\nThrough the sleet and through the rain.\\nWhen the moon is beaming low\\nOn frozen lake and hills of snow,\\nBold and heartily we go,\\nAnd all for little gain.\\nXI\\nBUT FOLLOW, FOLLOW ME\\nFrom Chapter lxiii.\\nBut follow, follow me,\\nWhile glow-worms light the lea,\\nI ll show ye where the dead should be\\nEach in his shroud,\\nWhile winds pipe loud,\\nAnd the red moon peeps dim through the\\ncloud.\\nFollow, follow me:\\nBrave should he be\\nThat treads by the night the dead man s\\nlea.\\nFOR A THAT AN A THAT\\nA NEW SONG TO AN OLD TUNE\\nSung at the first meeting of the Pitt Club of\\nScotland and published in the Scots Magazine\\nfor July, 1814. Scott wrote two songs for the\\nanniversary of the death of Pitt, this and th\u00c2\u00bb*\\none on page 409. This one, though not printed\\ntill July, 1814, was written for the celebration\\nin December, 1813.\\nput down by\\nThough right be aft\\nstrength,\\nAs mony a day we saw that,\\nThe true and leilf u cause at length\\nShall bear the grie for a that\\nFor a that an a that,\\nGuns, guillotines, and a that,\\nThe Fleur-de-lis, that lost her right,\\nIs queen again for a that\\nWe 11 twine her in a friendly knot\\nWith England s Rose, and a that;\\nThe Shamrock shall not be forgot,\\nFor Wellington made bra that.\\nThe Thistle, though her leaf be rude,\\nYet faith we 11 no misca that,\\nShe sheltered in her solitude\\nThe Fleur-de-lis, for a that.\\nThe Austrian Vine, the Prussian Pine,\\n(For Blucher s sake, hurra that,)\\nThe Spanish Olive, too, shall join,\\nAnd bloom in peace for a that.\\nStout Russia s Hemp, so surely twined\\nAround our wreath we 11 draw that.\\nAnd he that would the cord unbind,\\nShall have it for his gra-vat\\nOr, if to choke sae puir a sot,\\nYour pity scorn to thraw that,\\nThe Devil s elbo be his lot,\\nWhere he may sit and claw that.\\nIn spite of slight, in spite of might,\\nIn spite of brags and a that,\\nThe lads that battled for the right,\\nHave won the day and a that\\nThere s ae bit spot I had forgot,\\nAmerica they ca that\\nA coward plot her rats had got\\nTheir father s flag to gnaw that:\\nNow see it fly top-gallant high,\\nAtlantic winds shall blaw that,\\nAnd Yankee loon, beware your croun,\\nThere s kames in hand to claw that t\\nFor on the land, or on the sea,\\nWhere er the breezes blaw that,\\nThe British Flag shall bear the grie,\\nAnd win the day for a that", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0450.jp2"}, "449": {"fulltext": "IMITATION\\n419\\nFAREWELL TO MACKENZIE\\nHIGH CHIEF OF KINTAIL\\nFROM THE GAELIC\\n1 The original verses, says Scott, are\\narranged to a beautiful Gaelic air, of which\\nthe chorus is adapted to the double pull upon\\nthe oars of a galley, and which is therefore\\ndistinct from the ordinary jorums, or boat-\\nsongs. They were composed by the Family\\nBard upon the departure of the Earl of Sea-\\nforth, who was obliged to take refuge in\\nSpain, after an unsuccessful effort at insurrec-\\ntion in favor of the Stuart family, in the year\\n1718. Written by Scott in 1815.\\nFarewell, to Mackenneth, great Earl of\\nthe North,\\nThe Lord of Lochcarron, Glenshiel, and\\nSeaforth;\\nTo the Chieftain this morning his course\\nwho began,\\nLaunching forth on the billows his bark\\nlike a swan.\\nFor a far foreign land he has hoisted his\\nsail,\\nFarewell to Mackenzie, High Chief of\\nKintail\\nO, swift be the galley and hardy her\\ncrew,\\nMay her captain be skilful, her mariners\\ntrue,\\nIn danger undaunted, unwearied by toil,\\nThough the whirlwind should rise and the\\nocean should boil:\\nOn the brave vessel s gunnel I drank his\\nbonail,\\nAnd farewell to Mackenzie, High Chief of\\nKintail\\nAwake in thy chamber, thou sweet south-\\nland gale\\nLike the sighs of his people, breathe soft\\non his sail;\\nBe prolonged as regret that his vassals\\nmust know,\\nBe fair as their faith and sincere as their\\nwoe:\\nBe so soft and so fair and so faithful,\\nsweet gale,\\nWafting onward Mackenzie, High Chief of\\nKintail\\nBe his pilot experienced and trusty and\\nwise,\\nTo measure the seas and to study the\\nskies:\\nMay he hoist all his canvas from streamer\\nto deck,\\nBut O crowd it higher when wafting him\\nback\\nTill the cliffs of Skooroora and Conan s\\nglad vale\\nShall welcome Mackenzie, High Chief of\\nKintail\\nIMITATION\\nOF THE PRECEDING SONG\\nWRITTEN IN 1815\\nThese verses, one of Scott s editors ex-\\nplains, were written shortly after the death of\\nLord Seaforth, the last male representative\\nof his illustrious house. He was a nobleman\\nof extraordinary talents, who must have made\\nfor himself a lasting reputation, had not his\\npolitical exertions been checked by the painful\\nnatural infirmities alluded to in the fourth\\nstanza. The gentle dame of the last stanza\\nwas Lady Hood, daughter of the last Lord\\nSeaforth, widow of Admiral Sir Samuel Hood,\\nand later Mrs. Stewart Mackenzie of Seaford\\nand Glasserton.\\nSo sung the old bard in the grief of his\\nheart\\nWhen he saw his loved lord from his\\npeople depart.\\nNow mute on thy mountains, O Albyn, are\\nheard\\nNor the voice of the song nor the harp of\\nthe bard;\\nOr its strings are but waked by the stern\\nwinter gale,\\nAs they mourn for Mackenzie, last Chief\\nof Kintail.\\nFrom the far Southland Border a minstrel\\ncame forth,\\nAnd he waited the hour that some bard of\\nthe north\\nHis hand on the harp of the ancient should\\ncast,\\nAnd bid its wild numbers mix high with\\nthe blast;", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0451.jp2"}, "450": {"fulltext": "42 o\\nMISCELLANEOUS POEMS\\nBut no bard was there left in the land of\\nthe Gael\\nTo lament for Mackenzie, last Chief of\\nKintail.\\nAnd shalt thou then sleep, did the min-\\nstrel exclaim,\\nLike the son of the lowly, unnoticed by-\\nfame\\nNo, son of Fitzgerald in accents of\\nwoe\\nThe song thou hast loved o er thy coffin\\nshall flow,\\nAnd teach thy wild mountains to join in\\nthe wail\\nThat laments for Mackenzie, last Chief of\\nKintail.\\n1 In vain, the bright course of thy talents\\nto wrong,\\nFate deadened thine ear and imprisoned\\nthy tongue;\\nFor brighter o er all her obstructions arose\\nThe glow of the genius they could not\\noppose\\nAnd who in the land of the Saxon or\\nGael\\nMight match with Mackenzie, High Chief\\nof Kintail\\nThy sons rose around thee in light and in\\nlove,\\nAll a father could hope, all a friend could\\napprove\\nWhat vails it the tale of thy sorrows to\\ntell,\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nIn the spring-time of youth and of promise\\nthey fell\\nOf the line of Fitzgerald remains not a\\nmale\\nTo bear the proud name of the Chief of\\nKintail.\\nAnd thou, gentle dame, who must bear to\\nthy grief\\nFor thy clan and thy country the cares of\\na chief,\\nWhom brief rolling moons in six changes\\nhave left,\\nOf thy husband and father and brethren\\nbereft,\\nTo thine ear of affection how sad is the\\nhail\\nThat salutes thee the heir of the line of\\nKintail\\nWAR-SONG OF LACHLAN\\nHIGH CHIEF OF MACLEAN\\nFROM THE GAELIC\\nLike the preceding this was translated in\\n1815 and prefaced thus by Scott This song\\nappears to be imperfect, or, at least, like\\nmany of the early Gaelic poems, makes a rapid\\ntransition from one subject to another from\\nthe situation, namely, of one of the daughters\\nof the elan, who opens the song by lamenting\\nthe absence of her lover, to an eulogium over\\nthe military glories of the Chieftain. The\\ntranslator has endeavored to imitate the abrupt\\nstyle of the original.\\nA weary month has wandered o er\\nSince last we parted on the shore;\\nHeaven that I saw thee, love, once more,\\nSafe on that shore again\\nT was valiant Lachlan gave the word:\\nLachlan, of many a galley lord:\\nHe called his kindred bands on board,\\nAnd launched them on the main.\\nClan-Gillian is to ocean gone;\\nClan-Gillian, fierce in foray known;\\nRejoicing in the glory won\\nIn many a bloody broil:\\nFor wide is heard the thundering fray,\\nThe rout, the ruin, the dismay,\\nWhen from the twilight glens away\\nClan-Gillian drives the spoil.\\nWoe to the hills that shall rebound\\nOur bannered bag pipes maddening\\nsound\\nClan-Gillian s onset echoing round,\\nShall shake their inmost cell.\\nWoe to the bark whose crew shall gaze\\nWhere Lachlan s silken streamer plays\\nThe fools might face the lightning s blaze\\nAs wisely and as well\\nSAINT CLOUD\\nThis poem was written at Paris, 5th Septem-\\nber. 1815, after an evening spent at St. Cloud,\\nwith Lady Alvanley and her daughters, one of\\nwhom was the songstress referred to in the last\\nstanza but one.\\nSoft spread the southern summer night\\nHer veil of darksome blue;\\nTen thousand stars combined to light\\nThe terrace of Saint Cloud.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0452.jp2"}, "451": {"fulltext": "THE DANCE OF DEATH\\n421\\nThe evening breezes gently sighed,\\nLike breath of lover true,\\nBewailing the deserted pride\\nAnd wreck of sweet Saint Cloud.\\nThe drum s deep roll was heard afar,\\nThe bugle wildly blew\\nGood-night to Hulan and Hussar\\nThat garrison Saint Cloud.\\nThe startled Naiads from the shade\\nWith broken urns withdrew,\\nAnd silenced was that proud cascade,\\nThe glory of Saint Cloud.\\nWe sate upon its steps of stone,\\nNor could its silence rue,\\nWhen waked to music of our own\\nThe echoes of Saint Cloud.\\nSlow Seine might hear each lovely note\\nFall light as summer dew,\\nWhile through the moonless air they float,\\nProlonged from fair Saint Cloud.\\nAnd sure a melody more sweet\\nHis waters never knew,\\nThough music s self was wont to meet\\nWith princes at Saint Cloud.\\nNor then with more delighted ear\\nThe circle round her drew\\nThan ours, when gathered round to hear\\nOur songstress at Saint Cloud.\\nFew happy hours poor mortals pass,\\nThen give those hours their due,\\nAnd rank among the foremost class\\nOur evenings at Saint Cloud.\\nTHE DANCE OF DEATH\\nIn a letter to Morritt, October 2, 1815, Scott\\nwrites, Out of my Field of Waterloo has\\nsprung an odd, wild sort of thing, which I in-\\ntend to finish separately, and call it The\\nDance of Death.\\nNight and morning were at meeting\\nOver Waterloo;\\nCocks had sung their earliest greeting;\\nFaint and low they crew,\\nFor no paly beam yet shone\\nOn the heights of Mount Saint John;\\nTempest-clouds prolonged the sway\\nOf timeless darkness over day\\nWhirlwind, thunder-clap, and shower\\nMarked it a predestined hour. 10\\nBroad and frequent through the night\\nFlashed the sheets of levin-light;\\nMuskets, glancing lightnings back,\\nShowed the dreary bivouac\\nWhere the soldier lay,\\nChill and stiff and drenched with rain,\\nWishing dawn of morn again,\\nThough death should come with day.\\nT is at such a tide and hour\\nWizard, witch, and fiend have power, 20\\nAnd ghastly forms through mist and\\nshower\\nGleam on the gifted ken;\\nAnd then the affrighted prophet s ear\\nDrinks whispers strange of fate and fear,\\nPresaging death and ruin near\\nAmong the sons of men;\\nApart from Albyn s war-array,\\nT was then gray Allan sleepless lay;\\nGray Allan, who for many a day\\nHad followed stout and stern, 30\\nWhere, through battle s rout and reel,\\nStorm of shot and edge of steel,\\nLed the grandson of Lochiel,\\nValiant Fassiefern.\\nThrough steel and shot he leads no more,\\nLow laid mid friends and foemen s gore\\nBut long his native lake s wild shore,\\nAnd Sunart rough, and high Ardgower,\\nAnd Morven long shall tell,\\nAnd proud Bennevis hear with awe, 4 o\\nHow upon bloody Quatre-Bras\\nBrave Cameron heard the wild hurra\\nOf conquest as he fell.\\nLone on the outskirts of the host,\\nThe weary sentinel held post,\\nAnd heard through darkness far aloof\\nThe frequent clang of courser s hoof,\\nWhere held the cloaked patrol their course\\nAnd spurred gainst storm the swerving\\nhorse\\nBut there are sounds in Allan s ear 50\\nPatrol nor sentinel may hear,\\nAnd sights before his eye aghast\\nInvisible to them have passed,\\nWhen down the destined plain,\\nTwixt Britain and the bands of France,\\nWild as marsh-borne meteor s glance,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0453.jp2"}, "452": {"fulltext": "422\\nMISCELLANEOUS POEMS\\nStrange phantoms wheeled a revel dance\\nMake space full wide\\nAnd doomed the future slain.\\nFor martial pride,\\nSuch forms were seen, such sounds\\nwere\\nFor banner, spear, and plume.\\nheard,\\nApproach, draw near,\\nWhen Scotland s James his march\\npre-\\nProud cuirassier\\npared\\n60\\nRoom for the men of steel\\nFor Flodden s fatal plain;\\nThrough crest and plate\\nSuch, when he drew his ruthless sword,\\nThe broadsword s weight\\nAs Choosers of the Slain, adored\\nBoth head and heart shall feel.\\nThe yet unchristened Dane.\\nAn indistinct and phantom band,\\nWheel the wild dance no\\nThey wheeled their ring-dance hand in\\nWhile lightnings glance\\nhand\\nAnd thunders rattle loud,\\nWith gestures wild and dread:\\nAnd call the brave\\nThe Seer, who watched them ride\\nthe\\nTo bloody grave,\\nstorm,\\nTo sleep without a shroud.\\nSaw through their faint and shadowy\\nform\\nThe lightning s flash more red;\\n70\\nSons of the spear\\nAnd still their ghastly roundelay\\nYou feel us near\\nWas of the coming battle-fray\\nIn many a ghastly dream;\\nAnd of the destined dead.\\nWith fancy s eye\\nOur forms you spy, 120\\nAnd hear our fatal scream.\\nSONG\\nWith clearer sight\\nEre falls the night,\\nWheel the wild dance\\nJust when to weal or woe\\nWhile lightnings glance\\nYour disembodied souls take flight\\nAnd thunders rattle loud,\\nOn trembling wing each startled sprite\\nAnd call the brave\\nOur choir of death shall know.\\nTo bloody grave,\\nTo sleep without a shroud.\\nWheel the wild dance\\nWhile lightnings glance\\nOur airy feet,\\n80\\nAnd thunders rattle loud, 130\\nSo light and fleet,\\nAnd call the brave\\nThey do not bend the rye\\nTo bloody grave,\\nThat sinks its head when whirlwinds rave,\\nTo sleep without a shroud.\\nAnd swells again in eddying wave\\nAs each wild gust blows by;\\nBurst ye clouds, in tempest showers,\\nBut still the corn\\nRedder rain shall soon be ours\\nAt dawn of morn\\nSee the east grows wan\\nOur fatal steps that bore,\\nYield we place to sterner game,\\nAt eve lies waste,\\nEre deadlier bolts and direr flame\\nA trampled paste\\n90\\nShall the welkin s thunders shame;\\nOf blackening mud and gore.\\nElemental rage is tame 140\\nTo the wrath of man.\\nWheel the wild dance\\nWhile lightnings glance\\nAt morn, gray Allan s mates with awe\\nAnd thunders rattle loud,\\nHeard of the visioned sights he saw,\\nAnd call the brave\\nThe legend heard him say;\\nTo bloody grave,\\nBut the Seer s gifted eye was dim,\\nTo sleep without a shroud.\\nDeafened his ear and stark his limb,\\nEre closed that bloody day\\nWheel the wild dance\\nHe sleeps far from his Highland heath,\\nBrave sons of France,\\nBut often of the Dance of Death\\nFor you our ring makes room\\n100\\nHis comrades tell the tale, i$o", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0454.jp2"}, "453": {"fulltext": "ROMANCE OF DUNOIS\\n423\\nOn piequet-post when ebbs the night,\\nAnd waning watch-fires glow less bright,\\nAnd dawn is glimmering pale.\\nROMANCE OF DUNOIS\\nThis and the two translations that follow\\nwere published by Scott in Paul s Letters to his\\nKinsfolk, in 1815, the book that grew out of\\nhis sudden visit to Waterloo. They were taken\\nfrom a manuscript collection of French songs,\\nprobably compiled, says Scott, by some young\\nofficer, which was found stained with clay and\\nblood on the field of Waterloo. The first is\\nthe well-known\\nPartant pour la Syrie\\nand both that and the second were written and\\nset to music by Hortense Beauharnais, once\\nqueen of Holland.\\nIt was Dunois, the young and brave, was\\nbound for Palestine,\\nBut first he made his orisons before Saint\\nMary s shrine:\\nAnd grant, immortal Queen of Heaven,\\nwas still the soldier s prayer,\\nThat I may prove the bravest knight and\\nlove the fairest fair.\\nHis oath of honor on the shrine he graved\\nit with his sword,\\nAnd followed to the Holy Land the banner\\nof his Lord;\\nWhere, faithful to his noble vow, his war-\\ncry filled the air,\\nBe honored aye the bravest knight, be-\\nloved the fairest fair.\\nThey owed the conquest to his arm, and\\nthen his liege-lord said,\\ni The heart that has for honor beat by bliss\\nmust be repaid.\\nMy daughter Isabel and thou shall be a\\nwedded pair,\\nFor thou art bravest of the brave, she fair-\\nest of the fair.\\nAnd then they bound the holy knot before\\nSaint Mary s shrine\\nThat makes a paradise on earth, if hearts\\nand hands combine;\\nAnd every lord and lady bright that were\\nin chapel there\\nCried, Honored be the bravest knight, be-\\nloved the fairest fair\\nTHE TROUBADOUR\\nGlowing with love, on fire for fame,\\nA Troubadour that hated sorrow\\nBeneath his lady s window came,\\nAnd thus he sung his last good-morrow:\\nMy arm it is my country s right,\\nMy heart is in my true love s bower;\\nGayly for love and fame to fight\\nBefits the gallant Troubadour.\\nAnd while he marched with helm on head\\nAnd harp in hand, the descant rung,\\nAs, faithful to his favorite maid,\\nThe minstrel-burden still he sung:\\n4 My arm it is my country s right,\\nMy heart is in my lady s bower;\\nResolved for love and fame to fight,\\nI come, a gallant Troubadour.\\nEven when the battle-roar was deep,\\nWith dauntless heart he hewed his way,\\nMid splintering lance and falchion-sweep,\\nAnd still was heard his warrior-lay:\\nMy life it is my country s right,\\nMy heart is in my lady s bower;\\nFor love to die, for fame to fight,\\nBecomes the valiant Troubadour.\\nAlas upon the bloody field\\nHe fell beneath the foeman s glaive,\\nBut still reclining on his shield,\\nExpiring sung the exulting stave:\\nMy life it is my country s right,\\nMy heart is in my lady s bower;\\nFor love and fame to fall in fight\\nBecomes the valiant Troubadour.\\nIT CHANCED THAT CUPID ON A SEASON\\nIt chanced that Cupid on a season,\\nBy Fancy urged, resolved to wed,\\nBut could not settle whether Reason\\nOr Folly should partake his bed.\\nWhat does he then Upon my life,\\nT was bad example for a deity\\nHe takes me Reason for a wife,\\nAnd Folly for his hours of gayety.\\nThough thus he dealt in petty treason,\\nHe loved them both in equal measure;\\nFidelity was born of Reason,\\nAnd Folly brought to bed of Pleasure.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0455.jp2"}, "454": {"fulltext": "424\\nMISCELLANEOUS POEMS\\nSONG\\nON THE LIFTING OF THE BANNER OF THE\\nHOUSE OF BUCCLEUCH, AT A^ GREAT\\nFOOT-BALL MATCH ON CARTERHAUGH\\nThe foot-ball match took place December 5,\\n1815. The Ettrick Shepherd also celebrated it.\\nFrom the brown crest of Newark its sum-\\nmons extending,\\nOur signal is waving in smoke and in\\nflame;\\nach fc\\ntain descending,\\nBounds light o er the heather to join in\\nthe game.\\nThen up with the Banner, let forest winds\\nfan her,\\nShe has blazed over Ettrick eight\\nages and more;\\nIn sport we 11 attend her, in battle de-\\nfend her,\\nWith heart and with hand, like our\\nfathers before.\\nWhen the Southern invader spread waste\\nand disorder,\\nAt the glance of her crescents he paused\\nand withdrew,\\nFor around them were marshalled the\\npride of the Border,\\nThe Flowers of the Forest, the Bands of\\nBuccleuch.\\nA stripling s weak hand to our revel has\\nborne her,\\nNo mail-glove has grasped her, no spear-\\nmen surround;\\nBut ere a bold foeman should scathe or\\nshould scorn her\\nA thousand true hearts would be cold on\\nthe ground.\\nWe forget each contention of civil dissen-\\nsion,\\nAnd hail, like our brethren, Home,\\nDouglas, and Car:\\nAnd Elliot and Pringle in pastime shall\\nmingle,\\nAs welcome in peace as their fathers in\\nwar.\\nThen strip, lads, and to it, though sharp be\\nthe weather,\\nAnd if by mischance you should happen\\nto fall.\\nThere are worse things in life than a tum-\\nble on heather,\\nAnd life is itself but a game at foot-\\nball.\\nAnd when it is over we 11 drink a blithe\\nmeasure\\nTo each laird and each lady that wit-\\nnessed our fun,\\nAnd to every blithe heart that took part in\\nour pleasure,\\nTo the lads that have lost and the lads\\nthat have won.\\nMay the Forest still flourish, both Borough\\nand Landward,\\nFrom the hall of the peer to the herd s\\ningle-nook\\nAnd huzza my brave hearts, for Buc-\\ncleuch and his standard,\\nFor the King and the Country, the Clan\\nand the Duke\\nThen up with the Banner,let forest winds\\nfan her,\\nShe has blazed over Ettrick eight\\nages and more;\\nIn sport we 11 attend her, in battle de-\\nfend her,\\nWith heart and with hand, like our\\nfathers before.\\nSONGS FROM GUY MANNERING\\nPublished in 1815.\\nCANNY MOMENT, LUCKY FIT*\\nFrom Chapter iii.\\nCanny moment, lucky fit;\\nIs the lady lighter yet\\nBe it lad, or be it lass,\\nSign wi cross, and sain wi mass.\\nTrefoil, vervain, John s-wort, dill,\\nHinders witches of their will;\\nWeel is them, that weel may\\nFast upon St. Andrew s day.\\nSaint Bride and her brat,\\nSaint Colme and her cat,\\nSaint Michael and his spear,\\nKeep the house frae reif and wear.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0456.jp2"}, "455": {"fulltext": "THE RETURN TO ULSTER\\n425\\nTWIST YE, TWINE YE EVEN SO\\nFrom Chapter iv.\\nTwist ye, twine ye even so,\\nMingle shades of joy and woe,\\nHope and fear and peace and strife,\\nIn the thread of human life.\\nWhile the mystic twist is spinning,\\nAnd the infant s life beginning,\\nDimly seen through twilight bending,\\nLo, what varied shapes attending\\nPassions wild and follies vain,\\nPleasures soon exchanged for pain;\\nDoubt and jealousy and fear,\\nIn the magic dance appear.\\nNow they wax and now they dwindle,\\nWhirling with the whirling spindle,\\nTwist ye, twine ye even so,\\nMingle human bliss and woe.\\nIll\\nWASTED, WEARY, WHEREFORE STAY\\nFrom Chapter xxvii.\\nWasted, weary, wherefore stay,\\nWrestling thus with earth and clay\\nFrom the body pass away;\\nHark the mass is singing.\\nFrom thee doff thy mortal weed,\\nMary Mother be thy speed,\\nSaints to help thee at thy need;\\nHark the knell is ringing.\\nFear not snow-drift driving fast,\\nSleet or hail or levin blast;\\nSoon the shroud shall lap thee fast,\\nAnd the sleep be on thee cast\\nThat shall ne er know waking.\\nHaste thee, haste thee, to be gone,\\nEarth flits fast, and time draws on,\\nGasp thy gasp, and groan thy groan,\\nDay is near the breaking.\\nIV\\nDARK SHALL BE LIGHT\\nFrom Chapter xlix.\\nDark shall be light,\\nAnd wrong done to right,\\nWhen Bertram s right and Bertram s might\\nShall meet on Ellangowan s height.\\nLULLABY OF AN INFANT\\nCHIEF\\nAre Cadul gu lo\\nThe words of the air signify Sleep on till\\nday. The lullaby was written for Mr. Terry s\\ndramatization of Guy Mannering.\\nO, hush thee, my babie, thy sire was a\\nknight,\\nThy mother a lady both lovely and bright;\\nThe woods and the glens, from the towers\\nwhich we see,\\nThey all are belonging, dear babie, to thee.\\nO ho ro, i ri ri, cadul gu lo,\\nO ho ro, i ri ri, etc.\\n0, fear not the bugle, though loudly it\\nblows,\\nIt calls but the warders that guard thy re-\\npose;\\nTheir bows would be bended, their blades\\nwould be red,\\nEre the step of a foeman draws near to\\nthy bed.\\nO ho ro, i ri ri, etc.\\nO, hush thee, my babie, the time soon will\\ncome,\\nWhen thy sleep shall be broken by trum-\\npet and drum;\\nThen hush thee, my darling, take rest\\nwhile you may,\\nFor strife comes with manhood and wak-\\ning with day.\\nO ho ro, i ri ri, etc.\\nTHE RETURN TO ULSTER\\nFirst published in Thomson s Collection of\\nIrish Airs, 1816.\\nOnce again, but how changed since my\\nwanderings began\\nI have heard the deep voice of the Lagan\\nand Bann,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0457.jp2"}, "456": {"fulltext": "426\\nMISCELLANEOUS POEMS\\nAnd the pines of Clanbrassil resound to\\nthe roar\\nThat wearies the echoes of fair Tullamore.\\nAlas my poor bosom, and why shouldst\\nthou burn\\nWith the scenes of my youth can its rap-\\ntures return\\nCan I live the dear life of delusion again,\\nThat flowed when these echoes first mixed\\nwith my strain\\nIt was then that around me, though poor\\nand unknown,\\nHigh spells of mysterious enchantment\\nwere thrown;\\nThe streams were of silver, of diamond the\\ndew,\\nThe land was an Eden, for fancy was new.\\nI had heard of our bards, and my soul was\\non fire\\nAt the rush of their verse and the sweep\\nof their lyre:\\nTo me t was not legend nor tale to the\\near,\\nBut a vision of noontide, distinguished and\\nclear.\\nUltonia s old heroes awoke at the call,\\nAnd renewed the wild pomp of the chase\\nand the hall;\\nAnd the standard of Fion flashed fierce\\nfrom on high,\\nLike a burst of the sun when the tempest\\nis nigh.\\nIt seemed that the harp of green Erin\\nonce more\\nCould renew all the glories she boasted of\\nyore.\\nYet why at remembrance, fond heart,\\nshouldst thou burn\\nThey were days of delusion and cannot\\nreturn.\\nBut was she, too, a phantom, the maid\\nwho stood by,\\nAnd listed my lay while she turned from\\nmine eye\\nWas she, too, a vision, just glancing to\\nview,\\nThen dispersed in the sunbeam or melted\\nto dew\\nO, would it had been so O, would that\\nher eye\\nHad been but a star glance that shot\\nthrough the sky,\\nAnd her voice that was moulded to\\nmelody s thrill,\\nHad been but a zephyr that sighed and\\nwas still\\nO, would it had been so not then this\\npoor heart\\nHad learned the sad lesson, to love and to\\npart;\\nTo bear unassisted its burden of care,\\nWhile I toiled for the wealth I had no one\\nto share.\\nNot then had I said, when life s summer\\nwas done\\nAnd the hours of her autumn were fast\\nspeeding on,\\nTake the fame and the riches ye brought\\nin your train,\\nAnd restore me the dream of my spring-\\ntide again.\\nJOCK OF HAZELDEAN\\nAm A Border Melody\\nThe first stanza is old. The others were\\nadded to it for Campbell Albyn s Anthology,\\n1816.\\n1 Why weep ye by the tide, ladie\\nWhy weep ye by the tide\\nI 11 wed ye to my youngest son,\\nAnd ye sail be his bride:\\nAnd ye sail be his bride, ladie,\\nSae comely to be seen\\nBut aye she loot the tears down fa\\nFor Jock of Hazeldean.\\nNow let this wilfu grief be done,\\nAnd dry that cheek so pale;\\nYoung Frank is chief of Errington\\nAnd lord of Langley-dale\\nHis step is first in peaceful ha\\nHis sword in battle keen\\nBut aye she loot the tears down fa\\nFor Jock of Hazeldean.\\nA chain of gold ye sail not lack,\\nNor braid to bind your hair;\\nNor mettled hound, nor managed hawk,\\nNor palfrey fresh and fair;\\nAnd you, the foremost o them a\\nShall ride our forest queen.\\nBut aye she loot the tears down fa\\nFor Jock of Hazeldean.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0458.jp2"}, "457": {"fulltext": "NORA S VOW\\n427\\nThe kirk was decked at morning-tide,\\nThe tapers glimmered fair;\\nThe priest and bridegroom wait the bride,\\nAnd dame and knight are there.\\nThey sought her baith by bower and ha\\nThe ladie was not seen\\nShe s o er the Border and awa\\nWi Jock of Hazeldean.\\nPIBROCH OF DONALD DHU\\nAir Piobair of Donuil Dhuidh\\nThis song was written for Albyn s Anthol-\\nogy, 1816, and contained the following preface\\nby Scott\\nThis is a very ancient pibroch belonging to\\nClan MacDonald, and supposed to refer to the\\nexpedition of Donald Balloch, who, in 1431,\\nlaunched from the Isles with a considerable\\nforce, invaded Lochaber, and at Inverlochy\\ndefeated and put to flight the Earls of Mar\\nand Caithness, though at the head of an army\\nsuperior to his own. The words of the set,\\ntheme, or melody, to which the pipe variations\\nare applied, run thus in Gaelic\\nPiobaireachd Dhonuil Dhuidh, piobaireachd Dhonuil\\nPiobaireachd Dhonuil Dhuidh, piobaireachd Dhonuil\\nPiobaireachd Dhonuil Dhuidh, piobaireachd Dhonuil\\nPiob agus bratach air faiche Inverlochi.\\nThe pipe-summons of Donald the Black,\\nThe pipe-summons of Donald the Black,\\nThe war-pipe and the pennon are on the gathering-\\nplace at Inverlochy.\\nThis readily suggests the gathering song in\\nthe third canto of The Lady of the Lake.\\nPibroch of Donuil Dhu,\\nPibroch of Donuil,\\nWake thy wild voice anew,\\nSummon Clan Conuil.\\nCome away, come away,\\nHark to the summons\\nCome in your war array,\\nGentles and commons.\\nCome from deep glen and\\nFrom mountain so rocky,\\nThe war-pipe and pennon\\nAre at Inverlochy.\\nCome every hill-plaid and\\nTrue heart that wears one,\\nCome every steel blade and\\nStrong hand that bears one.\\nLeave untended the herd,\\nThe flock without shelter:\\nLeave the corpse uninterred,\\nThe bride at the altar;\\nLeave the deer, leave the steer,\\nLeave nets and barges:\\nCome with your fighting gear,\\nBroadswords and targes.\\nCome as the winds come when\\nForests are rended;\\nCome as the waves come when\\nNavies are stranded:\\nFaster come, faster come,\\nFaster and faster,\\nChief, vassal, page and groom,\\nTenant and master.\\nFast they come, fast they come;\\nSee how they gather\\nWide waves the eagle plume,\\nBlended with heather.\\nCast your plaids, draw your blades,\\nForward each man set\\nPibroch of Donuil Dhu,\\nKnell for the onset\\nNORA S VOW\\nAir Cha teid mis a chaoidh\\nWritten for Albyn s Anthology, 1816, with\\nthis note by Scott\\nIn the original Gaelic, the Lady makes\\nprotestations that she will not go with the\\nRed Earl s son, until the swan should build in\\nthe cliff, and the eagle in the lake until one\\nmountain should change places with another,\\nand so forth. It is but fair to add, that there\\nis no authority for supposing that she altered\\nher mind except the vehemence of her pro-\\ntestation.\\nHear what Highland Nora said,\\nThe Earlie s son I will not wed,\\nShould all the race of nature die\\nAnd none be left but he and I.\\nFor all the gold, for all the gear,\\nAnd all the lands both far and near,\\nThat ever valor lost or won,\\nI would not wed the Earlie s son.\\nA maiden s vows, old Callum spoke,\\nAre lightly made and lightly broke;\\nThe heather on the mountain s height\\nBegins to bloom in purple light;\\nThe frost-wind soon shall sweep away\\nThat lustre deep from glen and brae;", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0459.jp2"}, "458": {"fulltext": "428\\nMISCELLANEOUS POEMS\\nYet Nora ere its bloom be gone\\nMay blithely wed the Earlie s son.\\nThe swan, she said, the lake s clear\\nbreast\\nMay barter for the eagle s nest;\\nThe Awe s fierce stream may backward\\nturn,\\nBen-Cruaichan fall and crush Kilchurn;\\nOur kilted clans when blood is high\\nBefore their foes may turn and fly;\\nBut I, were all these marvels done,\\nWould never wed the Earlie s son.\\nStill in the water-lily s shade\\nHer wonted nest the wild-swan made\\nBen-Cruaichan stands as fast as ever,\\nStill downward foams the Awe s fierce\\nriver;\\nTo shun the clash of foeman s steel\\nNo Highland brogue has turned the heel;\\nBut Nora s heart is lost and won\\nShe s wedded to the Earlie s son\\nMACGREGOR S GATHERING\\nWritten for Albyn s Anthology, 1816.\\nAir ThairC a Grigalach\\nThe moon s on the lake and the mist s on\\nthe brae,\\nAnd the Clan has a name that is nameless\\nby day;\\nThen gather, gather, gather, Grigalach!\\nGather, gather, gather, etc.\\nOur signal for fight, that from monarchs\\nwe drew,\\nMust be heard but by night in our vengeful\\nhaloo\\nThen haloo, Grigalach haloo, Griga-\\nlach\\nHaloo, haloo, haloo, Grigalach, etc.\\nGlen Orchy s proud mountains, Coalchurn\\nand her towers,\\nGlenstrae and Glenlyon no longer are ours\\nWe re landless, landless, landless,\\nGrigalach\\nLandless, landless, landless, etc.\\nBut doomed and devoted by vassal and lord,\\nMacGregor has still both his heart and his\\nsword\\nThen courage, courage, courage, Grig-\\nalach\\nCourage, courage, courage, etc.\\nIf they rob us of name and pursue us with\\nbeagles,\\nGive their roofs to the flame and their flesh\\nto the eagles\\nThen vengeance, vengeance, vengeance,\\nGrigalach\\nVengeance, vengeance, vengeance, etc.\\nWhile there s leaves in the forest and foam\\non the river,\\nMacGregor, despite them, shall flourish\\nforever\\nCome then, Grigalach, come then,\\nGrigalach\\nCome then, come then, come then, etc.\\nThrough the depths of Loch Katrine the\\nsteed shall career,\\nO er the peak of Ben-Lomond the galley\\nshall steer.\\nAnd the rocks of Craig-Royston like icicles\\nmelt,\\nEre our wrongs be forgot or our vengeance\\nunfelt.\\nThen gather, gather, gather, Griga-\\nlach\\nGather, gather, gather, etc.\\nVERSES\\nCOMPOSED FOR THE OCCASION, ADAPTED\\nTO HAYDN S AIR GOD SAVE THE EM-\\nPEROR FRANCIS, AND SUNG BY A\\nSELECT BAND AFTER THE DINNER\\nGIVEN BY THE LORD PROVOST OF\\nEDINBURGH TO THE GRAND-DUKE\\nNICHOLAS OF RUSSIA, AND HIS SUITE,\\nI9TH DECEMBER, 1816.\\nGod protect brave Alexander,\\nHeaven defend the noble Czar,\\nMighty Russia s high Commander,\\nFirst in Europe s banded war;\\nFor the realms he did deliver\\nFrom the tyrant overthrown,\\nThou, of every good the Giver,\\nGrant him long to bless his own\\nBless him, mid his land s disaster\\nFor her rights who battled brave\\nOf the land of foemen master,\\nBless him who their wrongs forgave.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0460.jp2"}, "459": {"fulltext": "VERSES FROM THE ANTIQUARY\\n429\\nO er his just resentment victor,\\nVictor over Europe s foes,\\nLate and long supreme director,\\nGrant in peace his reign may close.\\nHail then, hail illustrious stranger\\nWelcome to our mountain strand;\\nMutual interests, hopes, and danger,\\nLink us with thy native land.\\nFreemen s force or false beguiling\\nShall that union ne er divide,\\nHand in hand while peace is smiling,\\nAnd in battle side by side.\\nVERSES FROM THE ANTIQUARY\\nPublished in 1816.\\nHE CAME, BUT VALOR HAD SO FIRED\\nHIS EYE\\nFrom Chapter vi.\\nHe came but valor had so fired his eye,\\nAnd such a falchion glittered on his thigh,\\nThat, by the gods, with such a load of steel,\\nI thought he came to murder not to\\nheal.\\nWHY SIT ST THOU BY THAT RUINED\\nHALL\\nFrom Chapter x.\\nWhy sit st thou by that ruined hall,\\nThou aged carle so stern and gray\\nDost thou its former pride recall,\\nOr ponder how it passed away\\nKnow st thou not me the Deep Voice\\ncried:\\nSo long enjoyed, so oft misused\\nAlternate, in thy fickle pride,\\nDesired, neglected, and accused\\n1 Before my breath, like blazing flax,\\nMan and his marvels pass away\\nAnd changing empires wane and wax,\\nAre founded, flourish, and decay.\\nRedeem mine hours the space is brief\\nWhile in my glass the sand grains\\nshiver,\\nAnd measureless thy joy or grief,\\nWhen Time and thou shalt part forever!\\nHi\\nEPITAPH\\nFrom Chapter xi.\\nHeir lyeth John o ye Girnell,\\nErth has ye nit and heuen ye kirnell.\\nIn hys tyme ilk wyfe s hennis clokit,\\nIlka gud mannis herth wi bairnis was\\nstokit,\\nHe deled a boll o bear in firlottis fyve,\\nFour for ye halie kirke and ane for puir\\nmennis wyvis.\\nTHE HERRING LOVES THE MERRY MOON-\\nLIGHT\\nFrom Chapter xi. As the Antiquary lifted\\nthe latch of the hut, he was surprised to hear\\nthe shrill, tremulous voice of Elspeth chanting\\nforth an old ballad in a wild and doleful recita-\\ntive\\nThe herring loves the merry moon-light,\\nThe mackerel loves the wind,\\nBut the oyster loves the dredging sang,\\nFor they come of a gentle kind.\\nNow haud your tongue, baith wife and\\ncarle,\\nAnd listen great and sma\\nAnd I will sing of Glenallan s Earl\\nThat fought on the red Harlaw.\\nThe cronach s cried on Bennachie,\\nAnd doun the Don and a\\nAnd hieland and lawland may mournfu be\\nFor the sair field of Harlaw.\\nThey saddled a hundred milk-white steeds,\\nThey hae bridled a hundred black,\\nWith a chafron of steel on each horse s\\nhead,\\nAnd a good knight upon his back.\\nThey hadna ridden a mile, a mile,\\nA mile but barely ten,\\nWhen Donald came branking down the\\nbrae\\nWi twenty thousand men.\\nTheir tartans they were waving wide,\\nTheir glaives were glancing clear,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0461.jp2"}, "460": {"fulltext": "43\u00c2\u00b0\\nMISCELLANEOUS POEMS\\nThe pibrochs rung frae side to side,\\nWould deafen ye to hear.\\nThe great Earl in his stirrups stood,\\nThat Highland host to see:\\nNow here a knight that s stout and good\\nMay prove a jeopardie:\\nWhat would st thou do, my squire so gay,\\nThat rides beside my reyne,\\nWere ye Glenallan s Earl the day,\\nAnd I were Roland Cheyne\\nTo turn the rein were sin and shame,\\nTo fight were wond rous peril,\\nWhat would ye do now, Roland Cheyne,\\nWere ye Glenallan s Earl\\nWere I Glenallan s Earl this tide,\\nAnd ye were Roland Cheyne,\\nThe spur should be in my horse s side,\\nAnd the bridle upon his mane.\\nIf they hae twenty thousand blades,\\nAnd we twice ten times ten,\\nYet they hae but their tartan plaids,\\nAnd we are mail-clad men.\\nMy horse shall ride through ranks sae\\nrude,\\nAs through the moorland fern,\\nThen ne er let the gentle Norman blude\\nGrow cauld for Highland kerne.\\nHe turned him right and round again,\\nSaid, Scorn na at my mither;\\nLight loves I may get mony a ane,\\nBut minnie ne er anither.\\nVERSES FROM OLD MORTALITY\\nPublished in 1816.\\nI\\nAND WHAT THOUGH WINTER WILL\\nPINCH SEVERE\\nFrom Chapter xix.\\nAnd what though winter will pinch severe\\nThrough locks of gray and a cloak that s\\nold,\\nYet keep up thy heart, bold cavalier,\\nFor a cup of sack shall fence the cold.\\nFor time will rust the brightest blade,\\nAnd years will break the strongest bow;\\nWas never wight so starkly made,\\nBut time and years would overthrow.\\nVERSES FOUND, WITH A LOCK OF HAIR, IN\\nbothwell s POCKET-BOOK\\nFrom Chapter xxiii.\\nThy hue, dear pledge, is pure and bright\\nAs in that well-remembered night,\\nWhen first thy mystic braid was wove,\\nAnd first my Agnes whispered love.\\nSince then how often hast thou pressed\\nThe torrid zone of this wild breast,\\nWhose wrath and hate have sworn to dwell\\nWith the first sin that peopled hell\\nA breast whose blood s a troubled ocean,\\nEach throb the earthquake s wild commo-\\ntion\\nOh, if such clime thou canst endure,\\nYet keep thy hue unstained and pure,\\nWhat conquest o er each erring thought\\nOf that fierce realm had Agnes wrought\\nI had not wandered wild and wide,\\nWith such an angel for my guide;\\nNor heaven nor earth could then reprove\\nme\\nIf she had lived, and lived to love me.\\nNot then this world s wild joys had been\\nTo me one savage hunting-scene,\\nMy sole delight the headlong race,\\nAnd frantic hurry of the chase;\\nTo start, pursue, and bring to bay,\\nRush in, drag down and rend my prey,\\nThen from the carcase turn away\\nMine ireful mood had sweetness tamed,\\nAnd soothed each wound which pride in-\\nflamed\\nYes, God and man might now approve me,\\nIf thou hadst lived, and lived to love me.\\nHI\\nEPITAPH ON BALFOUR OF BURLEY\\nFrom Chapter xliv. f Gentle reader, I did\\nrequest of mine honest friend Peter Proudf oot,\\ntravelling- merchant, known to many of this\\nland for his faithful and just dealings, as well\\nin muslins and cambrics as in small wares, to\\nprocure me, on his next peregrinations to that", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0462.jp2"}, "461": {"fulltext": "THE SEARCH AFTER HAPPINESS\\n43i\\nvicinage, a copy of the Epitaphion alluded to.\\nAnd, according to his report, which I see no\\nground to discredit, it runneth thus\\nHere lyes ane saint to prelates surly,\\nBeing John Balfour, sometime of Burley,\\nWho, stirred up to vengeance take,\\nFor solemn League and Cov nant s sake,\\nUpon the Magus-Moor, in Fife,\\nDid tak James Sharpe the apostate s life;\\nBy Dutchman s hands was hacked and shot,\\nThen drowned in Clyde near this saam\\nspot.\\nTHE SEARCH AFTER HAPPINESS\\nOR, THE QUEST OF SULTAUN SOLIMAUN\\nThe hint of this tale, which was published in\\n1817, was taken from a novel of Casti, La\\nCamiscia Magica.\\nO, for a glance of that gay Muse s eye\\nThat lightened on Bandello s laughing\\ntale,\\nAnd twinkled with a lustre shrewd and\\nsly\\nWhen Giam Battista bade her vision\\nhail!\\nYet fear not, ladies, the naive detail\\nGiven by the natives of that land cano-\\nrous;\\nItalian license loves to leap the pale,\\nWe Britons have the fear of shame be-\\nfore us,\\nAnd, if not wise in mirth, at least must be\\ndecorous.\\nIn the far eastern clime, no great while\\nsince, 10\\nLived Sultaun Solimaun, a mighty prince,\\nWhose eyes, as oft as they performed their\\nround,\\nBeheld all others fixed upon the ground;\\nWhose ears received the same unvaried\\nphrase,\\nSultaun thy vassal hears and he obeys\\nAll have their tastes this may the fancy\\nstrike\\nOf such grave folks as pomp and grandeur\\nlike;\\nFor me, I love the honest heart and warm\\nOf monarch who can amble round his farm,\\nOr, when the toil of state no more annoys, 20\\nIn chimney corner seek domestic joys\\nI love a prince will bid the bottle pass,\\nExchanging with his subjects glance and\\nglass;\\nIn fitting time can, gayest of the gay,\\nKeep up the jest and mingle in the lay\\nSuch monarchs best our free-born humors\\nsuit,\\nBut despots must be stately, stern, and\\nmute.\\nThis Solimaun Serendib had in sway\\nAnd where s Serendib may some critic\\nsay.\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nGood lack, mine honest friend, consult the\\nchart, 30\\nScare not my Pegasus before I start\\nIf Rennell has it not, you 11 find mayhap\\nThe isle laid down in Captain Sindbad s\\nmap\\nFamed mariner, whose merciless narrations\\nDrove every friend and kinsman out of\\npatience,\\nTill, fain to find a guest who thought them\\nshorter,\\nHe deigned to tell them over to a porter\\nThe last edition see, by Long, and Co.\\nBees, Hurst, and Orme, our fathers in the\\nRow.\\nSerendib found, deem not my tale a fic-\\ntion 40\\nThis Sultaun, whether lacking contradic-\\ntion\\nA sort of stimulant which hath its uses\\nTo raise the spirits and reform the juices,\\nSovereign specific for all sorts of cures\\nIn my wife s practice and perhaps in\\nyours\\nThe Sultaun lacking this same wholesome\\nbitter,\\nOr cordial smooth for prince s palate fitter\\nOr if some Mollah had hag-rid his dreams\\nWith Degial, Ginnistan, and such wild\\nthemes\\nBelonging to the Mollah s subtle craft, 50\\nI wot not but the Sultaun never laughed,\\nScarce ate or drank, and took a melancholy\\nThat scorned all remedy profane or holy;\\nIn his long list of melancholies, mad\\nOr mazed or dumb, hath Burton none so bad.\\nPhysicians soon arrived, sage, ware, and\\ntried,\\nAs e er scrawled jargon in a darkened\\nroom;", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0463.jp2"}, "462": {"fulltext": "432\\nMISCELLANEOUS POEMS\\nWith heedful glance the Sultaun s tongue\\nthey eyed,\\nPeeped in his bath and God knows where\\nbeside,\\nAnd then in solemn accent spoke their\\ndoom, 60\\nHis majesty is very far from well.\\nThen each to work with his specific fell:\\nThe Hakim Ibrahim instanter brought\\nHis unguent Mahazzim al Zerdukkaut,\\nWhile Roompot, a practitioner more wily,\\nRelied on his Munaskif al fillfily.\\nMore and yet more in deep array appear,\\nAnd some the front assail and some the\\nrear;\\nTheir remedies to reinforce and vary\\nCame surgeon eke, and eke apothecary; 70\\nTill the tired monarch, though of words\\ngrown chary,\\nYet dropt, to recompense their fruitless\\nlabor,\\nSome hint about a bowstring or a sabre.\\nThere lacked, I promise you, no longer\\nspeeches\\nTo rid the palace of those learned leeches.\\nThen was the council called by their\\nadvice\\nThey deemed the matter ticklish all and\\nnice,\\nAnd sought to shift it off from their\\nown shoulders\\nTartars and couriers in all speed were\\nsent,\\nTo call a sort of Eastern Parliament 80\\nOf feudatory chieftains and freehold-\\ners\\nSuch have the Persians at this very day,\\nMy gallant Malcolm calls them couroul-\\ntai;\\nI m not prepared to show in this slight\\nsong\\nThat to Serendib the same forms belong\\nE en let the learned go search, and tell me\\nif I in wrong.\\nThe Omrahs, each with hand on scimitar,\\nGave, like Sempronius, still their voice for\\nwar\\nThe sabre of the Sultaun in its sheath\\nToo long has slept nor owned the work of\\ndeath; 90\\nLet the Tambourgi bid his signal rattle,\\nBang the loud gbng and raise the shout of\\nbattle\\nThis dreary cloud that dims our sovereign s\\nday\\nShall from his kindled bosom flit away,\\nWhen the bold Lootie wheels his courser\\nround\\nAnd the armed elephant shall shake the\\nground.\\nEach noble pants to own the glorious sum-\\nmons\\nAnd for the charges Lo your faithful\\nCommons 9 8\\nThe Riots who attended in their places\\nSerendib language calls a farmer Riot\\nLooked ruefully in one another s faces,\\nFrom this oration auguring much dis-\\nquiet,\\nDouble assessment, forage, and free quar-\\nters;\\nAnd fearing these as Chinamen the Tartars,\\nOr as the whiskered vermin fear the\\nmousers,\\nEach fumbled in the pocket of his trousers.\\nAnd next came forth the reverend Convo-\\ncation,\\nBald heads, white beards, and many a\\nturban green, 108\\nImaum and Mollah there of every station,\\nSanton, Fakir, and Calendar were seen.\\nTheir votes were various some advised\\na mosque\\nWith fitting revenues should be erected,.\\nWith seemly gardens and with gay kiosque,\\nTo recreate a band of priests selected;\\nOthers opined that through the realms a\\ndole\\nBe made to holy men, whose prayers\\nmight profit\\nThe Sultaun s weal in body and in soul.\\nBut their long-headed chief, the Sheik\\nUl-Sofit,\\nMore closely touched the point; Thy\\nstudious mood,\\nQuoth he, O Prince hath thickened\\nall thy blood, 12a\\nAnd dulled thy brain with labor beyond\\nmeasure\\nWherefore relax a space and take thy\\npleasure,\\nAnd toy with beauty or tell o er thy\\ntreasure\\nFrom all the cares of state, my liege, en-\\nlarge thee,\\nAnd leave the burden to thy faithful\\nclergy.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0464.jp2"}, "463": {"fulltext": "THE SEARCH AFTER HAPPINESS\\n433\\nThese counsels sage availed not a whit,\\nAnd so the patient as is not uncom-\\nmon\\nWhere grave physicians lose their time\\nand wit\\nResolved to take advice of an old\\nwoman\\nHis mother she, a dame who once was\\nbeauteous, 130\\nAnd still was called so by each subject\\nduteous.\\nNow, whether Fatima was witch in earnest,\\nOr only made believe, I cannot say\\nBut she professed to cure disease the stern-\\nest,\\nBy dint of magic amulet or lay;\\nAnd, when all other skill in vain was shown,\\nShe deemed it fitting time to use her own.\\n1 Sympaihia magica hath wonders done\\nThus did old Fatima bespeak her son\\n1 It works upon the fibres and the pores, 140\\nAnd thus insensibly our health restores,\\nAnd it must help us here. Thou must\\nendure\\nThe ill, my son, or travel for the cure.\\nSearch land and sea, and get where er you\\ncan\\nThe inmost vesture of a happy man,\\nI mean his shirt, my son; which, taken\\nwarm\\nAnd fresh from off his back, shall chase\\nyour harm,\\nBid every current of your veins rejoice,\\nAnd your dull heart leap light as shepherd-\\nboy s.\\nSuch was the counsel from his mother\\ncame 150\\nI know not if she had some under-game,\\nAs doctors have, who bid their patients\\nroam\\nAnd live abroad when sure to die at home\\nOr if she thought that, somehow or another,\\nQueen-Regent sounded better than Queen-\\nMother;\\nBut, says the Chronicle who will go look\\nit\\nThat such was her advice the Sultaun\\ntook it.\\nAll are on board the Sultaun and his\\ntrain,\\nIn gilded galley prompt to plough the main.\\nThe old Rais was the first who ques-\\ntioned, Whither 160\\nThey paused Arabia, thought the pen-\\nsive prince,\\nWas called The Happy many ages since\\nFor Mokha, Rais. And they came\\nsafely thither.\\nBut not in Araby with all her balm,\\nNor where Judea weeps beneath her palm,\\nNot in rich Egypt, not in Nubian waste,\\nCould there the step of happiness be traced.\\nOne Copt alone professed to have seen her\\nsmile,\\nWhen Bruce his goblet filled at infant\\nNile:\\nShe blessed the dauntless traveller as he\\nquaffed, 170\\nBut vanished from him with the ended\\ndraught.\\n1 Enough of turbans, said the weary King,,,\\nThese dolimans of ours are not the thing;\\nTry we the Giaours, these men of coat and\\ncap, I\\nIncline to think some of them must be\\nhappy;\\nAt least, they have as fair a cause as any\\ncan,\\nThey drink good wine and keep no Rama-\\nzan.\\nThen northward, ho The vessel cuts\\nthe sea,\\nAnd fair Italia lies upon her lee.\\nBut fair Italia, she who once unfurled 180\\nHer eagle-banners o er a conquered world,\\nLong from her throne of domination tum-\\nbled;\\nLay by her quondam vassals sorely hum-\\nbled,\\nThe Pope himself looked pensive, pale, and\\nlean,\\nAnd was not half the man he once had\\nbeen.\\nWhile these the priest and those the noble\\nfleeces,\\nOur poor old boot, they said, is torn to\\npieces.\\nIts tops the vengeful claws of Austria feel,\\nAnd the Great Devil is rending toe and\\nheel.\\nIf happiness you seek, to tell you truly, 190\\nWe think she dwells with one Giovanni\\nBulli;\\nA tramontane, a heretic the buck,\\nPoffaredio still has all the luck;\\nBy land or ocean never strikes his flag\\nAnd then a perfect walking money-bag.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0465.jp2"}, "464": {"fulltext": "434\\nMISCELLANEOUS POEMS\\nOff set our prince to seek John Bull s\\nabode,\\nBut first took France it lay upon the\\nroad.\\nMonsieur Baboon after much late commo-\\ntion\\nWas agitated like a settling ocean,\\nQuite out of sorts and could not tell what\\nailed him, 200\\nOnly the glory of his house had failed him;\\nBesides, some tumors on his noddle biding\\nGave indication of a recent hiding.\\nOur prince, though Sultauns of such things\\nare heedless,\\nThought it a thing indelicate and need-\\nless\\nTo ask if at that moment he was happy.\\nAnd Monsieur, seeing that he was comme il\\nfaut, a\\nLoud voice mustered up, for Vive le Roi\\nThen whispered, Ave you any news of\\nNappy\\nThe Sultaun answered him with a cross\\nquestion, 210\\nPray, can you tell me aught of one John\\nBull,\\nThat dwells somewhere beyond your\\nherring-pool\\nThe query seemed of difficult digestion,\\nThe party shrugged and grinned and took\\nhis snuff,\\nAnd found his whole good-breeding scarce\\nenough.\\nTwitching his visage into as many puckers\\nAs damsels wont to put into their tuckers\\nEre liberal Fashion damned both lace and\\nlawn,\\nAnd bade the veil of modesty be drawn\\nReplied the Frenchman after a brief pause,\\nJean Bool I vas not know him Yes,\\nIvas 22i\\nI vas remember dat, von year or two,\\nI saw him at von place called Vaterloo\\nMa foi il s est tres joliment battu,\\nDat is for Englishman, m entendez-\\nvous\\nBut den he had wit him one damn son-gun,\\nRogue I no like dey call him Velling-\\nton.\\nMonsieur s politeness could not hide his\\nfret,\\nSo Solimaun took leave and crossed the\\nstrait.\\nJohn Bull was in his very worst of\\nmoods, 230\\nRaving of sterile farms and unsold goods;\\nHis sugar-loaves and bales about he threw,\\nAnd on his counter beat the devil s tattoo.\\nHis wars were ended and the victory won,\\nBut then twas reckoning-day with honest\\nJohn;\\nAnd authors vouch, t was still this worthy s\\nway,\\nNever to grumble till he came to pay;\\nAnd then he always thinks, his temper s\\nsuch,\\nThe work too little and the pay too much.\\nYet, grumbler as he is, so kind and\\nhearty 240\\nThat when his mortal foe was on the floor,\\nAnd past the power to harm his quiet\\nmore,\\nPoor John had wellnigh wept for Bona-\\nparte\\nSuch was the wight whom Solimaun sa-\\nlamed,\\nAnd who are you, John answered, and\\nbe d d\\nA stranger, come to see the happiest\\nman\\nSo, signior, all avouch in Frangistan.\\nHappy my tenants breaking on my\\nhand;\\nUnstocked my pastures and untilled my\\nland;\\nSugar and rum a drug, and mice and\\nmoths 250\\nThe sole consumers of my good broad-\\ncloths\\nHappy Why cursed war and racking\\ntax\\nHave left us scarcely raiment to our backs.\\nIn that case, signior, I may take my leave;\\nI came to ask a favor but I grieve\\nFavor said John, and eyed the Sultaun\\nhard,\\nIt s my belief you came to break the\\nyard\\nBut, stay, you look like some poor foreign\\nsinner\\nTake that to buy yourself a shirt and\\ndinner.\\nWith that he chucked a guinea at his\\nhead 260\\nBut with due dignity the Sultaun said,\\nPermit me, sir, your bounty to decline\\nA shirt indeed I seek, but none of thine.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0466.jp2"}, "465": {"fulltext": "THE SEARCH AFTER HAPPINESS\\n435\\nSignior, I kiss your hands, so fare you\\nwell.\\n4 Kiss and be d d, quoth John, and go\\nto hell\\nNext door to John there dwelt his sister\\nPeg,\\nOnce a wild lass as ever shook a leg\\nWhen the blithe bagpipe blew but, so-\\nberer now,\\nShe doucely span her flax and milked her\\ncow.\\nAnd whereas erst she was a needy slat-\\ntern, 270\\nNor now of wealth or cleanliness a pat-\\ntern,\\nYet once a month her house was partly\\nswept,\\nAnd once a week a plenteous board she\\nkept.\\nAnd whereas, eke, the vixen used her claws\\nAnd teeth of yore on slender provoca-\\ntion,\\nShe now was grown amenable to laws,\\nA quiet soul as any in the nation;\\nThe sole remembrance of her warlike joys\\nWas in old songs she sang to please her\\nboys.\\nJohn Bull, whom iu their years of early\\nstrife 280\\nShe wont to lead a cat-and-doggish life,\\nNow found the woman, as he said, a\\nneighbor,\\nWho looked to the main chance, declined\\nno labor,\\nXoved a long grace and spoke a northern\\njargon,\\nAnd was d d close in making of a bar-\\ngain.\\nThe Sultaun entered, and he made his\\nleg,\\nAnd with decorum curtsied sister Peg\\nShe loved a book, and knew a thing or\\ntwo,\\nAnd guessed at once with whom she had\\nto do.\\nShe bade him Sit into the fire, and\\ntook 290\\nHer dram, her cake, her kebbuck from the\\nnook;\\nAsked him about the news from Eastern\\nparts\\nAnd of her absent bairns, puir Highland\\nhearts\\nIf peace brought down the price of tea and\\npepper,\\nAnd if the nitmugs were grown ony\\ncheaper;\\nWere there nae speerings of our Mungo\\nPark\\nYe 11 be the gentleman that wants the\\nsark\\nIf ye wad buy a web o auld wife s spin-\\nning,\\nI 11 warrant ye it s a weel- wearing linen/\\nThen up got Peg and round the house gan\\nscuttle 300\\nIn search of goods her customer to nail,\\nUntil the Sultaun strained his princely\\nthrottle,\\nAnd holloed, Ma am, that is not what\\nI ail.\\nPray, are you happy, ma am, in this snug\\nglen\\nHappy said Peg; What for d ye want\\ntoken?\\nBesides, just think upon this by-gane year,\\nGrain wadna pay the yoking of the\\npleugh.\\nWhat say you to the present Meal s\\nsae dear,\\nTo make their brose my bairns have\\nscarce aneugh.\\nThe devil take the shirt, said Soli-\\nmaun, 3 10\\nI think my quest will end as it began.\\nFarewell, ma am; nay, no ceremony, I\\nbeg\\nYe 11 no be for the linen then said\\nPeg.\\nNow, for the land of verdant Erin\\nThe Sultaun s royal bark is steering,\\nThe Emerald Isle where honest Paddy\\ndwells,\\nThe cousin of John Bull, as story tells.\\nFor a long space had John, with words of\\nthunder,\\nHard looks, and harder knocks, kept Paddy\\nunder,\\nTill the poor lad, like boy that s flogged\\nunduly, 320\\nHad gotten somewhat restive and unruly.\\nHard was his lot and lodging, you 11 allow,\\nA wigwam that would hardly serve a sow;\\nHis landlord, and of middle men two\\nbrace,\\nHad screwed his rent up to the starving-\\nplace", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0467.jp2"}, "466": {"fulltext": "43 6\\nMISCELLANEOUS POEMS\\nHis garment was a top-coat and an old\\none,\\nHis meal was a potato and a cold one;\\nBut still for fun or frolic and all that,\\nIn the round world was not the match of\\nPat.\\nThe Sultaun saw him on a holiday, 330\\nWhich is with Paddy still a jolly day:\\nWhen mass is ended, and his load of sins\\nConfessed, and Mother Church hath from\\nher binns\\nDealt forth a bonus of imputed merit,\\nThen is Pat s time for fancy, whim, and\\nspirit\\nTo jest, to sing, to caper fair and free,\\nAnd dance as light as leaf upon the tree.\\nBy Mahomet, said Sultaun Solimaun,\\nThat ragged fellow is our very man\\nBush in and seize him do not do him\\nhurt, 34 o\\nBut, will he nill he, let me have his shirt.\\nShilela their plan was wellnigh after balk-\\ning\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nMuch less provocation will set it a- walk-\\ning\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nBut the odds that foiled Hercules foiled\\nPaddy Whack;\\nThey seized, and they floored, and they\\nstripped him Alack\\nUp-bubboo Paddy had not a shirt to his\\nback\\nAnd the king, disappointed, with sorrow\\nand shame\\nWent back to Serendib as sad as he came.\\nLINES\\nWRITTEN FOR MISS SMITH\\nMiss Smith, afterward Mrs. Bartley, was an\\nactress who greatly pleased Seott, and he wrote\\nthese lines for the night of her benefit at the\\nEdinburgh Theatre in 1817.\\nWhen the lone pilgrim views afar\\nThe shrine that is his guiding star,\\nWith awe his footsteps print the road\\nWhich the loved saint of yore has trod.\\nAs near he draws and yet more near,\\nHis dim eye sparkles with a tear;\\nThe Gothic fane s unwonted show,\\nThe choral hymn, the tapers glow,\\nOppress his soul; while they delight\\nAnd chasten rapture with affright.\\nNo longer dare he think his toil\\nCan merit aught his patron s smile;\\nToo light appears the distant way,\\nThe chilly eve, the sultry day\\nAll these endured no favor claim,\\nBut murmuring forth the sainted name,\\nHe lays his little offering down,\\nAnd only deprecates a frown.\\nWe too who ply the Thespian art\\nOft feel such bodings of the heart,\\nAnd when our utmost powers are strained\\nDare hardly hope your favor gained.\\nShe who from sister climes has sought\\nThe ancient land where Wallace fought\\nLand long renowned for arms and arts,\\nAnd conquering eyes and dauntless\\nhearts\\nShe, as the flutterings here avow,\\nFeels all the pilgrim s terrors now\\nYet sure on Caledonian plain\\nThe stranger never sued in vain.\\nT is yours the hospitable task\\nTo give the applause she dare not ask;\\nAnd they who bid the pilgrim speed,\\nThe pilgrim s blessing be their meed.\\nMR. KEMBLE S FAREWELL AD-\\nDRESS\\nON TAKING LEAVE OF THE EDINBURGH\\nSTAGE\\nMr. Kemble recited these lines in the dress\\nof Macbeth, which he had just been acting,\\nMarch 29, 1817.\\nAs the worn war-horse, at the trumpet s\\nsound,\\nErects his mane, and neighs, and paws the\\nground\\nDisdains the ease his generous lord assigns.\\nAnd longs to rush on the embattled lines,\\nSo I, your plaudits ringing on mine ear,\\nCan scarce sustain to think our parting near;\\nTo think my scenic hour forever past,\\nAnd that those valued plaudits are my last.\\nWhy should we part, while still some\\npowers remain,\\nThat in your service strive not yet in vain\\nCannot high zeal the strength of youth\\nsupply,\\nAnd sense of duty fire the fading eye;", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0468.jp2"}, "467": {"fulltext": "THE SUN UPON THE WEIRDLAW HILL\\n437\\nAnd all the wrongs of age remain sub-\\ndued\\nBeneath the burning glow of gratitude\\nAh, no the taper, wearing to its close,\\nOft for a space in fitful lustre glows\\nBut all too soon the transient gleam is\\npast,\\nIt cannot be renewed, and will not last;\\nEven duty, zeal, and gratitude can wage\\nBut short-lived conflict with the frosts of\\nage.\\nYes It were poor, remembering what I\\nwas,\\nTo live a pensioner on your applause,\\nTo drain the dregs of your endurance dry,\\nAnd take, as alms, the praise I once could\\nbuy;\\nTill every sneering youth around enquires,\\nIs this the man who once could please\\nour sires\\nAnd scorn assumes compassion s doubtful\\nmien,\\nTo warn me off from the encumbered\\nscene.\\nThis must not be and higher duties\\ncrave\\nSome space between the theatre and the\\ngrave,\\nThat, like the Roman in the Capitol,\\nI may adjust my mantle ere I fall:\\nMy life s brief act in public service flown,\\nThe last, the closing scene, must be my\\nown.\\nHere, then, adieu while yet some well-\\ngraced parts\\nMay fix an ancient favorite in your hearts,\\nNot quite to be forgotten, even when\\nYou look on better actors, younger men:\\nAnd if your bosoms own this kindly debt\\n\u00e2\u0080\u00a2Of old remembrance, how shall mine for-\\nget\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nO, how forget how oft I hither came\\nIn anxious hope, how oft returned with\\nfame\\nHow oft around your circle this weak hand\\nHas waved immortal Shakespeare s magic\\nwand,\\nTill the full burst of inspiration came,\\nAnd I have felt, and you have fanned the\\nflame\\nBy mem ry treasured, while her reign\\nendures,\\nThose hours must live and all their\\ncharms are yours.\\nO favored Land renowned for arts and\\narms,\\nFor manly talent, and for female charms,\\nCould this full bosom prompt the sinking\\nline,\\nWhat fervent benedictions now were thine\\nBut my last part is played, my knell is\\nrung,\\nWhen e en your praise falls faltering from\\nmy tongue;\\nAnd all that you can hear, or I can tell,\\nIs Friends and Patrons, hail, and fare\\nyou WELL.\\nTHE SUN UPON THE WEIRDLAW\\nHILL\\nAir Bimhin aluin stu mo run\\nIt was while struggling with such languor,\\non one lovely evening of this autumn [1817],\\nthat he composed the following beautiful\\nverses. They mark the very spot of their birth,\\nnamely, the then naked height overhanging\\nthe northern side of the Cauldshields Loch,\\nfrom which Melrose Abbey to the eastward,\\nand the hills of Ettrick and Yarrow to the\\nwest, are now visible over a wide range of rich\\nwoodland, all the work of the poet s hand.\\nLockhart s Life, Chapter xxxix.\\nThe sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill\\nIn Ettrick s vale is sinking sweet;\\nThe westland wind is hush and still,\\nThe lake lies sleeping at my feet.\\nYet not the landscape to mine eye\\nBears those bright hues that once it\\nbore,\\nThough evening with her richest dye\\nFlames o er the hills of Ettrick s shore.\\nWith listless look along the plain\\nI see Tweed s silver current glide,\\nAnd coldly mark the holy fane\\nOf Melrose rise in ruined pride.\\nThe quiet lake, the balmy air,\\nThe hill, the stream, the tower, the\\ntree\\nAre they still such as once they were,\\nOr is the dreary change in me\\nAlas the warped and broken board,\\nHow can it bear the painter s dye\\nThe harp of strained and tuneless chord,\\nHow to the minstrel s skill reply", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0469.jp2"}, "468": {"fulltext": "438\\nMISCELLANEOUS POEMS\\nTo aching eyes each landscape lowers,\\nTo feverish pulse each gale blows chill:\\nAnd Araby s or Eden s bowers\\nWere barren as this moorland hill.\\nSONG FROM ROB ROY\\nPublished in 1817.\\nTO THE MEMORY OF EDWARD THE\\nBLACK PRINCE\\nfor the voice of that wild horn,\\nOn Fontarabian echoes borne,\\nThe dying hero s call,\\nThat told imperial Charlemagne,\\nHow Paynim sons of swarthy Spain\\nHad wrought his champion s fall.\\nSad over earth and ocean sounding.\\nAnd England s distant cliffs astounding,\\nSuch are the notes should say\\nHow Britain s hope, and France s fear,\\nVictor of Cressy and Poitier,\\nIn Bourdeaux dying lay.\\nRaise my faint head, my squires, he said,\\nAnd let the casement be displayed,\\nThat I may see once more\\nThe splendor of the setting sun\\nGleam on thy mirror d wave, Garonne,\\nAnd Blaye s empurpled shore.\\n1 Like me, he sinks to Glory s sleep,\\nHis fall the dews of evening steep,\\nAs if in sorrow shed.\\nSo soft shall fall the trickling tear,\\nWhen England s maids and matrons hear\\nOf their Black Edward dead.\\nAnd though my sun of glory set,\\nNor France nor England shall forget\\nThe terror of my name;\\nAnd oft shall Britain s heroes rise,\\nNew planets in these southern skies,\\nThrough clouds of blood and flame.\\nTHE MONKS OF BANGOR S\\nMARCH\\nAm Ymdaith Mionge\\nWritten for Mr. George Thomson s Welsh\\nMelodies, in 1817, and provided by Scott with\\nthis note, Ethelf rid, or Olfrid, King of\\nNorthumberland, having besieged Chester u\\n613, and Brockmael, a British Prince, advan-\\ncing to relieve it, the religious of the neighbor-\\ning Monastery of Bangor marched in procession,\\nto pray for the success of their countrymen.\\nBut the British being totally defeated, the\\nheathen victor put the monks to the sword, and\\ndestroyed their monastery. The tune to which\\nthese verses are adapted is called the Monks*\\nMarch, and is supposed to have been played\\nat their ill-omened procession.\\nWhen the heathen trumpet s clang\\nRound beleaguered Chester rang,\\nVeiled nun and friar gray\\nMarched from Bangor s fair Abbaye;\\nHigh their holy anthem sounds,\\nCestria s vale the hymn rebounds,\\nFloating down the sylvan Dee,\\nO miserere, Domine t\\nOn the long procession goes,\\nGlory round their crosses glows,\\nAnd the Virgin-mother mild\\nIn their peaceful banner smiled;\\nWho could think such saintly band\\nDoomed to feel unhallowed hand\\nSuch was the Divine decree,\\nmiserere, Domine I\\nBands that masses only sung,\\nHands that censers only swung,\\nMet the northern bow and bill,\\nHeard the war-cry wild and shrill:\\nWoe to Brockmael s feeble hand,\\nWoe to Olfrid s bloody brand,\\nWoe to Saxon cruelty,\\nmiserere, Domine\\nWeltering amid warriors slain,\\nSpurned by steeds with bloody mane,\\nSlaughtered down by heathen blade,\\nBangor s peaceful monks are laid:\\nWord of parting rest unspoke,\\nMass unsung and bread unbroke;\\nFor their souls for charity,\\nSing, miserere, Domine f\\nBangor o er the murder wail\\nLong thy ruins told the tale,\\nShattered towers and broken arch\\nLong recalled the woful march:\\nOn thy shrine no tapers burn,\\nNever shall thy priests return;\\nThe pilgrim sighs and sings for thee,\\nO miserere, Domine", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0470.jp2"}, "469": {"fulltext": "MACKRIMMON S LAMENT\\n439\\nEPILOGUE TO THE APPEAL\\nThe Appeal, a tragedy by John Gait, was\\nplayed in Edinburgh and Mrs. Siddons spoke\\nthis epilogue February 16, 1818.\\nA cat of yore or else old iEsop lied\\nWas changed into a fair and blooming\\nbride,\\nBut spied a mouse upon her marriage-day,\\nForgot her spouse and seized upon her\\nprey;\\nEven thus my bridegroom lawyer, as you\\nsaw,\\nThrew off poor me and pounced upon papa.\\nHis neck from Hymen s mystic knot made\\nloose,\\nHe twisted round my sire s the literal\\nnoose.\\nSuch are the fruits of our dramatic labor\\nSince the New Jail became our next-door\\nneighbor.\\nYes, times are changed; for in your\\nfather s age\\nThe lawyers were the patrons of the stage\\nHowever high advanced by future fate,\\nThere stands the bench [points to the Pit]\\nthat first received their weight.\\nThe future legal sage t was ours to see\\nDoom though unwigged and plead without\\na fee.\\nBut now, astounding each poor mimic\\nelf,\\nInstead of lawyers comes the law herself;\\nTremendous neighbor, on our right she\\ndwells,\\nBuilds high her towers and excavates her\\ncells;\\nWhile on the left she agitates the town\\nWith the tempestuous question, Up or\\ndown\\nTwixt Scylla and Charybdis thus stand we,\\nLaw s final end and law s uncertainty.\\nBut, soft who lives at Rome the Pope\\nmust flatter,\\nAnd jails and lawsuits are no jesting matter.\\nThen just farewell We wait with seri-\\nous awe\\nTill your applause or censure gives the\\nlaw.\\nTrusting our humble efforts may assure ye,\\nWe hold you Court and Counsel, Judge\\nand Jury.\\nMACKRIMMON S LAMENT\\nAir Cha till mi tuille\\nThis Lament was contributed by Scott to\\nAlbyn s Anthology in 1818, with this preface\\nMackrimmon, hereditary piper to the Laird of\\nMacleod, is said to have composed this Lament\\nwhen the Clan was about to depart upon a\\ndistant and dangerous expedition. The Min-\\nstrel was impressed with a belief, which the\\nevent verified, that he was to be slain in the\\napproaching feud and hence the Gaelic words,,\\nCha till mi tuille ged thillis Macleod, cha\\ntill Mackrimmon, I shall never return al-\\nthough Macleod returns, yet Mackrimmon\\nshall never return The piece is but too\\nwell known, from its being the strain with\\nwhich the emigrants from the West Highlands\\nand Isles usually take leave of their native\\nshore.\\nMacleod s wizard flag from the gray\\ncastle sallies,\\nThe rowers are seated, unmoored are the\\ngalleys;\\nGleam war-axe and broadsword, clang tar-\\nget and quiver,\\nAs Mackrimmon sings, Farewell to Dun-\\nvegan forever\\nFarewell to each cliff on which breakers\\nare foaming;\\nFarewell, each dark glen in which red-deer\\nare roaming;\\nFarewell, lonely Skye, to lake, mountain,,\\nand river;\\nMacleod may return, but Mackrimmon\\nshall never\\nFarewell the bright clouds that on Quil-\\nlan are sleeping;\\nFarewell the bright eyes in the Dun that\\nare weeping;\\nTo each minstrel delusion, farewell and\\nforever\\nMackrimmon departs, to return to you\\nnever\\nThe Banshee s wild voice sings the death-\\ndirge before me,\\nThe pall of the dead for a mantle hangs\\no er me;\\nBut my heart shall not flag and my nerves\\nshall not shiver,\\nThough devoted I go to return again,\\nnever", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0471.jp2"}, "470": {"fulltext": "440\\nMISCELLANEOUS POEMS\\nToo oft shall the notes of Mackrimmon s\\nbewailing\\nBe heard when the Gael on their exile are\\nsailing\\nDear land to the shores whence unwilling\\nwe sever\\nReturn return return shall we never\\nCha till, cha till, cha till sin tuille,\\nCha till, cha till, cha till sin tuille,\\nCha till, cha till, cha till sin tuille,\\nGea thillis Macleod, cha till Mackrimmon\\nDONALD CAIRD S COME AGAIN\\nAir Malcolm Caird s\\ncome again.\\nThis also was contributed to Albyn s Anthol-\\nogy in 1818.\\nCHORUS\\nDonald Caird s come again\\nDonald Caird s come again\\nTell the news in brugh and glen,\\nDonald Caird s come again\\nDonald Caird can lilt and sing,\\nBlithely dance the Hieland fling.\\nDrink till the gudeman be blind,\\nFleech till the gudewife be kind;\\nHoop a leglin, clout a pan,\\nOr crack a pow wi ony man;\\nTell the news in brugh and glen,\\nDonald Caird s come again.\\nDonald Caird s come again\\nDonald Caird s come again\\nTell the news in brugh and glen,\\nDonald Caird s come again.\\nDonald Caird can wire a maukin,\\nKens the wiles o dun-deer staukin\\nLeisters kipper, makes a shift\\nTo shoot a muir-fowl in the drift;\\nWater-bailiffs, rangers, keepers,\\nHe can wauk when they are sleepers;\\nNot for bountith or reward\\nDare ye mell wi Donald Caird.\\nDonald Caird s come again\\nDonald Caird s come again\\nGar the bag-pipes hum amain,\\nDonald Caird s come again.\\nDonald Caird can drink a gill\\nFast as hostler- wife can fill;\\nIlka ane that sells gude liquor\\nKens how Donald bends a bicker;\\nWhen he s fou he s stout and saucy,\\nKeeps the cantle o the cawsey;\\nHieland chief and Lawland laird\\nMaun gie room to Donald Caird\\nDonald Caird s come again\\nDonald Caird s come again\\nTell the news in brugh and glen,\\nDonald Caird s come again.\\nSteek the amrie, lock the kist,\\nElse some gear may weel be mist;\\nDonald Caird finds orra things\\nWhere Allan Gregor fand the tings;\\nDunts of kebbuck, taits o woo,\\nWhiles a hen and whiles a sow,\\nWebs or duds frae hedge or yard\\nWare the wuddie, Donald Caird\\nDonald Caird s come again\\nDonald Caird s come again\\nDinna let the Shirra ken\\nDonald Caird s come again.\\nOn Donald Caird the doom was stern,\\nCraig to tether, legs to airn;\\nBut Donald Caird wi mickle study\\nCaught the gift to cheat the wuddie;\\nRings of airn, and bolts of steel,\\nFell like ice frae hand and heel\\nWatch the sheep in f auld and glen,\\nDonald Caird s come again\\nDonald Caird s come again\\nDonald Caird s come again\\nDinna let the Justice ken\\nDonald Caird s come again.\\nMADGE WILDFIRE S SONGS\\nFrom The Heart of Midlothian, published\\nin 1818.\\nWhen the gledd s in the blue cloud,\\nThe lavrock lies still;\\nWhen the hound s in the green-wood,\\nThe hind keeps the hill.\\nO sleep ye sound, Sir James, she said,\\nWhen ye suld rise and ride\\nThere s twenty men, wi bow and blade,\\nAre seeking where ye hide.\\nI glance like the wildfire thro country a\\ntown;\\nI m seen on the causeway I m seen\\nthe down;", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0472.jp2"}, "471": {"fulltext": "MADGE WILDFIRE S SONGS\\n44 r\\nThe lightning that flashes so bright and so\\nfree,\\nIs scarcely so blithe or so bonny as me.\\nWhat did ye wi the bridal ring bridal\\nring bridal ring\\nWhat did ye wi your wedding ring, ye\\nlittle cutty quean, O\\nI gied it till a sodger, a sodger, a sodger,\\nI gied it till a sodger, an auld true love o\\nmine, O.\\nGood even, good fair moon, good even to\\nthee;\\nI prithee, dear moon, now show to me\\nThe form and the features, the speech and\\ndegree,\\nOf the man that true lover of mine shall\\nbe.\\nIt is the bonny butcher lad,\\nThat wears the sleeves of blue;\\nHe sells the flesh on Saturday,\\nOn Friday that he slew.\\nThere s a bloodhound ranging Tinwald\\nWood,\\nThere s harness glancing sheen\\nThere s a maiden sits on Tinwald brae,\\nAnd she sings loud between.\\nWith my curtch on .my foot, and my shoe\\non my hand,\\nI glance like the wildfire through brugh\\nand through land.\\nIn the bonnie cells of Bedlam,\\nEre I was ane and twenty,\\nI had hempen bracelets strong,\\nAnd merry whips, ding-dong,\\nAnd prayer and fasting plenty.\\nI m Madge of the country, I m Madge of\\nthe town,\\nAnd 1 m Madge of the lad I am blithest\\nto own,\\nThe Lady of Beever in diamonds may\\nshine,\\nBut has not a heart half so lightsome as\\nmine.\\nI am Queen of the Wake, and I m Lady\\nof May,\\nAnd I lead the blithe ring round the May-\\npole to-day;\\nThe wild-fire that flashes so fair and so\\nfree\\nWas never so bright, or so bonnie as me.\\nOur work is over over now,\\nThe goodman wipes his weary brow y\\nThe last long wain wends slow away,\\nAnd we are free to sport and play.\\nThe night comes on when sets the sun,\\nAnd labor ends when day is done.\\nWhen Autumn s gone, and Winter s come Sl\\nWe hold our jovial harvest-home.\\nWhen the fight of grace is fought,\\nWhen the marriage vest is wrought,\\nWhen Faith has chased cold Doubt away\\nAnd Hope but sickens at delay,\\nWhen Charity, imprisoned here,\\nLongs for a more expanded sphere;\\nDoff thy robes of sin and clay\\nChristian, rise, and come away.\\nCauld is my bed, Lord Archibald,\\nAnd sad my sleep of sorrow;\\nBut thine sail be as sad and cauld,\\nMy fause true love to-morrow.\\nAnd weep ye not, my maidens free,\\nThough death your mistress borrow;\\nFor he for whom I die to-day,\\nShall die for me to-morrow.\\nProud Maisie is in the wood,\\nWalking so early;\\nSweet Robin sits on the bush,\\nSinging so rarely.\\nTell me, thou bonny bird,\\nWhen shall I marry me", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0473.jp2"}, "472": {"fulltext": "442\\nMISCELLANEOUS POEMS\\nWhen six braw gentlemen\\nKirkward shall carry ye.\\nWho makes the bridal bed,\\nBirdie, say truly\\nThe gray-headed sexton\\nThat delves the grave duly.\\nThe glow-worm o er grave and stone\\nShall light thee steady.\\nThe owl from the steeple sing,\\nWelcome, proud lady.\\nTHE BATTLE OF SEMPACH\\nThese verses, which appeared in Blackwood\\n-iov February, 1818, are, says Scott, a literal\\ntranslation of an ancient Swiss ballad upon the\\nBattle of Sempach, fought 9th July, 138b, being\\nthe victory by which the Swiss Cantons estab-\\nlished their independence the author, Albert\\nTchudi, denominated the Souter, from his pro-\\nfession of a shoemaker. He was a citizen of\\nLucerne, esteemed highly among his country-\\nmen, both for his powers as a Meister-Singer,\\nor minstrel, and his courage as a soldier so\\nthat he might share the praise conferred by\\nCollins on yEschylus, that,\\nNot alone he nursed the poet s flame,\\nBut reached from Virtue s hand the patriot steel.\\nT was when among our linden-trees\\nThe bees had housed in swarms\\nAnd gray-haired peasants say that these\\nBetoken foreign arms\\nThen looked we down to Willisow,\\nThe land was all in flame;\\nWe knew the Archduke Leopold\\nWith all his army came.\\nThe Austrian nobles made their vow,\\nSo hot their heart and bold, io\\nOn Switzer carles we 11 trample now,\\nAnd slay both young and old.\\nWith clarion loud and banner proud,\\nFrom Zurich on the lake,\\nIn martial pomp and fair array\\nTheir onward march they make.\\nNow list, ye lowland nobles all\\nYe seek the mountain-strand,\\nNor wot ye what shall be your lot\\nIn such a dangerous land. 20\\n1 1 rede ye, shrive ye of your sins\\nBefore ye farther go;\\nA skirmish in Helvetian hills\\nMay send your souls to woe.\\nBut where now shall we find a priest\\nOur shrift that he may hear\\nThe Switzer priest has ta en the field,\\nHe deals a penance drear.\\nRight heavily upon your head\\nHe 11 lay his hand of steel,\\nAnd with his trusty partisan\\nYour absolution deal/\\nT was on a Monday morning then,\\nThe corn was steeped in dew,\\nAnd merry maids had sickles ta en,\\nWhen the host to Sempach drew.\\nThe stalwart men of fair Lucerne,\\nTogether have they joined;\\nThe pith and core of manhood stern,\\nWas none cast looks behind.\\nIt was the Lord of Hare-castle,\\nAnd to the Duke he said,\\nYon little baud of brethren true\\nWill meet us undismayed.\\nO Hare-castle, thou heart of hare\\nFierce Oxenstern replied.\\nShalt see then how the game will fare,\\nThe taunted knight replied.\\nThere was lacing then of helmets bright,\\nAnd closing ranks amain; 50\\nThe peaks they hewed from their boot-\\npoints\\nMight well-nigh load a wain.\\nAnd thus they to each other said,\\nYon handful down to hew\\nWill be no boastful tale to tell,\\nThe peasants are so few.\\nThe gallant Swiss Confederates there,\\nThey prayed to God aloud,\\nAnd he displayed his rainbow fair\\nAgainst a swarthy cloud. 60\\nThen heart and pulse throbbed more andmore\\nWith courage firm and high,\\nAnd down the good Confederates bore\\nOn the Austrian chivalry.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0474.jp2"}, "473": {"fulltext": "THE BATTLE OF SEMPACH\\n443\\nThe Austrian Lion gan to growl\\nAnd toss his mane and tail,\\nAnd ball and shaft and crossbow bolt\\nWent whistling forth like hail.\\nLance, pike, and halbert mingled there,\\nThe game was nothing sweet; 70\\nThe bows of many a stately tree\\nLay shivered at their feet.\\nThe Austrian men-at-arms stood fast,\\nSo close their spears they laid;\\nIt chafed the gallant Winkelreid,\\nWho to his comrades said\\nI have a virtuous wife at home,\\nA wife and infaut son;\\nI leave them to my country s care,\\nThis field shall soon be won. 80\\n4 These nobles lay their spears right thick\\nAnd keep full firm array,\\nYet shall my charge their order break\\nAnd make my brethren way.\\nHe rushed against the Austrian band,\\nIn desperate career,\\nAnd with his body, breast, and hand,\\nBore down each hostile spear.\\nFour lances splintered on his crest,\\nSix shivered in his side 90\\nStill on the serried files he pressed\\nHe broke their ranks and died.\\nThis patriot s self-devoted deed\\nFirst tamed the Lion s mood,\\nAnd the four Forest Cantons freed\\nFrom thraldom by his blood.\\nRight where his charge had made a lane\\nHis valiant comrades burst,\\nWith sword and axe and partisan,\\nAnd hack and stab and thrust. 100\\nThe daunted Lion gan to whine\\nAnd granted ground amain,\\nThe Mountain Bull he bent his brows,\\nAnd gored his sides again.\\nThen lost was banner, spear, and shield\\nAt Sempach in the flight,\\nThe cloister vaults at Konig s-field\\nHold many an Austrian knight.\\nIt was the Archduke Leopold,\\nSo lordly would he ride, no\\nBut he came against the Switzer churls,\\nAnd they slew him in his pride.\\nThe heifer said unto the bull,\\nAnd shall I not complain\\nThere came a foreign nobleman\\nTo milk me on the plain.\\nOne thrust of thine outrageous horn\\nHas galled the knight so sore\\nThat to the churchyard he is borne,\\nTo range our glens no more. 120\\nAn Austrian noble left the stour,\\nAnd fast the flight gan take;\\nAnd he arrived in luckless hour\\nAt Sempach on the lake.\\nHe and his squire a fisher called\\nHis name was Hans von Rot\\nFor love or meed or charity,\\nReceive us in thy boat\\nTheir anxious call the fisher heard,\\nAnd, glad the meed to win, 130\\nHis shallop to the shore he steered\\nAnd took the flyers in.\\nAnd while against the tide and wind\\nHans stoutly rowed his way,\\nThe noble to his follower signed\\nHe should the boatman slay.\\nThe fisher s back was to them turned,\\nThe squire his dagger drew,\\nHans saw his shadow in the lake,\\nThe boat he overthrew. 140\\nHe whelmed the boat, and as they strove\\nHe stunned them with his oar,\\nNow, drink ye deep, my gentle sirs,\\nYou 11 ne er stab boatman more.\\nTwo gilded fishes in the lake\\nThis morning have I caught,\\nTheir silver scales may much avail,\\nTheir carrion flesh is naught.\\nIt was a messenger of woe\\nHas sought the Austrian land: 150\\nAh gracious lady, evil news\\nMy lord lies on the strand.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0475.jp2"}, "474": {"fulltext": "444\\nMISCELLANEOUS POEMS\\nAt Sempach, on the battle-field,\\nHis bloody corpse lies there.\\nAh, gracious God the lady cried,\\n4 What tidings of despair\\nNow would you know the minstrel wight\\nWho sings of strife so stem,\\nAlbert the Souter is he hight,\\nA burgher of Lucerne. 160\\nA merry man was he, I wot,\\nThe night he made the lay,\\nReturning from the bloody spot\\nWhere God had judged the day.\\nTHE NOBLE MORINGER\\nAN ANCIENT BALLAD\\nLoekhart, writing at the end of April,\\n1819, when Scott was recovering from an\\nalarming illness, reports thus Scott s words to\\nhim\\nOne day there was, he said, when I cer-\\ntainly began to have great doubts whether the\\nmischief was not getting at my mind and I\\ntell you how I tried to reassure myself on that\\nscore. I was quite unfit for anything like\\noriginal composition but I thought if I could\\nturn an old German ballad I had been reading\\ninto decent rhymes, I might dismiss my worst\\napprehensions and you shall see what came\\nof the experiment. He then desired his\\ndaughter Sophia to fetch the MS. of The\\nNoble Moringer, as it had been taken down\\nfrom his dictation, partly by her, and partly by\\nMr. Laidlaw, during one long and painful day\\nwhen he lay in bed.\\nO, will you hear a knightly tale of old\\nBohemian day,\\nIt was the noble Moringer in wedlock bed\\nhe lay;\\nHe halsed and kissed his dearest dame\\nthat was as sweet as May,\\nAnd said, Now, lady of my heart, attend\\nthe words I say.\\nT is I have vowed a pilgrimage unto a\\ndistant shrine,\\nAnd I must seek Saint Thomas-land and\\nleave the land that s mine\\nHere shalt thou dwell the while in state,\\nso thou wilt pledge thy fay\\nThat thou for my return wilt wait seven\\ntwelvemonths and a day.\\nThen out and spoke that lady bright, sore\\ntroubled in her cheer,\\n1 Now tell me true, thou noble knight,.\\nwhat order takest thou here; io\u00c2\u00bb\\nAnd who shall lead thy vassal band and\\nhold thy lordly sway,\\nAnd be thy lady s guardian true when\\nthou art far away\\nOut spoke the noble Moringer, Of that\\nhave thou no care,\\nThere s many a valiant gentleman of me\\nholds living fair;\\nThe trustiest shall rule my land, my vas-\\nsals, and my state,\\nAnd be a guardian tried and true to thee,,\\nmy lovely mate.\\n1 As Christian-man, I needs must keep the\\nvow which I have plight,\\nWhen I am far in foreign land, remember\\nthy true knight;\\nAnd cease, my dearest dame, to grieve, for\\nvain were sorrow now,\\nBut grant thy Moringer his leave, since\\nGod hath heard his vow. 2 o*\\nIt was the noble Moringer from bed he\\nmade him boune,\\nAnd met him there his chamberlain with\\newer and with gown:\\nHe flung the mantle on his back, t was\\nfurred with miniver,\\nHe dipped his hand in water cold and\\nbathed his forehead fair.\\nNow hear, he said, Sir Chamberlain,\\ntrue vassal art thou mine,\\nAnd such the trust that I repose in that\\nproved worth of thine,\\nFor seven years shalt thou rule my towers\\nand lead my vassal train,\\nAnd pledge thee for my lady s faith till I\\nreturn again.\\nThe chamberlain was blunt and true, and\\nsturdily said he,\\nAbide, my lord, and rule your own, and\\ntake this rede from me; 30\\nThat woman s faith s a brittle trust\\nSeven twelvemonths didst thou\\nsay?\\nI 11 pledge me for no lady s truth beyond\\nthe seventh fair day.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0476.jp2"}, "475": {"fulltext": "THE NOBLE MORINGER\\n445\\nThe noble baron turned him round, his\\nheart was full of care,\\nHis gallant esquire stood him nigh, he was\\nMarstetten s heir,\\nTo whom he spoke right anxiously, Thou\\ntrusty squire to me,\\nWilt thou receive this weighty trust when\\nI am o er the sea\\nf To watch and ward my castle strong, and\\nto protect my land,\\nAnd to the hunting or the host to lead my\\nvassal band;\\nAnd pledge thee for my lady s faith till\\nseven long years are gone,\\nAnd guard her as Our Lady dear was\\nguarded by Saint John. 40\\nMarstetten s heir was kind and true, but\\nfiery, hot, and young,\\nAnd readily he answer made with too pre-\\nsumptuous tongue:\\nMy noble lord, cast care away and on\\nyour journey wend,\\nAnd trust this charge to me until your pil-\\ngrimage have end.\\nRely upon my plighted faith, which shall\\nbe truly tried,\\nTo guard your lands, and ward your\\ntowers, and with your vassals ride;\\nAnd for your lovely lady s faith, so virtu-\\nous and so dear,\\nI 11 gage my head it knows no change, be\\nabsent thirty year.\\nThe noble Moringer took cheer when thus\\nhe heard him speak,\\nAnd doubt forsook his troubled brow and\\nsorrow left his cheek; 50\\nA long adieu he bids to all hoists top-\\nsails and away,\\nAnd wanders in Saint Thomas-land seven\\ntwelvemonths and a day.\\nIt was the noble Moringer within an\\norchard slept,\\nWhen on the baron s slumbering sense a\\nboding vision crept;\\nAnd whispered in his ear a voice, T is\\ntime, Sir Knight, to wake,\\nThy lady and thy heritage another master\\ntake.\\nThy tower another banner knows, thy\\nsteeds another rein,\\nAnd stoop them to another s will thy gal-\\nlant vassal train;\\nAnd she, the lady of thy love, so faithful\\nonce and fair,\\nThis night within thy fathers hall she\\nweds Marstetten s heir. 60\\nIt is the noble Moringer starts up and\\ntears his beard,\\nO, would that I had ne er been born\\nwhat tidings have I heard\\nTo lose my lordship and my lands the less\\nwould be my care,\\nBut, God that e er a squire untrue should\\nwed my lady fair.\\nO good Saint Thomas, hear, he prayed,\\nmy patron saint art thou,\\nA traitor robs me of my land even while\\npay my vow\\nMy wife he brings to infamy that was so\\npure of name,\\nAnd I am far in foreign land and must en-\\ndure the shame.\\nIt was the good Saint Thomas then who\\nheard his pilgrim s prayer,\\nAnd sent a sleep so deep and dead that it\\no erpowered his care; 70\\nHe waked in fair Bohemian land out-\\nstretched beside a rill,\\nHigh on the right a castle stood, low on\\nthe left a mill.\\nThe Moringer he started up as one from\\nspell unbonnd,\\nAnd dizzy with surprise and joy gazed\\nwildly all around;\\nI know my fathers ancient towers, the\\nmill, the stream I know,\\nNow blessed be my patron saint who\\ncheered his pilgrim s woe\\nHe leant upon his pilgrim staff and to the\\nmill he drew,\\nSo altered was his goodly form that none\\ntheir master knew;\\nThe baron to the miller said, Good friend,\\nfor charity,\\nTell a poor palmer in your land what tid-\\nings may there be 80", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0477.jp2"}, "476": {"fulltext": "446\\nMISCELLANEOUS POEMS\\nThe miller answered him again, He knew\\nof little news,\\nSave that the lady of the land did a new\\nbridegroom choose;\\nHer husband died in distant land, such is\\nthe constant word,\\nHis death sits heavy on our souls, he was\\na worthy lord.\\n1 Of him I held the little mill which wins\\nme living free,\\nGod rest the baron in his grave, he still\\nwas kind to me\\nAnd when Saint Martin s tide comes round\\nand millers take their toll,\\nThe priest that prays for Moringer shall\\nhave both cope and stole.\\nIt was the noble Moringer to climb the hill\\nbegan,\\nAnd stood before the bolted gate a woe and\\nweary man; 90\\nNow help me, every saint in heaven that\\ncan compassion take,\\nTo gain the entrance of my hall this woful\\nmatch to break.\\nHis very knock it sounded sad, his call was\\nsad and slow,\\nFor heart and head, and voice and hand,\\nwere heavy all with woe;\\nAnd to the warder thus he spoke: Friend,\\nto thy lady say,\\nA pilgrim from Saint Thomas-land craves\\nharbor for a day.\\nI ve wandered many a weary step, my\\nstrength is well-nigh done,\\nAnd if she turn me from her gate I 11 see\\nno morrow s sun;\\nI pray, for sweet Saint Thomas sake, a\\npilgrim s bed and dole,\\nAnd for the sake of Moringer s, her once-\\nloved husband s soul. 100\\nIt was the stalwart warder then he came\\nhis dame before,\\nA pilgrim, worn and travel- toiled, stands\\nat the castle-door;\\nAnd prays, for sweet Saint Thomas sake,\\nfor harbor and for dole,\\nAnd for the sake of Moringer, thy noble\\nhusband s soul.\\nThe lady s gentle heart was moved: Do up\\nthe gate, she said,\\nAnd bid the wanderer welcome be to ban-\\nquet and to bed;\\nAnd since he names my husband s name,\\nso that he lists to stay,\\nThese towers shall be his harborage a\\ntwelvemonth and a day.\\nIt was the stalwart warder then undid the\\nportal broad,\\nIt was the noble Moringer that o er the\\nthreshold strode; no\\nAnd have thou thanks, kind Heaven, he\\nsaid, though from a man of sin,\\nThat the true lord stands here once more\\nhis castle-gate within/\\nThen up the halls paced Moringer, his step\\nwas sad and slow;\\nIt sat full heavy on his heart none seemed\\ntheir lord to know;\\nHe sat him on a lowly bench, oppressed\\nwith woe and wrong,\\nShort space he sat, but ne er to him seemed\\nlittle space so long.\\nNow spent was day and feasting o er, and\\ncome was evening hour,\\nThe time was nigh when new-made brides\\nretire to nuptial bower;\\nOur castle s wont, a bridesman said, hath\\nbeen both firm and long\\nNo guest to harbor in our halls till he shall\\nchant a song. 120\\nThen spoke the youthful bridegroom there\\nas he sat by the bride,\\nMy merry minstrel folk, quoth he, lay\\nshalm and harp aside;\\nOur pilgrim guest must sing a lay, the cas-\\ntle s rule to hold,\\nAnd well his guerdon will I pay with gar-\\nment and with gold.\\nChill flows the lay of frozen age, t was\\nthus the pilgrim sung,\\nNor golden meed nor garment gay unlocks\\nhis heavy tongue;\\nOnce did I sit, thou bridegroom gay, at\\nboard as rich as thine,\\nAnd by my side as fair a bride with all her\\ncharms was mine.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0478.jp2"}, "477": {"fulltext": "EPITAPH ON MRS. ERSKINE\\n447\\nBut time traced furrows on my face and I\\ngrew silver-haired,\\nFor locks of brown and cheeks of youth\\nshe left this brow and beard; 130\\nOnce rich, but now a palmer poor, I tread\\nlife s latest stage,\\nAnd mingle with your bridal mirth the lay\\nof frozen age.\\nIt was the noble lady there this woful lay\\nthat hears,\\nAnd for the aged pilgrim s grief her eye\\nwas dimmed with tears;\\nShe bade her gallant cupbearer a golden\\nbeaker take,\\nAnd bear it to the palmer poor to quaff it\\nfor her sake.\\nIt was the noble Moringer that dropped\\namid the wine\\nA bridal ring of burning gold so costly and\\nso fine:\\nNow listen, gentles, to my song, it tells you\\nbut the sooth,\\nT was with that very ring of gold he\\npledged his bridal truth. 140\\nThen to the cupbearer he said, Do me\\none kindly deed,\\nAnd should my better days return, full rich\\nshall be thy meed;\\nBear back the golden cup again to yonder\\nbride so gay,\\nAnd crave her of her courtesy to pledge\\nthe palmer gray.\\nThe cupbearer was courtly bred nor was\\nthe boon denied,\\nThe golden cup he took again and bore it\\nto the bride;\\nLady, he said, your reverend guest sends\\nthis, and bids me pray\\nThat, in thy noble courtesy, thou pledge\\nthe palmer gray.\\nThe ring hath caught the lady s eye, she\\nviews it close and near,\\nThen might you hear her shriek aloud,\\nThe Moringer is here 150\\nThen might you see her start from seat\\nwhile tears in torrents fell,\\nBut whether t was for joy or woe the ladies\\nbest can tell.\\nBut loud she uttered thanks to Heaven and\\nevery saintly power\\nThat had returned the Moringer before the\\nmidnight hour;\\nAnd loud she uttered vow on vow that\\nnever was there bride\\nThat had like her preserved her troth or\\nbeen so sorely tried.\\nYes, here T claim the praise, she said, to\\nconstant matrons due,\\nWho keep the troth that they have plight\\nso steadfastly and true\\nFor count the term howe er you will, so\\nthat you count aright,\\nSeven twelvemonths and a day are out\\nwhen bells toll twelve to-night. 160\\nIt was Marstetten then rose up, his falchion\\nthere he drew,\\nHe kneeled before the Moringer and down\\nhis weapon threw;\\nMy oath and knightly faith are broke,\\nthese were the words he said,\\nThen take, my liege, thy vassal s sword,.\\nand take thy vassal s head.\\nThe noble Moringer he smiled, and then\\naloud did say,\\nHe gathers wisdom that hath roamed!\\nseven twelvemonths and a day;\\nMy daughter now hath fifteen years, fame\\nspeaks her sweet and fair,\\nI give her for the bride you lose and name\\nher for my heir.\\nThe young bridegroom hath youthful.\\nbride, the old bridegroom the old,\\nWhose faith was kept till term and tide so\\npunctually were told; 170\\nBut blessings on the warder kind that oped\\nmy castle gate,\\nFor had I come at morrow tide I came a\\nday too late.\\nEPITAPH ON MRS. ERSKINE\\nMrs. Erskine was the wife of Scott s friend,\\nWilliam Erskine, afterward Lord Kinedder.\\nShe died in September, 1819, and the epitaph\\nis on the stone over her grave at Saline, in the\\ncounty of Fife.\\nPlain as her native dignity of mind,\\nArise the tomb of her we have resigned;,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0479.jp2"}, "478": {"fulltext": "448\\nMISCELLANEOUS POEMS\\nUnflawed and stainless be the marble scroll,\\nEmblem of lovely form and candid soul.\\nBut, O, what symbol may avail to tell\\nThe kindness, wit, and sense we loved so\\nwell!\\nWhat sculpture show the broken ties of life,\\nHere buried with the parent, friend, and\\nwife\\nOr on the tablet stamp each title dear\\nBy which thine urn, Euphemia, claims the\\ntear\\nYet taught by thy meek sufferance to as-\\nsume\\nPatience in anguish, hope beyond the tomb,\\nResigned, though sad, this votive verse\\nshall flow,\\nAnd brief, alas as thy brief span below.\\nSONGS FROM THE BRIDE OF\\nLAMMERMOOR\\nLOOK NOT THOU ON BEAUTY S CHARM-\\nING\\nFrom Chapter iii. The silver tones of Lucy\\nAshton s voice mingled with the accompani-\\nment in an ancient air, to which some one had\\nadapted the following words:\\nLook not thou on beauty s charming;\\nSit thou still when kings are arming;\\nTaste not when the wine-cup glistens;\\nSpeak not when the people listens;\\nStop thine ear against the singer;\\nFrom the red gold keep thy finger;\\nVacant heart and hand and eye,\\nEasy live and quiet die.\\nTHE MONK MUST ARISE WHEN THE\\nMATINS RING\\nFrom Chapter iii. And humming his rus-\\ntic roundelay, the yeoman went on his road, the\\nsound of his rough voice gradually dying away\\nas the distance betwixt them increased.\\nThe monk must arise when the matins ring,\\nThe abbot may sleep to their chime;\\nBut the yeoman must start when the bugles\\nT is time, my hearts, t is time.\\nThere s bucks and raes on Billhope braes,\\nThere s a herd on Shortwood Shaw;\\nBut a lily-white doe in the garden goes,\\nShe s fairly worth them a\\\\\\nill\\nc WHEN THE LAST LAIRD OF RAVENS-\\nWOOD TO RAVENSWOOD SHALL RIDE\\nFrom Chapter xviii. With a quivering voice,\\nand a cheek pale with apprehension, Caleb\\nfaltered out the following lines\\nWhen the last Laird of Ravens wood to\\nRavenswood shall ride,\\nAnd woo a dead maiden to be his bride,\\nHe shall stable his steed in the Kelpie s\\nflow,\\nAnd his name shall be lost for evermoe\\nSONGS FROM THE LEGEND OF\\nMONTROSE\\nANCIENT GAELIC MELODY\\nBirds of omen dark and foul,\\nNight-crow, raven, bat, and owl,\\nLeave the sick man to his dream\\nAll night long he heard you scream.\\nHaste to cave and ruined tower,\\nIvy tod or dingled bower,\\nThere to wink and mop, for, hark\\nIn the mid air sings the lark.\\nHie to moorish gills and rocks,\\nProwling wolf and wily fox,\\nHie ye fast, nor turn your view,\\nThough the lamb bleats to the ewe.\\nCouch your trains and speed your flight,\\nSafety parts with parting night;\\nAnd on distant echo borne,\\nComes the hunter s early horn.\\nThe moon s wan crescent scarcely gleams,\\nGhost-like she fades in morning beams;\\nHie hence, each peevish imp and fay\\nThat scare the pilgrim on his way.\\nQuench, kelpy quench, in bog and fen,\\nThy torch that cheats benighted men;\\nThy dance is o er, thy reign is done,\\nFor Benyieglo hath seen the sun.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0480.jp2"}, "479": {"fulltext": "VERSES FROM IVANHOE\\n449\\nWild thoughts, that, sinful, dark, and\\ndeep,\\nO erpower the passive mind in sleep,\\nPass from the slumberer s soul away,\\nLike night-mists from the brow of day.\\nFoul hag, whose blasted visage grim\\nSmothers the pulse, unnerves the limb,\\nSpur thy dark palfrey and begone\\nThou darest not face the godlike sun.\\nTHE ORPHAN MAID\\nNovember s hail-cloud drifts away,\\nNovember s sun-beam wan\\nLooks coldly on the castle gray,\\nWhen forth comes Lady Anne.\\nThe orphan by the oak was set,\\nHer arms, her feet, were bare\\nThe hail-drops had not melted yet\\nAmid her raven hair.\\nAnd, dame, she said, by all the ties\\nThat child and mother know,\\nAid one who never knew these joys,\\nRelieve an orphan s woe.\\nThe lady said, An orphan s state\\nIs hard and sad to bear;\\nYet worse the widowed mother s fate,\\nWho mourns both lord and heir.\\nTwelve times the rolling year has sped\\nSince, while from vengeance wild\\nOf fierce Strathallan s chief I fled,\\nForth s eddies whelmed my child.\\nTwelve times the year its course has\\nborne,\\nThe wandering maid replied\\nSince fishers on Saint Bridget s morn\\nDrew nets on Campsie side.\\nSaint Bridget sent no scaly spoil;\\nAn infant, well-nigh dead,\\nThey saved and reared in want and toil,\\nTo beg from you her bread.\\nThat orphan maid the lady kissed,\\nMy husband s looks you bear;\\nSaint Bridget and her morn be blessed\\nYou are his widow s heir.\\nThey ve robed that maid, so poor and\\npale,\\nIn silk and sandals rare;\\nAnd pearls, for drops of frozen hail,\\nAre glistening in her hair.\\nVERSES FROM IVANHOE\\nPublished in 1819.\\nI\\nTHE CRUSADER S RETURN\\nFrom Chapter xvii.\\nHigh deeds achieved of knightly fame,\\nFrom Palestine the champion came;\\nThe cross upon his shoulders borne,\\nBattle and blast had dimmed and torn.\\nEach dint upon his battered shield\\nWas token of a foughten field;\\nAnd thus, beneath his lady s bower,\\nHe sung, as fell the twilight hour:\\nJoy to the fair thy knight behold,\\nReturned from yonder land of gold;\\nNo wealth he brings, nor wealth can\\nneed,\\nSave his good arms and battle-steed;\\nHis spurs to dash against a foe,\\nHis lance and sword to lay him low;\\nSuch all the trophies of his toil\\nSuch and the hope of Tekla s smile\\n1 Joy to the fair whose constant knight\\nHer favor fired to feats of might\\nUnnoted shall she not remain\\nWhere meet the bright and noble train;\\nMinstrel shall sing, and herald tell\\nMark yonder maid of beauty well,\\nT is she for whose bright eyes was won\\nThe listed field at Ascalon\\nNote well her smile it edged the\\nblade\\nWhich fifty wives to widows made,\\nWhen, vain his strength and Mahound s\\nspell,\\nIconium s turban d Soldan fell.\\nSee st thou her locks, whose sunny glow\\nHalf shows, half shades, her neck of snow\\nTwines not of them one golden thread,\\nBut for its sake a Paynim bled.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0481.jp2"}, "480": {"fulltext": "45\u00c2\u00b0\\nMISCELLANEOUS POEMS\\nJoy to the fair my name unknown,\\nEach deed, and all its praise, thine own;\\nThen, oh unbar this churlish gate,\\nThe night-dew falls, the hour is late.\\nInured to Syria s glowing breath,\\nI feel the north breeze chill as death;\\nLet grateful love quell maiden shame,\\nAnd grant him bliss who brings thee fame.\\nII\\nTHE BAREFOOTED FRIAR\\nFrom Chapter xvii.\\nI ll give thee, good fellow, a twelvemonth\\nor twain\\nTo search Europe through from Byzantium\\nto Spain;\\nBut ne er shall you find, should you search\\ntill you tire,\\nSo happy a man as the Barefooted Friar.\\nYour knight for his lady pricks forth in\\ncareer.\\nAnd is brought home at even-song pricked\\nthrough with a spear;\\nI confess him in haste for his lady de-\\nsires\\nNo comfort on earth save the Barefooted\\nFriar s.\\nYour monarch Pshaw many a prince\\nhas been known\\nTo barter his robes for our cowl and our\\ngown,\\nBut which of us e er felt the idle desire\\nTo exchange for a crown the gray hood of\\na friar\\nThe Friar has walked out, and where er he\\nhas gone\\nThe land and its fatness is marked for his\\nown;\\nHe can roam where he lists, he can stop\\nwhere he tires,\\nFor every man s house is the Barefooted\\nFriar s.\\nHe s expected at noon, and no wight till\\nhe comes\\nMay profane the great chair or the porridge\\nof plums:\\nFor the best of the cheer, and the seat by\\nthe fire,\\nIs the undenied right of the Barefooted\\nFriar.\\nHe s expected at night, and the pasty s\\nmade hot,\\nThey broach the brown ale and they fill the\\nblack pot;\\nAnd the good-wife would wish the good-\\nman in the mire,\\nEre he lacked a soft pillow, the Barefooted\\nFriar.\\nLong flourish the sandal, the cord, and the\\ncope,\\nThe dread of the devil and trust of the\\nPope!\\nFor to gather life s roses, unscathed by the\\nbriar,\\nIs granted alone to the Barefooted Friar.\\nni\\nNORMAN SAW ON ENGLISH OAK\\nFrom Chapter xxvii.\\nNorman saw on English oak,\\nOn English neck a Norman yoke\\nNorman spoon in English dish,\\nAnd England ruled as Normans wish;\\nBlithe world in England never will be more,\\nTill England s rid of all the four.\\nIV\\nWAR-SONG\\nFrom Chapter xxxi. The fire was spreading\\nrapidly through all parts of the castle, when\\nUlrica, who had first kindled it, appeared on a\\nturret, in the guise of one of the ancient furies,\\nyelling forth a war-song, such as was of yore\\nchanted on the field of battle by the scalds of\\nthe yet heathen Saxons. Her long dishevelled\\ngray hair flew back from her uncovered head,\\nthe inebriating delight of gratified vengeance\\ncontended in her eyes with the fire of insanity,\\nand she brandished the distaff which she held\\nin her hand, as if she had been one of the Fatal\\nSisters, who spin and abridge the thread of hu-\\nman life. Tradition has preserved some wild\\nstrophes of the barbarous hymn which she", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0482.jp2"}, "481": {"fulltext": "VERSES FROM IVANHOE\\n45i\\nchanted wildly amid that scene of fire and\\nslaughter.\\nWhet the bright steel,\\nSons of the White Dragon\\nKindle the torch,\\nDaughter of Hengist\\nThe steel glimmers not for the carving of\\nthe banquet,\\nIt is hard, broad, and sharply pointed;\\nThe torch goeth not to the bridal chamber,\\nIt steams and glitters blue with sulphur.\\nWhet the steel, the raven croaks\\nLight the torch, Zernebock is yelling\\nWhet the steel, sons of the Dragon\\nKindle the torch, daughter of Hengist\\nThe black clouds are low over the thane s\\ncastle;\\nThe eagle screams he rides on their\\nbosom.\\nScream not, gray rider of the sable cloud,\\nThy banquet is prepared\\nThe maidens of Valhalla look forth,\\nThe race of Hengist will send them guests.\\nShake your black tresses, maidens of Val-\\nhalla\\nAnd strike your loud timbrels for joy\\nMany a haughty step bends to your halls,\\nMany a helmed head.\\nDark sits the evening upon the thane s\\ncastle,\\nThe black clouds gather round;\\nSoon shall they be red as the blood of the\\nvaliant\\nThe destroyer of forests shall shake his red\\ncrest against them\\nHe, the bright consumer of palaces,\\nBroad waves he his blazing banner,\\nRed, white, and dusky,\\nOver the strife of the valiant;\\nHis joy is in the clashing swords and broken\\nbucklers;\\nHe loves to lick the hissing blood as it\\nbursts warm from the wound\\nAll must perish\\nThe sword cleaveth the helmet;\\nThe strong armor is pierced by the lance:\\nFire devoureth the dwelling of princes,\\nEngines break down the fences of the\\nbattle.\\nAll must perish\\nThe race of Hengist is gone\\nThe name of Horsa is no more\\nShrink not then from your doom, sons of\\nthe sword\\nLet your blades drink blood like wine\\nFeast ye in the banquet of slaughter,\\nBy the light of the blazing halls\\nStrong be your swords while your blood is\\nwarm,\\nAnd spare neither for pity nor fear,\\nFor vengeance hath but an hour;\\nStrong hate itself shall expire\\nI also must perish.\\nRebecca s hymn\\nFrom Chapter xxxix.\\nWhen Israel of the Lord beloved\\nOut from the land of bondage came,\\nHer fathers God before her moved,\\nAn awful guide in smoke and flame.\\nBy day, along the astonished lands\\nThe cloudy pillar glided slow;\\nBy night, Arabia s crimsoned sands\\nReturned the fiery column s glow.\\nThere rose the choral hymn of praise,\\nAnd trump and timbrel answered keen,\\nAnd Zion s daughters poured their lays,\\nWith priest s and warrior s voice be-\\ntween.\\nNo portents now our foes amaze,\\nForsaken Israel wanders lone:\\nOur fathers would not know Thy ways,\\nAnd Thou hast left them to their own.\\nBut present still, though now unseen,\\nWhen brightly shines the prosperous\\nday,\\nBe thoughts of Thee a cloudy screen\\nTo temper the deceitful ray\\nAnd O, when stoops on Judah s path\\nIn shade and storm the frequent night,\\nBe Thou, long-suffering, slow to wrath,\\nA burning and a shining light\\nOur harps we left by Babel s streams,\\nThe tyrant s jest, the Gentile s scorn;", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0483.jp2"}, "482": {"fulltext": "452\\nMISCELLANEOUS POEMS\\nNo censer round our altar beams,\\nAnd mute are timbrel, harp, and horn.\\nBut Thou hast said, The blood of goat,\\nThe flesh of rams I will not prize\\nA contrite heart, a humble thought,\\nAre mine accepted sacrifice.\\nVI\\nTHE BLACK KNIGHT AND WAMBA\\nFrom Chapter xi. At the point of their\\njourney at which we take them up, this joyous\\npair were engaged in singing a virelai, as it\\nwas called, in which the clown bore a mellow\\nburthen to the better instructed Knight of the\\nFetterlock. And thus ran the ditty\\nAnna-Marie, love, up is the sun,\\nAnna-Marie, love, morn is begun,\\nMists are dispersing, love, birds singing\\nfree,\\nUp in the morning, love, Anna-Marie.\\nAnna-Marie, love, up in the morn,\\nThe hunter is winding blithe sounds on his\\nhorn,\\nThe echo rings merry from rock and from\\ntree,\\nT is time to arouse thee, love, Anna-Marie.\\nWAMBA\\nO Tybalt, love, Tybalt, awake me not yet,\\nAround my soft pillow while softer dreams\\nflit;\\nFor what are the joys that in waking we\\nprove,\\nCompared with these visions, O Tybalt,\\nmy love\\nLet the birds to the rise of the mist carol\\nshrill,\\nLet the hunter blow out his loud horn on\\nthe hill,\\nSofter sounds, softer pleasures, in slumber\\nI prove,\\nBut think not I dreamed of thee, Tybalt,\\nmy love.\\nVII\\nANOTHER CAROE BY THE SAME\\nThe Jester next struck into another carol, a\\nsort of comic ditty, to which the Knight, catch-\\ning up the tune, replied in the like manner.\\nKNIGHT AND WAMBA\\nThere came three merry men from south\\nwest, and north,\\nEvermore sing the roundelay;\\nTo win the Widow of Wycomoe forth.\\nAnd where was the widow might\\nthem nay\\nThe first was a knight, and from Tynedak\\nhe came,\\nEvermore sing the roundelay;\\nAnd his fathers, God save us, were men of\\ngreat fame,\\nAnd where was the widow might say him\\nnay\\nOf his father the laird, of his uncle th\\nsquire,\\nHe boasted in rhyme and in rounde\\nlay;\\nShe bade him go bask by his sea-coal fire,\\nFor she was the widow would say him\\nnay.\\nThe next that came forth, swore by blood\\nand by nails,\\nMerrily sing the roundelay;\\nHur s a gentleman, God wot, and bur s\\nlineage was of Wales,\\nAnd where was the widow might say him\\nnay?\\nSir David ap Morgan ap Griffith ap Hugh\\nAp Tudor Ap Rhice, quoth his rounde-\\nlay;\\nShe said that one widow for so many was\\ntoo few,\\nAnd she bade the Welshman wend his\\nway.\\nBut then next came a yeoman, a yeoman o\\nKent,\\nJollily singing his roundelay;\\nHe spoke to the widow of living and rent,\\nAnd where was the widow could say\\nhim nay\\nSo the knight and the squire were both left\\nin the mire,\\nThere for to sing the roundelay;\\nFor a yeoman of Kent, with his yearly rent,\\nThere ne er was a widow could say him\\nnay.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0484.jp2"}, "483": {"fulltext": "VERSES FROM THE MONASTERY\\n453\\nFUNERAL HYMN\\nFrom Chapter xlii.\\nDust unto dust,\\nTo this all must;\\nThe tenant hath resigned\\nThe faded form\\nTo waste and worm\\nCorruption claims her kind.\\nThrough paths unknown\\nThy soul hath flown\\nTo seek the realms of woe,\\nWhere fiery pain\\nShall purge the stain\\nOf actions done below.\\nIn that sad place,\\nBy Mary s grace,\\nBrief may thy dwelling be\\nTill prayers and alms,\\nAnd holy psalms,\\nShall set the captive free.\\nVERSES FROM THE MONASTERY\\nPublished in 1820.\\nI\\nANSWER TO INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE\\nTake thou no scorn,\\nOf fiction born,\\nFair fiction s muse to woo;\\nOld Homer s theme\\nWas but a dream,\\nHimself a fiction too.\\nII\\nBORDER SONG\\nFrom Chapter xxv.\\nI\\nMarch, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale,\\nWhy the deil dinna ye march forward in\\norder\\nMarch, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale,\\nAll the Blue Bonnets are bound for the\\nBorder.\\nMany a banner spread,\\nFlutters above your head,\\nMany a crest that is famous in story.\\nMount and make ready then,\\nSons of the mountain glen,\\nFight for the Queen and our old Scottish\\nglory.\\nCome from the hills where your hirsels are\\ngrazing,\\nCome from the glen of the buck and the\\nroe;\\nCome to the crag where the beacon is blaz-\\ning,\\nCome with the buckler, the lance, and\\nthe bow.\\nTrumpets are sounding,\\nWar-steeds are bounding,\\nStand to your arms and march in good\\norder;\\nEngland shall many a day\\nTell of the bloody fray,\\nWhen the Blue Bonnets came over the\\nBorder.\\nill\\nSONGS OF THE WHITE LADY OF AVENEL\\nFrom Chapter v.\\nFORDING THE RIVER\\nMerrily swim we, the moon shines\\nbright,\\nBoth current and ripple are dancing in\\nlight.\\nWe have roused the night raven, I heard\\nhim croak,\\nAs we plashed along beneath the oak\\nThat flings its broad branches so far and so\\nwide,\\nTheir shadows are dancing in midst of the\\ntide.\\nWho wakens my nestlings the raven\\nhe said,\\nMy beak shall ere morn in his blood be\\nred", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0485.jp2"}, "484": {"fulltext": "454\\nMISCELLANEOUS POEMS\\nFor a blue swollen corpse is a dainty meal,\\nAnd I 11 have my share with the pike and\\nthe eel.\\nMerrily swim we, the moon shines bright,\\nThere s a golden gleam on the distant height:\\nThere s a silver shower on the alders dank,\\nAnd the drooping willows that wave on the\\nbank.\\nI see the Abbey, both turret and tower,\\nIt is all astir for the vesper hour;\\nThe Monks for the chapel are leaving each\\ncell,\\nBut where s Father Philip should toll the\\nbell\\nMerrily swim we, the moon shines bright,\\nDownward we drift through shadow and\\nlight.\\nUnder yon rock the eddies sleep,\\nCalm and silent, dark and deep.\\nThe Kelpy has risen from the fathomless\\npool,\\nHe has lighted his candle of death and of\\ndool:\\nLook, Father, look, and you 11 laugh to see\\nHow he gapes and glares with his eyes on\\nthee\\nGood luck to your fishing, whom watch ye\\nto-night\\nA man of mean or a man of might\\nIs it layman or priest that must float in\\nyour cove,\\nOr lover who crosses to visit his love\\nHark heard ye the Kelpy reply as we\\npassed,\\nGod s blessing on the warder, he locked\\nthe bridge fast\\nAll that come to my cove are sunk,\\nPriest or layman, lover or monk.\\nLanded landed the black book hath\\nwon,\\nElse had you seen Berwick with morning\\nsun\\nSain ye, and save ye, and blithe mot ye be,\\nFor seldom they land that go swimming\\nwith me.\\nIV\\nTO THE SUB-PRIOR\\nFrom Chapter ix.\\nGood evening, Sir Priest, and so late as\\nyou ride,\\nWith your mule so fair, and your mantle\\nso wide;\\nBut ride you through valley, or ride you\\no er hill,\\nThere is one that has warrant to wait on\\nyou still.\\nBack, back,\\nThe volume black\\nI have a warrant to carry it back.\\nWhat, ho Sub-Prior, and came you but\\nhere\\nTo conjure a book from a dead woman s\\nbier?\\nSain you, and save you, be wary and\\nwise,\\nRide back with the book, or you 11 pay for\\nyour prize.\\nBack, back,\\nThere s death in the track\\nIn the name of my master, I bid thee bear\\nback.\\nIn the name of my Master, said the aston-\\nished Monk, that name before which all things\\ncreated tremble, I conjure thee to say what\\nthou art that hauntest me thus\\nThe same voice replied,\\nThat which is neither ill nor well,\\nThat which belongs not to heaven nor to\\nhell,\\nA wreath of the mist, a bubble of the\\nstream,\\nTwixt a waking thought and a sleeping\\ndream\\nA form that men spy\\nWith the half-shut eye\\nIn the beams of the setting sun, am I.\\nVainly, Sir Prior, wouldst thou bar me my\\nright\\nLike the star when it shoots, I can dart\\nthrough the night;\\nI can dance on the torrent, and ride on the\\nair,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0486.jp2"}, "485": {"fulltext": "VERSES FROM THE MONASTERY\\n455\\nAnd travel the world with the bonny night-\\nmare.\\nAgain, again,\\nAt the crook of the glen,\\nWhere bickers the burnie, I 11 meet thee\\nagain.\\nMen of good are bold as sackless,\\nMen of rude are wild and reckless.\\nLie thou still\\nIn the nook of the hill,\\nFor those be before thee that wish thee ill.\\nhalbert s incantation\\nFrom Chapter xi.\\nThrice to the holly brake\\nThrice to the well:\\nI bid thee awake,\\nWhite Maid of Avenel\\nNoon gleams on the Lake\\nNoon glows on the Fell\\nWake thee, O wake,\\nWhite Maid of Avenel.\\nVI\\nTO HALBERT\\nFrom Chapter xii.\\nTHE WHITE MAID OF AVENEL\\nYouth of the dark eye, wherefore didst\\nthou call me\\nWherefore art thou here, if terrors can\\nappall thee\\nHe that seeks to deal with us must know\\nnor fear, nor failing;\\nTo coward and churl our speech is dark,\\nou\u00c2\u00bb gifts are unavailing.\\nThe breeze that brought me hither now\\nmust sweep Egyptian ground,\\nThe fleecy cloud on which I ride for Araby\\nis bound;\\nThe fleecy cloud is drifting by, the breeze\\nsighs for my stay,\\nFor I must sail a thousand miles before\\nthe close of day.\\nWhat I am I must not show,\\nWhat I am thou couldst not know\\nSomething betwixt heaven and hell\\nSomething that neither stood nor fell\\nSomething that through thy wit or will\\nMay work thee good may work thee\\nill.\\nNeither substance quite, nor shadow,\\nHaunting lonely moor and meadow,\\nDancing by the haunted spring,\\nRiding on the whirlwind s wing;\\nAping in fantastic fashion\\nEvery change of human passion,\\nWhile o er our frozen minds they pass,\\nLike shadows from the mirrored glass.\\nWayward, fickle, is our mood,\\nHovering betwixt bad and good,\\nHappier than brief-dated man,\\nLiving twenty times his span;\\nFar less happy, for we have\\nHelp nor hope beyond the grave\\nMan awakes to joy or sorrow;\\nOurs the sleep that knows no morrow.\\nThis is all that I can show\\nThis is all that thou may st know.\\nAy and I taught thee the word and the\\nspell\\nTo waken me here by the Fairies Well.\\nBut thou hast loved the heron and hawk,\\nMore than to seek my haunted walk;\\nAnd thou hast loved the lance and the sword,\\nMore than good text and holy word;\\nAnd thou hast loved the deer to track,\\nMore than the lines and the letters black;\\nAnd thou art a ranger of moss and wood,\\nAnd scornest the nurture of gentle blood.\\nThy craven fear my truth accused,\\nThine idlehood my trust abused;\\nHe that draws to harbor late,\\nMust sleep without, or burst the gate.\\nThere is a star for thee which burned,\\nIts influence wanes, its course is turned;\\nValor and constancy alone\\nCan bring thee back the chance that s\\nflown.\\nWithin that awful volume lies\\nThe mystery of mysteries", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0487.jp2"}, "486": {"fulltext": "45 6\\nMISCELLANEOUS POEMS\\nHappiest they of human race,\\nTo whom God has granted grace\\nTo read, to fear, to hope, to pray,\\nTo lift the latch, and force the way;\\nAnd better had they ne er been born,\\nWho read to doubt, or read to scorn.\\nMany a fathom dark and deep\\nI have laid the book to sleep;\\nEthereal fires around it glowing\\nEthereal music ever flowing\\nThe sacred pledge of Heaven\\nAll things revere,\\nEach in his sphere,\\nSave man for whom t was given:\\nLend thy hand, and thou shalt spy\\nThings ne er seen by mortal eye.\\nFearest thou to go with me\\nStill it is free to thee\\nA peasant to dwell;\\nThou may st drive the dull steer,\\nAnd chase the king s deer,\\nBut never more come near\\nThis haunted well.\\nHere lies the volume thou hast boldly\\nsought;\\nTouch it, and take it, twill dearly be\\nbought.\\nRash thy deed,\\nMortal weed\\nTo immortal flames applying;\\nRasher trust\\nHas thing of dust,\\nOn his own weak worth relying:\\nStrip thee of such fences vain,\\nStrip, and prove thy luck again.\\nMortal warp and mortal woof\\nCannot brook this charmed roof;\\nAll that mortal art hath wrought\\nIn our cell returns to nought.\\nThe molten gold returns to clay,\\nThe polished diamond melts away;\\nAll is altered, all is flown,\\nNought stands fast but truth alone.\\nNot for that thy quest give o er:\\nCourage prove thy chance once more.\\nAlas alas\\nNot ours the grace\\nThese holy characters to trace\\nIdle forms of painted air,\\nNot to us is given to share\\nThe boon bestowed on Adam s race.\\nWith patience bide,\\nHeaven will provide\\nThe fitting time, the fitting guide.\\nVII\\nTO THE SAME\\nFrom Chapter xvii. She spoke, and her\\nspeech was still song, or rather measured\\nchant but, as if now more familiar, it flowed\\noccasionally in modulated blank verse, and, at\\nother times, in the lyrical measure which she\\nhad used at their former meeting.\\nThis is the day when the fairy kind\\nSit weeping alone for their hopeless lot,\\nAnd the wood-maiden sighs to the sighing\\nwind,\\nAnd the mermaiden weeps in her crystal\\ngrot;\\nFor this is a day that the deed w;\\nwrought,\\nIn which we have neither part nor share,\\nFor the children of clay was salvation\\nbought,\\nBut not for the forms of sea or air\\nAnd ever the mortal is most forlorn,\\nWho meeteth our race on the Friday morn.\\nDaring youth for thee it is well,\\nHere calling me in haunted dell,\\nThat thy heart has not quailed,\\nNor thy courage failed,\\nAnd that thou couldst brook\\nThe angry look\\nOf Her of Avenel.\\nDid one limb shiver,\\nOr an eyelid quiver,\\nThou wert lost for ever.\\nThough I am formed from the\\nblue,\\nAnd my blood is of the unfallen dew,\\nether", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0488.jp2"}, "487": {"fulltext": "VERSES FROM THE MONASTERY\\n457\\nAnd thou art framed of mud and dust,\\nT is thine to speak, reply I must.\\nA mightier wizard far than I\\nWields o er the universe his power;\\nHim owns the eagle in the sky,\\nThe turtle in the bower.\\nChangeful in shape, yet mightiest still,\\nHe wields the heart of man at will,\\nFrom ill to good, from good to ill,\\nIn cot and castle-tower.\\nAsk thy heart, whose secret cell\\nIs filled with Mary Avenel\\nAsk thy pride, why scornful look\\nIn Mary s view it will not brook\\nAsk it, why thou seek st to rise\\nAmong the mighty and the wise,\\nWhy thou spurn st thy lowly lot,\\nWhy thy pastimes are forgot,\\nWhy thou wouldst in bloody strife\\nMend thy luck or lose thy life\\nAsk thy heart, and it shall tell,\\nSighing from its secret cell,\\nT is for Mary Avenel.\\nDo not ask me\\nOn doubts like these thou canst not task me.\\nWe only see the passing show\\nOf human passions ebb and flow;\\nAnd view the pageant s idle glance\\nAs mortals eye the northern dance,\\nWhen thousand streamers, flashing bright,\\nCareer it o er the brow of night,\\nAnd gazers mark their changeful gleams,\\nBut feel no influence from their beams.\\nBy ties mysterious linked, our fated race\\nHolds strange connection with the sons of\\nmen.\\nThe star that rose upon the House of\\nAvenel,\\nWhen Norman Ulric first assumed the\\nname,\\nThat star, when culminating in its orbit,\\nShot from its spear a drop of diamond\\ndew,\\nAnd this bright font received it and a\\nSpirit\\nRose from the fountain, and her date of\\nlife\\nHath coexistence with the House of Ave-\\nnel,\\nAnd with the star that rules it.\\nLook on my girdle on this thread of\\ngold\\nT is fine as web of lightest gossamer,\\nAnd, but there is a spell on t, would not\\nbind,\\nLight as they are, the folds of my thin\\nrobe.\\nBut when t was donned, it was a massive\\nchain,\\nSuch as might bind the champion of the\\nJews,\\nEven when his locks were longest it\\nhath dwindled,\\nHath minished in its substance and its\\nstrength,\\nAs sunk the greatness of the House of\\nAvenel.\\nWhen this frail thread gives way, I to the\\nelements\\nResign the principles of life they lent\\nme.\\nAsk me no more of this the stars for-\\nbid it.\\nDim burns the once bright star of Ave-\\nnel,\\nDim as the beacon when the morn is nigh,\\nAnd the o er-wearied warder leaves the\\nlighthouse\\nThere is an influence sorrowful and fear-\\nful,\\nThat dogs its downward course. Disas-\\ntrous passion,\\nFierce hate and rivalry, are in the aspect\\nThat lowers upon its fortunes.\\nComplain not on me, child of clay,\\nIf to thy harm I yield the way.\\nWe, who soar thy sphere above,\\nKnow not aught of hate or love;\\nAs will or wisdom rules thy mood,\\nMy gifts to evil turn or good.\\nWhen Piercie Shafton boasteth high,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0489.jp2"}, "488": {"fulltext": "45S\\nMISCELLANEOUS POEMS\\nLet this token meet his eye.\\nThe sun is westering from the dell,\\nThy wish is granted fare thee well\\nVIII\\nTO THE SAME\\nFrom Chapter xx.\\nHe, whose heart for vengeance sued,\\nMust not shrink from shedding blood;\\nThe knot that thou hast tied with word,\\nThou must loose by edge of sword.\\nYou have summoned me once, you have\\nsummoned me twice,\\nAnd without e er a summons I come to you\\nthrice\\nUnasked for, unsued for, you came to my\\nglen,\\nUnsued and unasked, I am with you again.\\nIX\\nTO MARY AVENEL\\nFrom Chapter xxx.\\nMaiden, whose sorrows wail the Living\\nDead,\\nWhose eyes shall commune with the\\nDead Alive,\\nMaiden, attend Beneath my foot lies\\nhid\\nThe Word, the Law, the Path which\\nthou dost strive\\nTo find, and canst not find. Could Spirits\\nshed\\nTears for their lot, it were my lot to\\nweep,\\nShowing the road which I shall never\\ntread,\\nThough my foot points it. Sleep, eter-\\nnal sleep,\\nDark, long, and cold forgetfulness my lot\\nBut do not thou at human ills repine;\\nSecure there lies full guerdon in this spot\\nFor all the woes that wait frail Adam s\\nline\\nStoop then and make it yours, I may\\nnot make it mine\\nTO EDWARD GLENDINNING\\nFrom Chapter xxxii.\\nThou who seek st my fountain lone,\\nWith thoughts and hopes thou dar st not\\nown;\\nWhose heart within leaped wildly glad,\\nWhen most his brow seemed dark and sad;\\nHie thee back, thou find st not here\\nCorpse or coffin, grave or bier;\\nThe Dead Alive is gone and fled:\\nGo thou and join the Living Dead\\nThe Living Dead, whose sober brow\\nOft shrouds such thoughts as thou hast\\nnow,\\nWhose hearts within are seldom cured\\nOf passions by their vows abjured;\\nWhere, under sad and solemn show,\\nVain hopes are nursed, wild wishes glow.\\nSeek the convent s vaulted room,\\nPrayer and vigil be thy doom:\\nDoff the green, and don the grey,\\nTo the cloister hence away\\nXI\\nTHE WHITE LADY S FAREWELL\\nFrom Chapter xxxvii.\\nFare thee well, thou Holly green\\nThou shalt seldom now be seen,\\nWith all thy glittering garlands bending,\\nAs to greet my slow descending,\\nStartling the bewildered hind,\\nWho sees thee wave without a wind.\\nFarewell, Fountain now not long\\nShalt thou murmur to my song.\\nWhile thy crystal bubbles glancing,\\nKeep the time in mystic dancing,\\nRise and swell, are burst and lost,\\nLike mortal schemes by fortune crossed.\\nThe knot of fate at length is tied,\\nThe Churl is Lord, the Maid is Bride\\nVainly did my magic sleight\\nSend the lover from her sight;\\nWither bush, and perish well,\\nFallen is lofty Avenel", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0490.jp2"}, "489": {"fulltext": "VERSES FROM THE PIRATE\\n459\\nGOLDTHRED S SONG\\nFROM KENILWORTH\\nPublished in 1821.\\nFrom Chapter ii. After some brief inter-\\nval, Master Goldthred, at the earnest instiga-\\ntion of mine host, and the joyous concurrence\\nof his guests, indulged the company with the\\nfollowing morsel of melody\\nOf all the birds on bush or tree,\\nCommend me to the owl,\\nSince he may best ensample be\\nTo those the cup that trowl.\\nFor when the sun hath left the west,\\nHe chooses the tree that he loves the\\nbest,\\nAnd he whoops out his song-, and he laughs\\nat his jest\\nThen though hours be late, and weather\\nfoul,\\nWe 11 drink to the health of the bonny,\\nbonny owl.\\nThe lark is but a bumpkin fowl,\\nHe sleeps in his nest till morn;\\nBut my blessing upon the jolly owl,\\nThat all night blows his horn.\\nThen up with your cup till you stagger in\\nspeech,\\nAnd match me this catch though you swag-\\nger and screech,\\nAnd drink till you wink, my merry men\\neach;\\nFor though hours be late, and weather be\\nfoul,\\nWe 11 drink to the health of the bonny,\\nbonny owl.\\nVERSES FROM THE PIRATE\\nPublished in 1821.\\nI\\nTHE SONG OF THE TEMPEST\\nFrom Chapter vi. A Norwegian invoca-\\ntion, still preserved in the island of Uist, under\\nthe name of the Song of the Reim-kennar,\\nthough some call it the Song of the Tempest.\\nThe following is a free translation, it being\\nimpossible to render literally many of the el-\\nliptical and metaphorical terms of expression\\npeculiar to the ancient Northern poetry\\nStern eagle of the far northwest,\\nThou that bearest in thy grasp the thunder-\\nbolt,\\nThou whose rushing pinions stir ocean to\\nmadness,\\nThou the destroyer of herds, thou the scat-\\nterer of navies,\\nThou the breaker down of towers,\\nAmidst the scream of thy rage,\\nAmidst the rushing of thy onward wings,\\nThough thy scream be loud as the cry of\\na perishing nation,\\nThough the rushing of thy wings be like\\nthe roar of ten thousand waves,\\nYet hear, in thine ire and thy haste,\\nHear thou the voice of the Reim-kennar.\\nThou hast met the pine-trees of Drontheim,\\nTheir dark-green heads lie prostrate beside\\ntheir uprooted stems\\nThou hast met the rider of the ocean,\\nThe tall, the strong bark of the fearless\\nrover,\\nAnd she has struck to thee the topsail\\nThat she had not veiled to a royal ar-\\nmada;\\nThou hast met the tower that bears its crest\\namong the clouds,\\nThe battled massive tower of the Jarl of\\nformer days,\\nAnd the cope-stone of the turret\\nIs lying upon its hospitable hearth;\\nBut thou too shalt stoop, proud compeller\\nof clouds,\\nWhen thou nearest the voice of the Reim-\\nkennar.\\nThere are verses that can stop the stag in\\nthe forest,\\nAy, and when the dark-colored dog is open-\\ning on his track;\\nThere are verses can make the wild hawk\\npause on his wing,\\nLike the falcon that wears the hood and the\\njesses,\\nAnd who knows the shrill whistle of the\\nfowler.\\nThou who canst mock at the scream of the\\ndrowning mariner,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0491.jp2"}, "490": {"fulltext": "460\\nMISCELLANEOUS POEMS\\nAnd the crash of the ravaged forest,\\nFarewell the wild ferry,\\nAnd the groan of the overwhelmed crowds,\\nWhich Hacon could brave\\nWhen the church hath fallen in the mo-\\nWhen the peaks of the Skerry\\nment of prayer;\\nWere white in the wave.\\nThere are sounds which thou also must list,\\nThere s a maid may look over\\nWhen they are chanted by the voice of the\\nThese wild waves in vain\\nReim-kennar.\\nFor the skiff of her lover\\n4\\nHe comes not again\\nEnough of woe hast thou wrought on the\\nThe vows thou hast broke,\\nocean,\\nOn the wild currents fling them;\\nThe widows wring their hands on the beach;\\nOn the quicksand and rock\\nEnough of woe hast thou wrought on the\\nLet the mermaiden sing them:\\nland,\\nNew sweetness they 11 give her\\nThe husbandman folds his arms in despair;\\nBewildering strain;\\nCease thou the waving of thy pinions,\\nBut there s one who will never\\nLet the ocean repose in her dark strength;\\nBelieve them again.\\nCease thou the flashing of thine eye,\\nLet the thunderbolt sleep in the armory of\\n0, were there an island,\\nOdin;\\nThough ever so wild,\\nBe thou still at my bidding, viewless racer\\nWhere woman could smile, and\\nof the northwestern heaven,\\nNo man be beguiled\\nSleep thou at the voice of Noma the Reim-\\nToo tempting a snare\\nkennar.\\nTo poor mortals were given;\\nAnd the hope would fix there\\n5\\nThat should anchor on heaven.\\nEagle of the far northwestern waters,\\nThou hast heard the voice of the Reim-\\nkennar,\\nin\\nThou hast closed thy wide sails at her bid-\\nding,\\nSONG OF HAROLD HARFAGER\\nAnd folded them in peace by thy side.\\nMy blessing be on thy retiring path;\\nFrom Chapter xv.\\nWhen thou stoopest from thy place on high,\\nSoft be thy slumbers in the caverns of the\\nThe sun is rising dimly red,\\nunknown ocean,\\nThe wind is wailing low and dread\\nRest till destiny shall again awaken thee;\\nFrom his cliff the eagle sallies,\\nEagle of the northwest, thou hast heard\\nLeaves the wolf his darksome valleys;\\nthe voice of the Reim-kennar.\\nIn the mist the ravens hover,\\nPeep the wild clogs from the cover,\\nScreaming, croaking, baying, yelling,\\n11\\nEach in his wild accents telling,\\nSoon we feast on dead and dying,\\nHALCRO S SONG\\nFair-haired Harold s flag is flying.\\nFrom Chapter xii.\\nMany a crest in air is streaming,\\nMany a helmet darkly gleaming,\\nFarewell to Northmaven,\\nMany an arm the axe uprears,\\nGrey Hillswicke, farewell\\nDoomed to hew the wood of spears.\\nTo the calms of thy haven,\\nAll along the crowded ranks,\\nThe storms on thy fell\\nHorses neigh and armor clanks\\nTo each breeze that can vary\\nChiefs are shouting, clarions ringing,\\nThe mood of thy main,\\nLouder still the bard is singing,\\nAnd to thee, bonny Mary\\nGather, footmen; gather, horsemen,\\nWe meet not again\\nTo the field, ye valiant Norsemen", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0492.jp2"}, "491": {"fulltext": "VERSES FROM THE PIRATE\\n461\\nHalt ye not for food or slumber,\\nView not vantage, count not number;\\nJolly reapers, forward still,\\nGrow the crop on vale or hill,\\nThick or scattered, stiff or lithe,\\nIt shall down before the scythe.\\nForward with your sickles bright,\\nReap the harvest of the fight.\\nOnward footmen, onward horsemen,\\nTo the charge, ye gallant Norsemen\\nFatal Choosers of the Slaughter,\\nO er you hovers Odin s daughter;\\nHear the choice she spreads before ye\\nVictory, and wealth, and glory;\\nOr old Valhalla s roaring hail,\\nHer ever-circling mead and ale,\\nWhere for eternity unite\\nThe joys of wassail and of fight.\\nHeadlong forward, foot and horsemen,\\nCharge and fight, and die like Norsemen\\nIV\\nSONG OF THE MERMAIDS AND MERMEN\\nFrom Chapter xvi.\\nMERMAID\\nFathoms deep beneath the wave,\\nStringing beads of glistering pearl,\\nSinging the achievements brave\\nOf many an old Norwegian earl;\\nDwelling where the tempest s raving\\nFalls as light upon our ear,\\nAs the sigh of lover, craving\\nPity from his lady dear,\\nChildren of wild Thule, we,\\nFrom the deep caves of the sea,\\nAs the lark springs from the lea,\\nHither come, to share your glee.\\nMERMAN\\nFrom reining of the water-horse,\\nThat bounded till the waves were foam-\\ning,\\nWatching the infant tempest s course,\\nChasing the sea-snake in his roaming;\\nFrom winding charge-notes on the shell,\\nWhen the huge whale and sword-fish\\nduel,\\nOr tolling shroudless seamen s knell,\\nWhen the winds and waves are cruel;\\nChildren of wild Thule, we\\nHave ploughed such furrows on the sea,\\nAs the steer draws on the lea,\\nAnd hither we come to share your glee.\\nMERMAIDS AND MERMEN\\nWe heard you in our twilight caves,\\nA hundred fathom deep below,\\nFor notes of joy can pierce the waves,\\nThat drown each sound of war and woe.\\nThose who dwell beneath the sea\\nLove the sons of Thule well;\\nThus, to aid your mirth, bring we\\nDance and song and sounding shell.\\nChildren of dark Thule, know,\\nThose who dwell by haaf and voe,\\nWhere your daring shallops row,\\nCome to share the festal show.\\nNORNA S VERSES\\nFrom Chapter xix.\\nFor leagues along the watery way,\\nThrough gulf and stream my course has\\nbeen;\\nThe billows know my Runic lay,\\nAnd smooth their crests to silent green.\\nThe billows know my Runic lay,\\nThe gulf grows smooth, the stream is\\nstill;\\nBut human hearts, more wild than they,\\nKnow but the rule of wayward will.\\nOne hour is mine, in all the year,\\nTo tell my woes, and one alone;\\nWhen gleams this magic lamp, t is here,\\nWhen dies the mystic light, t is gone.\\nDaughters of northern Magnus, hail\\nThe lamp is lit, the flame is clear;\\nTo you I come to tell my tale,\\nAwake, arise, my tale to hear\\nDwellers of the mountain, rise,\\nTrolld the powerful, Haims the wise\\nYe who taught weak woman s tongue\\nWords that sway the wise and strong,\\nYe who taught weak woman s hand\\nHow to wield the magic wand,\\nAnd wake the gales on Foulah s steep,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0493.jp2"}, "492": {"fulltext": "462\\nMISCELLANEOUS POEMS\\nOr lull wild Surnburgh s waves to sleep\\nStill are ye yet Not yours the power\\nYe knew in Odin s mightier hour.\\nWhat are ye now but empty names,\\nPowerful Trolld, sagacious Haims,\\nThat, lightly spoken, and lightly heard,\\nFloat on the air like thistle s beard\\nWhen I awoke, I saw, through the dim\\nlight which the upper aperture admitted, the\\nunshapely and indistinct form of Trolld the\\ndwarf. He spoke, and his words were of\\nNorse, so old, that few, save my father or I\\nmyself, could have comprehended their import.\\nA thousand winters dark have flown,\\nSince o er the threshold of my stone\\nA votaress passed, my power to own.\\nVisitor bold\\nOf the mansion of Trolld,\\nMaiden haughty of heart.\\nWho hast hither presumed,\\nUngifted, undoomed,\\nThou shalt not depart.\\nThe power thou dost covet\\nO er tempest and wave,\\nShall be thine, thou proud maiden,\\nBy beach and by cave.\\nBy stack, and by skerry, by noup, and by\\nvoe,\\nBy air, and by wick, and by helyer and\\ngio,\\nAnd by every wild shore which the northern\\nwinds know,\\nAnd the northern tides lave.\\nBut though this shall be given thee, thou\\ndesperately brave,\\nI doom thee that never the gift thou shalt\\nhave,\\nTill thou reave thy life s giver\\nOf the gift which he gave.\\nI answered him in nearly the same strain.\\nDark are thy words, and severe,\\nThou dweller in the stone\\nBut trembling and fear\\nTo her are unknown,\\nWho hath sought thee here,\\nIn thy dwelling lone.\\nCome what comes soever,\\nThe worst I can endure\\nLife is but a short fever,\\nAnd Death is the cure.\\nVI\\nHALCRO AND NORNA\\nFrom Chapter xxi.\\nCLAUD HALCKO\\nMother darksome, Mother dread,\\nDweller on the Fitful-head,\\nThou canst see what deeds are done\\nUnder the never-setting sun.\\nLook through sleet, and look through frost,\\nLook to Greenland s caves and coast,\\nBy the iceberg is a sail\\nChasing of the swarthy whale\\nMother doubtful, Mother dread,\\nTell us, has the good ship sped\\nThe thought of the aged is ever on gear,\\nOn his fishing, his furrow, his flock, and\\nhis steer;\\nBut thrive may his fishing, flock, furrow,\\nand herd,\\nWhile the aged for anguish shall tear his\\ngray beard.\\nThe ship, well-laden as bark need be,\\nLies deep in the furrow of the Iceland sea;\\nThe breeze from Zetland blows fair and\\nsoft,\\nAnd gaily the garland is fluttering aloft:\\nSeven good fishes have spouted their last,\\nAnd their jaw-bones are hanging to yard\\nand mast:\\nTwo are for Lerwick, and two for Kirk-\\nwall,\\nAnd three for Burgh- Westra, the choicest\\nof all.\\nCLAUD HALCKO\\nMother doubtful, Mother dread,\\nDweller of the Fitful-head,\\nThou hast conned full many a rhyme,\\nThat lives upon the surge of time\\nTell me, shall my lays be sung,\\nLike Hacon s of the golden tongue,\\nLong after Halcro s dead and gone\\nOr, shall Hialtland s minstrel own\\nOne note to rival glorious John\\nnokna\\nThe infant loves the rattle s noise;\\nAge, double childhood, hath its toys;\\nBut different far the descant rings,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0494.jp2"}, "493": {"fulltext": "VERSES FROM THE PIRATE\\n463\\nAs strikes a different hand the strings.\\nThe eagle mounts the polar sky:\\nThe Imber-goose, unskilled to fly,\\nMust be content to glide along,\\nWhere seal and sea-dog list his song.\\nCLAUD HALCRO\\nBe mine the Imber-goose to play,\\nAnd haunt lone cave and silent bay;\\nThe archer s aim so shall I shun;\\nSo shall I scape the levelled gun;\\nContent my verses tuneless jingle\\nWith Thule s sounding tides to mingle,\\nWhile, to the ear of wondering wight,\\nUpon the distant headland s height,\\nSoftened by murmur of the sea,\\nThe rude sounds seem like harmony\\nMother doubtful, Mother dread,\\nDweller of the Fitful-head,\\nA gallant bark from far abroad,\\nSaint Magnus hath her in his road,\\nWith guns and firelocks not a few:\\nA silken and a scarlet crew,\\nDeep stored with precious merchandise\\nOf gold, and goods of rare device:\\nWhat interest hath our comrade bold\\nIn bark and crew, in goods and gold\\nGold is ruddy, fair, and free,\\nBlood is crimson, and dark to see;\\nI looked out on Saint Magnus bay,\\nAnd I saw a falcon that struck her prey;\\nA gobbet of flesh in her beak she bore,\\nAnd talons and singles are dripping with\\ngore;\\nLet him that asks after them look on his\\nhand,\\nAnd if there is blood on t, he s one of\\ntheir band.\\nCLAUD HALCRO\\nMother doubtful, Mother dread,\\nDweller of the Fitful-head,\\nWell thou know st it is thy task\\nTo tell what Beauty will not ask;\\nThen steep thy words in wine and milk,\\nAnd weave a doom of gold and silk;\\nFor we would know, shall Brenda prove\\nIn love, and happy in her love\\nUntouched by love, the maiden s breast\\nIs like the snow on Rona s crest,\\nHigh seated in the middle sky,\\nIn bright and barren purity;\\nBut by the sunbeam gently kissed,\\nScarce by the gazing eye t is missed,\\nEre, down the lonely valley stealing,\\nFresh grass and growth its course reveal-\\ning,\\nIt cheers the flock, revives the flower,\\nAnd decks some happy shepherd s bower.\\nMAGNUS TROLL\\nMother, speak, and do not tarry,\\nHere s a maiden fain would marry.\\nShall she marry, ay or not\\nIf she marry, what s her lot\\nNORNA\\nUntouched by love, the maiden s breast\\nIs like the snow on Rona s crest;\\nSo pure, so free from earthly dye,\\nIt seems, whilst leaning on the sky,\\nPart of the heaven to which t is nigh;\\nBut passion, like the wild March rain,\\nMay soil the wreath with many a stain.\\nWe gaze the lovely vision s gone\\nA torrent fills the bed of stone,\\nThat, hurrying to destruction s shock,\\nLeaps headlong from the lofty rock.\\nVII\\nTHE FISHERMEN S SONG\\nFrom Chapter xxii. While they were yet\\nwithin hearing of the shore, they chanted an\\nancient Norse ditty, appropriate to the occa-\\nsion, of which Claud Halcro had executed the\\nfollowing literal translation\\nFarewell, merry maidens, to song and to\\nlaugh,\\nFor the brave lads of Westra are bound to\\nthe Haaf\\nAnd we must have labor, and hunger, and\\npain,\\nEre we dance with the maids of Dunross-\\nness again.\\nFor now, in our trim boats of Noroway deal,\\nWe must dance on the waves, with the\\nporpoise and seal;\\nThe breeze it shall pipe, so it pipe not too\\nhigh,\\nAnd the gull be our songstress whene er\\nshe flits by.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0495.jp2"}, "494": {"fulltext": "464\\nMISCELLANEOUS POEMS\\nSing on, my brave bird, while we follow,\\nlike thee,\\nBy bank, shoal, and quicksand, the swarms\\nof the sea;\\nAnd when twenty-score fishes are straining\\nour line,\\nSing louder, brave bird, for their spoils\\nshall be thine.\\nWe 11 sing while we bait, and we 11 sing\\nwhen we haul,\\nFor the deeps of the Haaf have enough\\nfor us all;\\nThere is torsk for the gentle, and skate for\\nthe carle,\\nAnd there s wealth for bold Magnus, the\\nson of the earl.\\nHuzza my brave comrades, give way for\\nthe Haaf,\\nWe shall sooner come back to the dance\\nand the laugh;\\nFor life without mirth is a lamp without oil\\nThen, mirth and long life to the bold Mag-\\nnus Troil\\nVIII\\nCLEVELAND S SONGS\\nLove wakes and weeps\\nWhile Beauty sleeps:\\nO, for Music s softest numbers,\\nTo prompt a theme\\nFor Beauty s dream,\\nSoft as the pillow of her slumbers\\nThrough groves of palm\\nSigh gales of balm,\\nFire-flies on the air are wheeling;\\nWhile through the gloom\\nComes soft perfume,\\nThe distant beds of flowers revealing.\\nO wake and live\\nNo dream can give\\nA shadowed bliss, the real excelling;\\nNo longer sleep,\\nFrom lattice peep,\\nAnd list the tale that Love is telling.\\nFarewell farewell the voice you hear\\nHas left its last soft tone with you,\\nIts next must join the seaward cheer,\\nAnd shout among the shouting crew.\\nThe accents which I scarce could form\\nBeneath your frown s controlling check\\nMust give the word, above the storm,\\nTo cut the mast and clear the wreck.\\nThe timid eye I dared not raise,\\nThe hand, that shook when pressed to\\nthine,\\nMust point the guns upon the chase\\nMust bid the deadly cutlass shine.\\nTo all I love, or hope, or fear,\\nHonor or own, a long adieu\\nTo all that life has soft and dear,\\nFarewell save memory of you\\nIX\\nHALCROS VERSES\\nFrom Chapter xxiii.\\nAnd you shall deal the funeral dole\\nAy, deal it, mother mine,\\nTo weary body and to heavy soul,\\nThe white bread and the wine.\\nAnd you shall deal my horses of pride;\\nAy, deal them, mother mine;\\nAnd you shall deal my lauds so wide,\\nAnd deal my castles nine;\\nBut deal not vengeance for the, deed,\\nAnd deal not for the crime;\\nThe body to its place, and the soul to Hea-\\nven s grace,\\nAnd the rest in God s own time.\\nSaint Magnus control thee, that martyr of\\ntreason\\nSaint Ron an rebuke thee, with rhyme and\\nwith reason;\\nBy the mass of Saint Martin, the might of\\nSaint Mary,\\nBe thou gone, or thy weird shall be worse\\nif thou tarry\\nIf of good, go hence and hallow thee\\nIf of ill, let the earth swallow thee;\\nIf thou rt of air, let the gray mist fold thee", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0496.jp2"}, "495": {"fulltext": "VERSES FROM THE PIRATE\\n465\\nIf of earth, let the swart mine hold thee;\\nIf a Pixie, seek thy ring;\\nIf a Nixie, seek thy spring;\\nIf 011 middle earth thou st been\\nSlave of sorrow, shame, and sin,\\nHast ate the bread of toil and strife,\\nAnd dree d the lot which men call life;\\nBegone to thy stone for thy coffin is scant\\nof thee,\\nThe worm, thy play-fellow, wails for the\\nwant of thee:\\nHence, houseless ghost let the earth hide\\nthee,\\nTill Michael shall blow the blast, see that\\nthere thou bide thee\\nPhantom, fly hence take the Cross for a\\ntoken,\\nHence pass till Hallo wmass my spell is\\nspoken.\\nWhere corpse-light\\nDances bright,\\nBe it by day or night,\\nBe it by light or dark,\\nThere shall corpse lie stiff and stark.\\nMensef ul maiden ne er should rise,\\nTill the first beam tinge the skies;\\nSilk-fringed eyelids still should close,\\nTill the sun has kissed the rose\\nMaiden s foot we should not view,\\nMarked with tiny print on dew,\\nTill the opening flowerets spread\\nCarpet meet for beauty s tread.\\nnorna s incantations\\nFrom Chapter xxy.\\nChampion, famed for warlike toil,\\nArt thou silent, Ribolt Troil\\nSand, and dust, and pebbly stones,\\nAre leaving bare thy giant bones.\\nWho dared touch the wild bear s skin\\nYe slumbered on, while life was in\\nA woman now, or babe, may come\\nAnd cast the covering from thy tomb.\\nYet be not wrathful, Chief, nor blight\\nMine eyes or ears with sound or sight\\nI come not with unhallowed tread,\\nTo wake the slumbers of the dead,\\nOr lay thy giant relics bare;\\nBut what I seek thou well canst spare.\\nBe it to my hand allowed\\nTo shear a merk s weight from thy shroud\\nYet leave thee sheeted lead enough\\nTo shield thy bones from weather rough.\\nSee, I draw my magic knife:\\nNever while thou wert in life\\nLaidst thou still for sloth or fear,\\nWhen point and edge were glittering near;\\nSee, the cerements now I sever:\\nWaken now, or sleep for ever\\nThou wilt not wake: the deed is done\\nThe prize I sought is fairly won.\\nThanks, Ribolt, thanks, for this the\\nsea\\nShall smooth its ruffled crest for thee,\\nAnd while afar its billows foam,\\nSubside to peace near Ribolt s tomb.\\nThanks, Ribolt, thanks for this the might\\nOf wild winds raging at their height,\\nWhen to thy place of slumber nigh,\\nShall soften to a lullaby.\\nShe, the dame of doubt and dread,\\nNoma of the Fitful-head,\\nMighty in her own despite,\\nMiserable in her might;\\nIn despair and frenzy great,\\nIn her greatness desolate;\\nWisest, wickedest who lives,\\nWell can keep the word she gives.\\nXI\\nTHE SAME, AT THE MEETING WITH MINNA\\nFrom Chapter xxviii.\\nThou so needful, yet so dread,\\nWith cloudy crest, and wing of red;\\nThou, without whose genial breath\\nThe North would sleep the sleep of death\\nWho deign st to warm the cottage hearth,\\nYet hurls proud palaces to earth;\\nBrightest, keenest of the Powers,\\nWhich form and rule this world of ours,\\nWith my rhyme of Runic, I\\nThank thee for thy agency.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0497.jp2"}, "496": {"fulltext": "4 66\\nMISCELLANEOUS POEMS\\nOld Reimkennar, to thy art\\nMother Hertha sends her part;\\nShe, whose gracious bounty gives\\nNeedful food for all that lives.\\nFroni the deep mine of the North,\\nCame the mystic metal forth,\\nDoomed amidst disjointed stones,\\nLong to cere a champion s bones,\\nDisinhumed my charms to aid:\\nMother earth, my thanks are paid.\\nGirdle of our islands dear,\\nElement of Water, hear\\nThou whose power can overwhelm\\nBroken mounds and ruined realm\\nOn the lowly Belgian strand;\\nAll thy fiercest rage can never\\nOf our soil a furlong sever\\nFrom our rock-defended land;\\nPlay then gently thou thy part,\\nTo assist old Noma s art.\\nElements, each other greeting,\\nGifts and powers attend your\\nyour meeting\\nThou, that over billows dark\\nSafely send st the fisher s bark:\\nGiving him a path and motion\\nThrough the wilderness of ocean;\\nThou, that when the billows brave ye,\\nO er the shelves canst drive the navy:\\nDidst thou chafe as one neglected,\\nWhile thy brethren were respected\\nTo appease thee, see, I tear\\nThis full grasp of grizzled hair\\nOft thy breath hath through it sung,\\nSoftening to my magic tongue;\\nNow, t is thine to bid it fly\\nThrough the wide expanse of sky,\\nMid the countless swarms to sail\\nOf wild-fowl wheeling on thy gale;\\nTake thy portion and rejoice:\\nSpirit, thou hast heard my voice\\nShe who sits by haunted well,\\nIs subject to the Nixie s spell;\\nShe who walks on lonely beach.\\nTo the Mermaid s charmed speech;\\nShe who walks round ring of green,\\nOffends the peevish Fairy Queen;\\nAnd she who takes rest in the Dwarfie s\\ncave,\\nA weary weird of woe shall have.\\nBy ring, by spring, by cave, by shore,\\nMinna Troil has braved all this and more\\nAnd yet hath the root of her sorrow and\\nill\\nA source that s more deep and more mys-\\ntical still.\\nThou art within a demon s hold,\\nMore wise than Heims, more strong than\\nTrolld;\\nNo siren sings so sweet as he:\\nNo fay springs lighter on the lea;\\nNo elfin power hath half the art\\nTo soothe, to move, to wring the heart:\\nLife-blood from the cheek to drain,\\nDrench the eye, and dry the vein.\\nMaiden, ere we farther go,\\nDost thou note me, ay or no\\nMINNA\\nI mark thee, my mother, both word, look,\\nand sign;\\nSpeak on with thy riddle to read it be\\nMark me for the word I speak\\nShall bring the color to thy cheek.\\nThis leaden heart, so light of cost,\\nThe symbol of a treasure lost,\\nThou shalt wear in hope and in peace,\\nThat the cause of your sickness and sorrow\\nmay cease,\\nWhen crimson foot meets crimson hand\\nIn the Martyrs Aisle, and in Orkney land.\\nBe patient, be patient, for Patience hath\\npower\\nTo ward us in danger, like mantle in\\nshower;\\nA fairy gift you best may hold\\nIn a chain of fairy gold;\\nThe chain and the gift are each a true\\ntoken,\\nThat not without warrant old Noma hat!\\nspoken;\\nBut thy nearest and dearest must never\\nbehold them,\\nTill time shall accomplish the truths\\nhave told them.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0498.jp2"}, "497": {"fulltext": "FAREWELL TO THE MUSE\\n467\\nXII\\nBRYCE SNAILSFOOT S ADVERTISEMENT\\nFrom Chapter xxxii.\\nPoor sinners whom the snake deceives,\\nAre fain to cover them with leaves.\\nZetland hath no leaves, t is true,\\nBecause that trees are none, or few;\\nBut we have flax and taits of woo\\nFor linen cloth, and wadmaal blue;\\nAnd we have many of foreign knacks\\nOf finer waft than woo or flax.\\nYe gallanty Lambmas lads appear,\\nAnd bring your Lambmas sisters here,\\nBryce Snailsfoot spares not cost or care,\\nTo pleasure every gentle pair.\\nON ETTRICK FOREST S MOUN-\\nTAINS DUN\\nWritten in 1822 after a week s shooting and\\nfishing- in which Scott had been engaged with\\nsome friends.\\nOn Ettrick Forest s mountains dun\\nT is blithe to hear the sportsman s gun,\\nAnd seek the heath-frequenting brood\\nFar through the noonday solitude;\\nBy many a cairn and trenched mound\\nWhere chiefs of yore sleep lone and sound,\\nAnd springs where gray-haired shepherds\\ntell\\nThat still the fairies love to dwell.\\nAlong the silver streams of Tweed\\nT is blithe the mimic fly to lead,\\nWhen to the hook the salmon springs,\\nAnd the line whistles through the rings;\\nThe boiling eddy see him try,\\nThen dashing from the current high,\\nTill watchful eye and cautious hand\\nHave led his wasted strength to land.\\nT is blithe along the midnight tide\\nWith stalwart arm the boat to guide;\\nOn high the dazzling blaze to rear,\\nAnd heedful plunge the barbed spear;\\nRock, wood, and scaur, emerging bright,\\nFling on the stream their ruddy light,\\nAnd from the bank our band appears\\nLike Genii armed with fiery spears.\\nT is blithe at eve to tell the tale\\nHow we succeed and how we fail,\\nWhether at Alwyn s lordly meal,\\nOr lowlier board of Ashestiel;\\nWhile the gay tapers cheerly shine,\\nBickers the fire and flows the wine\\nDays free from thought and nights from\\ncare,\\nMy blessing on the Forest fair.\\nTHE MAID OF ISLA\\nAir The Maid of Isla\\nWritten for Mr. George Thomson s Scottish\\nMelodies, and published in 1822.\\nO Maid of Isla, from the cliff\\nThat looks on troubled wave and sky,\\nDost thou not see yon little skiff\\nContend with ocean gallantly\\nNow beating gainst the breeze and surge,\\nAnd steeped her leeward deck in foam,\\nWhy does she war unequal urge\\nO Isla s maid, she seeks her home.\\nO Isla s maid, yon sea-bird mark,\\nHer white wing gleams through mist\\nand spray\\nAgainst the storm-cloud lowering dark,\\nAs to the rock she wheels away\\nWhere clouds are dark and billows rave,\\nWhy to the shelter should she come\\nOf cliff, exposed to wind and wave\\nO maid of Isla, t is her home\\nAs breeze and tide to yonder skiff,\\nThou rt adverse to the suit I bring,\\nAnd cold as is yon wintry cliff\\nWhere seabirds close their wearied wing.\\nYet cold as rock, unkind as wave,\\nStill, Isla s maid, to thee I come;\\nFor in thy love or in his grave\\nMust Allan Vourich find his home.\\nFAREWELL TO THE MUSE\\nAlso published in Scottish Melodies in 1822.\\nEnchantress, farewell, whoso oft has de-\\ncoyed me\\nAt the close of the evening through\\nwoodlands to roam,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0499.jp2"}, "498": {"fulltext": "468\\nMISCELLANEOUS POEMS\\nWhere the forester lated with wonder es-\\npied me\\nExplore the wild scenes he was quitting\\nfor home.\\nFarewell, and take with thee thy num-\\nbers wild speaking\\nThe language alternate of rapture and\\nwoe:\\nO none but some lover whose heart-strings\\nare breaking\\nThe pang that I feel at our parting can\\nknow\\nEach joy thou couldst double, and when\\nthere came sorrow\\nOr pale disappointment to darken my\\nway,\\nWhat voice was like thine, that could sing\\nof to-morrow\\nTill forgot in the strain was the grief of\\nto-day\\nBut when friends drop around us in life s\\nweary waning,\\nThe grief, Queen of Numbers, thou canst\\nnot assuage;\\nNor the gradual estrangement of those yet\\nremaining,\\nThe languor of pain and the dullness of\\nage.\\nT was thou that once taught me in accents\\nbewailing\\nTo sing how a warrior lay stretched on\\nthe plain,\\nAnd a maiden hung o er him with aid un-\\navailing,\\nAnd held to his lips the cold goblet in vain;\\nAs vain thy enchantments, O Queen of\\nwild Numbers,\\nTo a bard when the reign of his fancy is\\no er,\\nAnd the quick pulse of feeling in apathy\\nslumbers\\nFarewell, then, Enchantress I meet\\nthee no more.\\nNIGEL S INITIATION AT WHITE-\\nFRIARS\\nFrom Chapter xvii. of The Fortunes of Nigel,\\npublished in 1822.\\nYour suppliant, by name\\nNigel Grahame,\\nIn fear of mishap\\nFrom a shoulder-tap;\\nAnd dreading a claw\\nFrom the talons of law,\\nThat are sharper than briars;\\nHis freedom to sue\\nAnd rescue by you:\\nThrough weapon and wit,\\nFrom warrant and writ,\\nFrom bailiff s hand,\\nFrom tipstaff s wand,\\nIs come hither to Whitefriars.\\nBy spigot and barrel,\\nBy bilboe and buff;\\nThou art sworn to the quarrel\\nOf the blades of the Huff.\\nFor Whitefriars and its claims\\nTo be champion or martyr,\\nAnd to fight for its dames\\nLike a Knight of the Garter.\\nFrom the touch of the tip,\\nFrom the blight of the warrant,\\nFrom the watchmen who skip\\nOn the Harman Beck s errand,\\nFrom the bailiff s cramp speech,\\nThat makes man a thrall,\\nI charm thee from each,\\nAnd I charm thee from all.\\nThy freedom s complete\\nAs a blade of the Huff,\\nTo be cheated and cheat,\\nTo be cuffed and to cuff;\\nTo stride, swear, and swagger,\\nTo drink till you stagger,\\nTo stare and to stab,\\nAnd to brandish your dagger\\nIn the cause of your drab;\\nTo walk wool-ward in winter,\\nDrink brandy, and smoke,\\nAnd go fresco in summer\\nFor want of a cloak;\\nTo eke out your living\\nBy the wag of your elbow,\\nBy fulham and gourd,\\nAnd by baring of bilboe;\\nTo live by your shifts,\\nAnd to swear by your honor\\nAre the freedom and gifts\\nOf which I am the donor.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0500.jp2"}, "499": {"fulltext": "CARLE, NOW THE KING S COME\\n469\\nCARLE, NOW THE KING S COME\\nBEING NEW WORDS TO AN AULD\\nSPRING\\nThis imitation of an old Jacobite ditty was\\nwritten on the appearance, in the Frith of\\nForth, of the fleet which conveyed his Majesty\\nKing George the Fourth to Scotland, in August,\\n1822, and was published as a broadside. The\\nreader will recall the enthusiasm of Scott over\\nthis royal visit as set forth graphically by\\nLockhart in Chapter lvi. of the Life.\\nPART FIRST\\nThe news has flown frae mouth to mouth,\\nThe North for ance has banged the South;\\nThe deil a Scotsman s die o drouth,\\nCarle, now the King s come\\nCHORUS\\nCarle, now the King s come\\nCarle, now the King s come\\nThou shalt dance, and I will sing,\\nCarle, now the King s come\\nAuld England held him lang and fast;\\nAnd Ireland had a joyfu cast;\\nBut Scotland s turn is come at last:\\nCarle, now the King s come:\\nAuld Reekie, in her rokelay gray,\\nThought never to have seen the day;\\nHe s been a weary time away\\nBut, Carle, now the King s come!\\nShe s skirling frae the Castle-hill;\\nThe Carline s voice is grown sae shrill,\\nYe 11 hear her at the Canon-mill\\nCarle, now the King s come\\nUp, bairns she cries, baith grit and\\nsma\\nAnd busk ye for the weapon-shaw\\nStand by me, and we 11 bang them a\\nCarle, now the King s come\\nCome from Newbattle s ancient spires,\\nBauld Lothian, with your knights and\\nsquires,\\nAnd match the mettle of your sires\\nCarle, now the King s come\\nYou re welcome hame, my Montagu\\nBring in your hand the young Buccleuch;\\nI m missing some that I may rue\\nCarle, now the King s come;\\nCome, Haddington, the kind and gay,\\nYou ve graced my causeway mony a\\nday;\\nI 11 weep the cause if you should stay:\\nCarle, now the King s come\\nCome, premier Duke, and carry doun\\nFrae yonder craig his ancient croun;\\nIt s had a lang sleep and a soun\\nBut, Carle, now the King s come\\nCome, Athole, from the hill and wood,\\nBring down your clansmen like a cloud;\\nCome, Morton, show the Douglas blood:\\nCarle, now the King s come\\nCome, Tweeddale, true as sword to sheath;\\nCome, Hopetoun, feared on fields of death;\\nCome, Clerk, and give your bugle breath;\\nCarle, now the King s come\\nCome, Wemyss, who modest merit aids;\\nCome, Rosebery, from Dalmeny shades;\\nBreadalbane, bring your belted plaids;\\nCarle, now the King s come\\nCome, stately Niddrie, auld and true,\\nGirt with the sword that Minden knew;\\nWe have o er few such lairds as you:\\nCarle, now the King s come J\\nKing Arthur s grown a common crier,\\nHe s heard in Fife and far Cantire\\nFie, lads, behold my crest of fire\\nCarle, now the King s come\\nSaint Abb roars out, I see him pass,\\nBetween Tantallon and the Bass\\nCalton, get out your keeking-glass,\\nCarle, now the King s come\\nThe Carline stopped; and, sure I am,\\nFor very glee had ta en a dwam,\\nBut Oman helped her to a dram.\\nCogie, now the King s come\\nCogie, now the King s come\\nCogie, now the King s come\\nI se be fou and ye s be toom,\\nCogie, now the King s come", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0501.jp2"}, "500": {"fulltext": "47 o\\nMISCELLANEOUS POEMS\\nPART SECOND\\nA Hawick gill of mountain dew\\nHeised up Auld Reekie s heart, I trow,\\nIt minded her of Waterloo:\\nCarle, now the King s come\\nAgain I heard her summons swell,\\nFor, sic a dirduni and a yell,\\nIt drowned Saint Giles s jowingbell:\\nCarle, now the King s come\\nMy trusty Provost, tried and tight,\\nStand forward for the Good Town s right,\\nThere s waur than you been made a knight\\nCarle, now the King s come\\nMy reverend Clergy, look ye say\\nThe best of thanksgivings ye ha e,\\nAnd warstle for a sunny day\\nCarle, now the King s come\\nMy Doctors, look that you agree,\\nCure a the town without a fee;\\nMy Lawyers, dinna pike a plea:\\nCarle, now the King s come\\nCome forth each sturdy Burgher s bairn,\\nThat dints on wood or clanks on aim,\\nThat fires the o en, or winds the pirn\\nCarle, now the King s come\\nCome forward with the Blanket Blue,\\nYour sires were loyal men and true,\\nAs Scotland s foemen oft might rue:\\nCarle, now the King s come\\nScots downa loup, and rin and rave,\\nWe re steady folks and something grave,\\nWe 11 keep the causeway firm and brave\\nCarle, now the King s come\\nSir Thomas, thunder from your rock,\\nTill Pentland dinnles wi the shock,\\nAnd lace wi fire my snood o smoke:\\nCarle, now the King s come\\nMelville, bring out your bands of blue,\\nA Louden lads, baith stout and true,\\nWith Elcho, Hope, and Cockburn, too:\\nCarle, now the King s come\\n1 And you, who on yon bluidy braes\\nCompelled the vanquished Despot s praise,\\nRank out, rank out, my gallant Greys:\\nCarle, now the King s come\\nCock of the North, my Huntly bra\\nWhere are you with the Forty-twa\\nAh waes my heart that ye re awa\\nCarle, now the King s come\\nBut yonder come my canty Celts,\\nWith durk and pistols at their belts,\\nThank God, we ve still some plaids and\\nkilts:\\nCarle, now the King s come\\nLord, how the pibrochs groan and yell\\nMacdonell s ta en the field himsell,\\nMacleod comes branking o er the fell:\\nCarle, now the King s come\\nBend up your bow each Archer spark,\\nFor you re to guard him light and dark;\\nFaith, lads, for ance ye ve hit the mark:\\nCarle, now the King s come\\nYoung Errol, take the sword of state,\\nThe Sceptre, Pane-Morarchate\\nKnight Mareschal, see ye clear the gate:\\nCarle, now the King s come\\nKind cummer, Leith, ye ve been mis-\\nset,\\nBut dinna be upon the fret\\nYe se hae the handsel of him yet,\\nCarle, now the King s come!\\nc My daughters, come with een sae blue,\\nYour garlands weave, your blossoms strew;\\nHe ne er saw fairer flowers than you:\\nCarle, now the King s come\\nI What shall we do for the propine\\nWe used to offer something fine,\\nBut ne er a groat s in pouch of mine\\nCarle, now the King s come\\nDeil care for that I se never start,\\nWe 11 welcome him with Highland heart;\\nWhate er we have he s get a part:\\nCarle, now the King s come\\nI I 11 show him mason- work this day\\nNane of your bricks of Babel clay,\\nBut towers shall stand till Time s away:\\nCarle, now the King s come\\nI 11 show him wit, I 11 show him lair,\\nAnd gallant lads and lasses fair,\\nAnd what wad kind heart wish for mair\\nCarle, now the King s come", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0502.jp2"}, "501": {"fulltext": "THE BANNATYNE CLUB\\n47i\\nI Step out, Sir John, of projects rife,\\nCome win the thanks of an auld wife,\\nAnd bring him health and length of life:\\nCarle, now the King s come\\nTHE BANNATYNE CLUB\\nThis club of bibliophiles was founded by Sir\\nWalter, who was its first president and wrote\\nthese verses for the first anniversary dinner,\\nMarch, 1823.\\nAssist me, ye friends of Old Books and\\nOld Wine,\\nTo sing in the praises of sage Banna-\\ntyne,\\nWho left such a treasure of old Scottish\\nlore\\nAs enables each age to print one volume\\nmore.\\nOne volume more, my friends, one\\nvolume more,\\nWe 11 ransack old Banny for one vol-\\nume more.\\nAnd first, Allan Ramsay, was eager to\\nglean\\nFrom Bannatyne s Hortus his bright Ever-\\ngreen\\nTwo light little volumes intended for\\nfour\\nStill leave us the task to print one volume\\nmore.\\nOne volume more, etc.\\nHis ways were not ours, for he cared not\\na pin\\nHow much he left out or how much he put\\nin;\\nThe truth of the reading he thought was a\\nbore,\\nSo this accurate age calls for one volume\\nmore.\\nOne volume more, etc.\\nCorrect and sagacious, then came my Lord\\nHailes,\\nAnd weighed every letter in critical scales,\\nBut left out some brief words which the\\nprudish abhor,\\nAnd castrated Banny in one volume more.\\nOne volume more, my friends, one\\nvolume more;\\nWe 11 restore Banny s manhood in one\\nvolume more.\\nJohn Pinkerton next, and I m truly con-\\ncerned\\nI can t call that worthy so candid as\\nlearned;\\nHe railed at the plaid and blasphemed the\\nclaymore,\\nAnd set Scots by the ears in his one volume\\nmore.\\nOne volume more, my friends, one\\nvolume more,\\nCelt and Goth shall be pleased with\\none volume more.\\nAs bitter as gall and as sharp as a razor,\\nAnd feeding on herbs as a Nebuchadnezzar;\\nHis diet too acid, his temper too sour,\\nLittle Ritson came out with his two volumes\\nmore.\\nBut one volume, my friends, one vol-\\nume more,\\nWe 11 dine on roast-beef and print one\\nvolume more.\\nThe stout Gothic yeditur, next on the roll,\\nWith his beard like a brush and as black\\nas a coal;\\nAnd honest Greysteel that was true to the\\ncore,\\nLent their hearts and their hands each to\\none volume more.\\nOne volume more, etc.\\nSince by these single champions what won-\\nders were done,\\nWhat may not be achieved by our Thirty\\nand One\\nLaw, Gospel, and Commerce, we count in\\nour corps,\\nAnd the Trade and the Press join for one\\nvolume more.\\nOne volume more, etc.\\nAncient libels and contraband books, I\\nassure ye,\\nWe 11 print as secure from Exchequer or\\nJury;\\nThen hear your Committee and let them\\ncount o er\\nThe Chiels they intend in their three vol-\\numes more.\\nThree volumes more, etc.\\nThey 11 produce you King Jamie, the sa-\\npient and Sext,\\nAnd the Rob of Dumblane and her Bishops\\ncome next;", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0503.jp2"}, "502": {"fulltext": "47 2\\nMISCELLANEOUS POEMS\\nOne tome miscellaneous they 11 add to\\nyour store,\\nResolving next year to print four volumes\\nmore.\\nFour volumes more, my friends, four\\nvolumes more;\\nPay down your subscriptions for four\\nvolumes more.\\nCOUNTY GUY\\nFrom Chapter iv. of Quentin Durward, pub-\\nlished in 1823.\\nAh County Guy, the hour is nigh,\\nThe sun has left the lea,\\nThe orange flower perfumes the bower,\\nThe breeze is on the sea.\\nThe lark his lay who thrilled all day\\nSits hushed his partner nigh;\\nBreeze, bird, and flower confess the hour,\\nBut where is County Guy\\nThe village maid steals through the shade,\\nHer shepherd s suit to hear;\\nTo beauty shy by lattice high,\\nSings high-born Cavalier.\\nThe star of Love, all stars above,\\nNow reigns o er earth and sky;\\nAnd high and low the influence know\\nBut where is County Guy\\nEPILOGUE\\nTO THE DRAMA FOUNDED ON SAINT\\nronan s WELL\\nThis drama appeared in 1824, promptly after\\nthe publication of the novel. Lockhart re-\\nmarks of the epilogue, though it caused great\\nmerriment at the time in Edinburgh, the allu-\\nsions are so exclusively local and temporary,\\nthat I fear no commentary could ever make it\\nintelligible elsewhere.\\n[Enter Meg Dodds, encircled by a crowd of un-\\nruly boys, whom a town 1 s-officer is driving off.]\\nThat s right, friend drive the gaitlings\\nback,\\nAnd lend yon muckle ane a whack;\\nYour Embro bairns are grown a pack,\\nSae proud and saucy,\\nThey scarce will let an auld wife walk\\nUpon your causey.\\nI ve seen the day they would been scaured\\nWi the Tolbooth or wi the Guard,\\nOr maybe wud hae some regard\\nFor Jamie Laing\\nThe Water-hole was right weel wared\\nOn sic a gang.\\nBut whar s the gude Tolbooth gane now\\nWhar s the auld Claught, wi red and\\nblue\\nWhar s Jamie Laing and whar s John\\nDoo\\nAnd whar s the Weigh-house\\nDeil hae t I see but what is new,\\nExcept the Playhouse\\nYoursells are changed frae head to heel,\\nThere s some that gar the causeway\\nreel\\nWith clashing huf e and rattling wheel,\\nAnd horses canterin\\nWha s fathers daundered hame as weel\\nWi lass and lantern.\\nMysell being in the public line,\\nI look for howfs I kenned lang syne,\\nWhar gentles used to drink gude wine\\nAnd eat cheap dinners;\\nBut deil a soul gangs there to dine\\nOf saints or sinners\\nFortune s and Hunter s gane, alas\\nAnd Bayle s is lost in empty space;\\nAnd now if folk would splice a brace\\nOr crack a bottle,\\nThey gang to a new-fangled place\\nThey ca a Hottle.\\nThe deevil hottle them for Meg\\nThey are sae greedy and sae gleg,\\nThat if ye re served but wi an egg\\nAnd that s puir picking\\nIn comes a chiel and makes a leg,\\nAnd charges chicken\\nAnd wha may ye be, gin ye speer,\\nThat brings your auld warld clavers\\nhere\\nTroth, if there s onybody near\\nThat kens the roads,\\nI 11 haud ye Burgundy to beer\\nHe kens Meg Dodds.\\nI came a piece frae west o Currie;\\nAnd, since I see you re in a hurry,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0504.jp2"}, "503": {"fulltext": "VERSES FROM REDGAUNTLET\\n473\\nYour patience I 11 nae langer worry,\\nBut be sae crouse\\nAs speak a word for ane Will Murray\\nThat keeps this house.\\nPlays are auld-fashioned things in truth,\\nAnd ye ve seen wonders mair uncouth;\\nYet actors shouldna suffer drouth\\nOr want of dramock,\\nAlthough they speak but wi their mouth,\\nNot with their stamock.\\nBut ye take care of a folk s pantry;\\nAnd surely to hae stooden sentry\\nOwer this big house that s far f rae rent-\\nfree\\nFor a lone sister,\\nIs claims as gude s to be a ventri\\nHow st ca d loquister.\\nWeel, sirs, gude en, and have a care\\nThe bairns mak fun o Meg nae mair;\\nFor gin they do, she tells you fair\\nAnd without failzie,\\nAs sure as ever ye sit there,\\nShe 11 tell the Bailie.\\nEPILOGUE\\nWhen Scott was collecting his stray poems\\nfor a definitive edition, he wrote thus to Con-\\nstable, October 22, 1824: I recovered the\\nabove with some difficulty. I believe it was\\nnever spoken, but written for some play, after-\\nwards withdrawn, in which Mrs. H. Siddons\\nwas to have spoken it in the character of Queen\\nMay\\nThe sages for authority, pray, look\\nSeneca s morals or the copy-book\\nThe sages to disparage woman s power,\\nSay beauty is a fair but fading flower;\\nI cannot tell I ve small philosophy\\nYet if it fades it does not surely die,\\nBut, like the violet, when decayed in\\nbloom,\\nSurvives through many a year in rich per-\\nfume.\\nWitness our theme to-night two ages gone,\\nA third wanes fast, since Mary filled the\\nthrone.\\nBrief was her bloom with scarce one sunny\\nday\\nTwixt Pinkie s field and fatal Fotherin-\\ngay:\\nBut when, while Scottish hearts and blood\\nyou boast,\\nShall sympathy with Mary s woes be\\nlost\\nO er Mary s memory the learned quarrel,\\nBy Mary s grave the poet plants his laurel,\\nTime s echo, old tradition, makes her\\nname\\nThe constant burden of his faltering\\ntheme\\nIn each old hall his gray-haired heralds\\ntell\\nOf Mary s picture and of Mary s cell,\\nAnd show my fingers tingle at the\\nthought\\nThe loads of tapestry which that poor\\nqueen wrought.\\nIn vain did fate bestow a double dower\\nOf every ill that waits on rank and power,\\nOf every ill on beauty that attends\\nFalse ministers, false lovers, and false\\nfriends.\\nSpite of three wedlocks so completely\\ncurst,\\nThey rose in ill from bad to worse and\\nworst,\\nIn spite of errors I dare not say more,\\nFor Duncan Targe lays hand on his clay-\\nmore.\\nIn spite of all, however humors vary,\\nThere is a talisman in that word Mary,\\nThat unto Scottish bosoms all and some\\nIs found the genuine open sesamum I\\nIn history, ballad, poetry, or novel,\\nIt charms alike the castle and the hovel,\\nEven you forgive me who, demure and\\nshy,\\nGorge not each bait nor stir at every fly,\\nMust rise to this, else in her ancient reign\\nThe Rose of Scotland has survived in vain.\\nVERSES FROM REDGAUNTLET\\nPublished in 1824.\\nI\\nA CATCH OF COWLEY S ALTERED\\nFrom Letter x.\\nFor all our men were very very merry,\\nAnd all our men were drinking:\\nThere were two men of mine,\\nThree men of thine,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0505.jp2"}, "504": {"fulltext": "474\\nMISCELLANEOUS POEMS\\nAnd three that belonged to old Sir Thorn\\no Lyne.\\nAs they went to the ferry, they were very\\nvery merry,\\nAnd all our men were drinking.\\nJack looked at the sun, and cried, Fire,\\nfire, fire\\nTom stabled his keffel in Birkendale mire;\\nJem started a calf, and hallooed for a stag\\nWill mounted a gate-post instead of his\\nnag:\\nFor all our men were very very merry,\\nAnd all our men were drinking;\\nThere were two men of mine,\\nThree of thine,\\nAnd three that belonged to old Sir Thorn\\no Lyne.\\nAs they went to the ferry, they were very\\nvery merry,\\nFor all our men were drinking.\\nII\\nAS LORDS THEIR LABORERS* HIRE DE-\\nLAY\\nFrom Chapter ix.\\nAs lords their laborers hire delay,\\nFate quits our toil with hopes to come,\\nWhich, if far short of present pay,\\nStill owns a debt and names a sum.\\nQuit not the pledge, frail sufferer, then,\\nAlthough a distant date be given;\\nDespair is treason towards man,\\nAnd blasphemy to Heaven.\\nLINES\\nADDRESSED TO MONSIEUR ALEXANDRE,\\nTHE CELEBRATED VENTRILOQUIST\\nThis M. Alexandre is better known now as\\nM. Alexandre Vattemaire, who initiated a sys-\\ntem of international literary exchanges.\\nWhen Monsieur Alexandre, the celebrated\\nventriloquist, was in Scotland, in 1824, he\\npaid a visit to Abbotsford, where he enter-\\ntained his distinguished host, and the other\\nvisitors, with his unrivalled imitations. Next\\nmorning, when he was about to depart, Sir\\nWalter felt a good deal embarrassed, as to the\\nsort of acknowledgment he should offer but\\nat length, resolving that it would probably be\\nmost agreeable to the young foreigner to be\\npaid in professional coin, if in any, he stepped\\naside for a few minutes, and, on returning,\\npresented him with this epigram. The reader\\nneed hardly be reminded, that Sir Walter\\nScott held the office of Sheriff of the county\\nof Selkirk. Scotch Newspaper, 1830.\\nOf yore, in old England, it was not\\nthought good\\nTo carry two visages under one hood;\\nWhat should folk say to you? who have\\nfaces such plenty,\\nThat from under one hood, you last night\\nshowed us twenty\\nStand forth, arch-deceiver, and tell us in\\ntruth,\\nAre you handsome or ugly, in age or in\\nyouth\\nMan, woman, or child a dog or a\\nmouse\\nOr are you, at once, each live thing in the\\nhouse?\\nEach live thing, did I ask each dead im-\\nplement, too,\\nA work-shop in your person, saw, chisel,\\nand screw\\nAbove all, are you one individual I know\\nYou must be at least Alexandre and Co.\\nBut I think you re a troop, an assemblage,\\na mob,\\nAnd that I, as the Sheriff, should take up\\nthe job;\\nAnd instead of rehearsing your wonders in\\nverse,\\nMust read you the Riot- Act, and bid you\\ndisperse.\\nTO J. G. LOCKHART, ESQ.\\nON THE COMPOSITION OF MAIDA S EPI-\\nTAPH\\nIn October, 1824, died Maida, the most cele-\\nbrated of all Sir Walter s faithful dogs and\\ncompanions, and his master had inscribed upon\\nhis monument the following epitaph\\nMaidse marmorea* dormis sub imagine Maida\\nAd januam domini sit tibi terra levis.\\nThus Englished, says Sir Walter in a letter\\nto his son Charles, by an eminent hand\\nBeneath the sculptured form which late you wore,\\nSleep soundly, Maida, at your master s door.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0506.jp2"}, "505": {"fulltext": "TO J. G. LOCKHART, ESQ.\\n475\\nThe monument here mentioned, says Lock-\\nhart, was a leaping -on-stone to which the skill\\nof Scott s master-mason had given the shape of\\nMaida recumbent. It had stood by the gate of\\nAbbotsford a year or more before the dog 1 died.\\nThe Latin was Lockhart s, the English, Sir\\nWalter s, but James Ballantyne, who was an\\nover zealous admirer of his great author, saw\\nthe inscription, and when he went back to\\nEdinburgh printed in a newspaper with pride,\\nthe Latin verses as Sir Walter s. It happened\\nthat Lockhart s inscription had a false quan-\\ntity januam, but Ballantyne not only did not\\ndiscover this; his memory played him false,\\nand in repeating the inscription he put jaces\\nfor dormis. At once the newspaper para-\\ngraphist raised a laugh over Sir Walter s\\nfalse quantities. Scott, in his generous na-\\nture, refused to shield himself behind Lockhart,\\nand much pother was made over the matter.\\nThe verses which follow savor, as Lockhart\\nsays, of Scott s recent overhauling of Swift\\nand Sheridan s doggrel epistles.\\nDear John, I some time ago wrote to\\ninform his\\nFat worship of jaces, misprinted for dor-\\nmis\\nBut that several Southrons assured me\\nthe januam\\nWas a twitch to both ears of Ass Priscian s\\ncranium.\\nYou perhaps may observe that one Lionel\\nBerguer,\\nIn defence of our blunder appears a stout\\narguer.\\nBut at length I have settled, I hope, all\\nthese clatters,\\nBy a rowt in the papers, fine place for such\\nmatters.\\nI have therefore to make it for once my\\ncommand, sir,\\nThat my gudeson shall leave the whole\\nthing in my hand, sir,\\nAnd by no means accomplish what James\\nsays you threaten,\\nSome banter in Blackwood to claim your\\ndog-Latin.\\nI have various reasons of weight, on my\\nword, sir,\\nFor pronouncing a step of this sort were\\nabsurd, sir.\\nFirstly, erudite sir, t was against your ad-\\nvising\\nI adopted the lines this monstrosity lies in\\nFor you modestly hinted my English trans-\\nlation\\nWould become better far such a dignified\\nstation.\\nSecond, how, in God s name, would my\\nbacon be saved\\nBy not having writ what I clearly en-\\ngraved\\nOn the contrary, I, on the whole, think it\\nbetter\\nTo be whipped as the thief, than his lousy\\nresetter.\\nThirdly, don t you perceive that I don t\\ncare a boddle\\nAlthough fifty false metres were flung at\\nmy noddle,\\nFor my back is as broad and as hard as\\nBenlomon s,\\nAnd I treat as I please both the Greeks\\nand the Romans;\\nWhereas the said heathens might rather\\nlook serious\\nAt a kick on their drum from the scribe of\\nValerius.\\nAnd, fourthly and lastly, it is my good\\npleasure\\nTo remain the sole source of that murder-\\nous measure.\\nSo, stet pro ratione voluntas, be tractile,\\nInvade not, I say, my own dear little\\ndactyl\\nIf you do, you 11 occasion a breach in our\\nintercourse.\\nTo-morrow will see me in town for the\\nwinter-course,\\nBut not at your door, at the usual hour,\\nsir,\\nMy own pye-house daughter s good prog\\nto devour, sir.\\nErgo, peace on your duty your squeam-\\nishness throttle,\\nAnd we 11 soothe Priscian s spleen with a\\ncanny third bottle.\\nA fig for all dactyls, a fig for all spondees,\\nA fig for all dunces and Dominie Grundys\\nA fig for dry thrapples, south, north, east,\\nand west, sir,\\nSpeats and raxes ere five for a famishing\\nguest, sir;\\nAnd as Fatsman and I have some topics for\\nhaver, he 11\\nBe invited, I hope, to meet me and Dame\\nPeveril,\\nUpon whom, to say nothing of Oury and\\nAnne, you a\\nDog shall be deemed if you fasten your\\nJanua.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0507.jp2"}, "506": {"fulltext": "476\\nMISCELLANEOUS POEMS\\nSONGS FROM THE BETROTHED\\nPublished in 1825.\\nI\\nSOLDIER, WAKE\\nFrom Chapter xix.\\nSoldier, wake the day is peeping,\\nHonor ne er was won in sleeping;\\nNever when the sunbeams still\\nLay unreflected on the hill:\\nT is when they are glinted back\\nFrom axe and armor, spear and jack,\\nThat they promise future story\\nMany a page of deathless glory.\\nShields that are the foeman s terror,\\nEver are the morning s mirror.\\nArm and up the morning beam\\nHath called the rustic to his team,\\nHath called the falc ner to the lake,\\nHath called the huntsman to the brake;\\nThe early student ponders o er\\nHis dusty tomes of ancient lore.\\nSoldier, wake thy harvest, fame;\\nThy study, conquest; war, thy game.\\nShield, that would be foeman s terror,\\nStill should gleam the morning s mirror.\\nPoor hire repays the rustic s pain;\\nMore paltry still the sportsman s gain:\\nVainest of all, the student s theme\\nEnds in some metaphysic dream:\\nYet each is up, and each has toiled,\\nSince first the peep of dawn has smiled:\\nAnd each is eagerer in his aim\\nThan he who barters life for fame.\\nUp, up, and arm thee, son of terror\\nBe thy bright shield the morning s mirror.\\nII\\nWOMAN S FAITH\\nFrom Chapter xx.\\nWoman s faith, and woman s trust:\\nWrite the characters in dust,\\nStamp them on the running stream,\\nPrint them on the moon s pale beam,\\nAnd each evanescent letter\\nShall be clearer, firmer, better,\\nAnd more permanent, I ween,\\nThan the things those letters mean.\\nI have strained the spider s thread\\nGainst the promise of a maid;\\nI have weighed a grain of sand\\nGainst her plight of heart and hand;\\nI told my true love of the token,\\nHow her faith proved light, and her word\\nwas broken:\\nAgain her word and truth she plight,\\nAnd I believed them again ere night.\\nHi\\nI ASKED OF MY HARP\\nFrom Chapter xxxi. A lay, of which we\\ncan offer only a few fragments, literally trans-\\nlated from the ancient language in which they\\nwere chanted, premising that they are in that\\nexcursive symbolical style of poetry, which\\nTaliessin, Llewarch Hen, and other bards, had\\nderived perhaps from the time of the Druids.\\nI asked of my harp, Who hath injured\\nthy chords\\nAnd she replied, The crooked finger, which\\nI mocked in my tune.\\nA blade of silver may be bended a blade\\nof steel abideth:\\nKindness fadeth away, but vengeance en\\ndureth.\\nThe sweet taste of mead passeth from the\\nlips,\\nBut they are long corroded by the juice of\\nwormwood\\nThe lamb is brought to the shambles, but\\nthe wolf rangeth the mountain;\\nKindness fadeth away, but vengeance en-\\ndureth.\\nI asked the red-hot iron, when it glim-\\nmered on the anvil,\\nWherefore glowest thou longer than the\\nfire-brand\\nI was born in the dark mine, and the\\nbrand in the pleasant greenwood.\\nKindness fadeth away, but vengeance en-\\ndureth.\\nI asked the green oak of the assembly,\\nwherefore its boughs were dry and\\nseared like the horns of the stag", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0508.jp2"}, "507": {"fulltext": "VERSES FROM THE TALISMAN\\n477\\nAnd it showed me that a small worm had\\ngnawed its roots.\\nThe boy who remembered the scourge, un-\\ndid the wicket of the castle at mid-\\nnight.\\nKindness fadeth away, but vengeance en-\\ndureth.\\nLightning destroyeth temples, though their\\nspires pierce the clouds;\\nStorms destroy armadas, though their sails\\nintercept the gale.\\nHe that is in his glory falleth, and that by\\na contemptible enemy.\\nKindness fadeth away, but vengeance en-\\ndureth.\\nIV\\nWIDOWED WIFE AND WEDDED MAID\\nFrom the last Chapter.\\nWidowed wife and wedded maid,\\nBetrothed, betrayer, and betrayed,\\nAll is done that has been said;\\nVanda s wrong hath been y-wroken:\\nTake her pardon by this token.\\nVERSES FROM THE TALISMAN\\nPublished in 1825.\\nDARK AHRIMAN, WHOM IRAK STILL\\nFrom Chapter iii.\\nDark Ahriman, whom Irak still\\nHolds origin of woe and ill\\nWhen, bending at thy shrine,\\nWe view the world with troubled eye,\\nWhere see we, neath the extended sky,\\nAn empire matching thine\\nIf the Benigner Power can yield\\nA fountain in the desert field,\\nWhere weary pilgrims drink;\\nThine are the waves that lash the rock,\\nThine the tornado s deadly shock,\\nWhere countless navies sink\\nOr if He bid the soil dispense\\nBalsams to cheer the sinking sense,\\nHow few can they deliver\\nFrom lingering pains, or pang intense,\\nRed Fever, spotted Pestilence,\\nThe arrows of thy quiver\\nChief in Man s bosom sits thy sway,\\nAnd frequent, while in words we pray\\nBefore another throne,\\nWhate er of specious form be there,\\nThe secret meaning of the prayer\\nIs, Ahriman, thine own.\\nSay, hast thou feeling, sense, and form,\\nThunder thy voice, thy garments storm,\\nAs Eastern Magi say;\\nWith sentient soul of hate and wrath,\\nAnd wings to sweep thy deadly path,\\nAnd fangs to tear thy prey\\nOr art thou mixed in Nature s source,\\nAn ever-operating force,\\nConverting good to ill;\\nAn evil principle innate,\\nContending with our better fate,\\nAnd oh victorious still\\nHowe er it be, dispute is vain.\\nOn all without thou hold st thy reign,\\nNor less on all within;\\nEach mortal passion s fierce career,\\nLove, hate, ambition, joy, and fear,\\nThou goadest into sin.\\nWhene er a sunny gleam appears,\\nTo brighten up our vale of tears,\\nThou art not distant far;\\nMid such brief solace of our lives,\\nThou whett st our very banquet-knives\\nTo tools of death and war.\\nThus, from the moment of our birth,\\nLong as we linger on the earth,\\nThou rul st the fate of men;\\nThine are the pangs of life s last hour,\\nAnd who dare answer is thy power,\\nDark Spirit ended Then\\nWHAT BRAVE CHIEF SHALL HEAD THE\\nFORCES\\nFrom Chapter xi. A hearing was at length\\nprocured for the poet preferred, who sung, in\\nhigh German, stanzas which may be thus trans-\\nlated:", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0509.jp2"}, "508": {"fulltext": "47\\nMISCELLANEOUS POEMS\\nWhat brave chief shall head the forces,\\nWhere the red-cross legions gather\\nBest of horsemen, best of horses,\\nHighest head and fairest feather.\\nAsk not Austria why, midst princes,\\nStill her banner rises highest;\\nAsk as well the strong-wing d eagle\\nWhy to heaven he soars the nighest\u00c2\u00bb\\nin\\nTHE BLOODY VEST\\nFrom Chapter xxvi. The song of Blondel\\nwas, of course, in the Norman language but\\nthe verses which follow express its meaning\\nand its manner.\\nT was near the fair city of Benevent,\\nWhen the sun was setting on bough and\\nbent,\\nAnd knights were preparing in bower and\\ntent,\\nOn the eve of the Baptist s tournament;\\nWhen in Lincoln green a stripling gent,\\nWell seeming a page by a princess sent,\\nWandered the camp, and, still as he went,\\nInquired for the Englishman, Thomas a\\nKent.\\nFar hath he fared, and farther must fare,\\nTill he finds his pavilion nor stately nor\\nrare,\\nLittle save iron and steel was there:\\nAnd, as lacking the coin to pay armorer s\\ncare,\\nWith his sinewy arms to the shoulders\\nbare,\\nThe good knight with hammer and file did\\nrepair\\nThe mail that to-morrow must see him\\nwear,\\nFor the honor of Saint John and his lady\\nfair.\\nThus speaks my lady, the page said\\nhe,\\nAnd the knight bent lowly both head and\\nknee:\\nShe is Benevent s Princess so high in\\ndegree,\\nAnd thou art as lowly as knight may well\\nbe\\nHe that would climb so lofty a tree,\\nOr spring such a gulf as divides her fro\\nthee,\\nMust dare some high deed, by which all\\nmen may see\\nHis ambition is backed by his hie chivalrie.\\nTherefore thus speaks my lady, the fair\\npage he said,\\nAnd the knight lowly louted with hand and\\nwith head:\\nFling aside the good armor in which thou\\nart clad,\\nAnd don thou this weed of her night-gear\\ninstead,\\nFor a hauberk of steel, a kirtle of thread\\nAnd charge thus attired, in the tournament\\ndread,\\nAnd fight, as thy wont is, where most blood\\nis shed,\\nAnd bring honor away, or remain with the\\ndead.\\nUntroubled in his look, and untroubled in\\nhis breast,\\nThe knight the weed hath taken, and re-\\nverently hath kissed:\\nNow blessed be the moment, the messenger\\nbe blest\\nMuch honored do I hold me in my lady s\\nhigh behest;\\nAnd say unto my lady, in this dear night-\\nweed dressed,\\nTo the best armed champion I will not veil\\nmy crest;\\nBut if I live and bear me well, t is her turn\\nto take the test.\\nHere, gentles, ends the foremost fytte of\\nthe Lay of the Bloody Vest.\\nFYTTE SECOND\\nThe Baptist s fair morrow beheld gallant\\nfeats\\nThere was winning of honor, and losing of\\nseats\\nThere was hewing with falchions, and\\nsplintering of staves,\\nThe victors won glory, the vanquished won\\ngraves-\\nOh, many a knight there fought bravely\\nand well,\\nYet one was accounted his peers to excel,\\nAnd t was he whose sole armor on body and\\nbreast\\nSeemed the weed of a damsel when bound\\nfor her rest.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0510.jp2"}, "509": {"fulltext": "VERSES FROM THE TALISMAN\\n479\\nThere were some dealt him wounds, that\\nwere bloody and sore,\\nBut others respected his plight, and fore-\\nbore.\\nIt is some oath of honor, they said, and\\nI trow,\\nT were unknightly to slay him achieving\\nhis vow.\\nThen the Prince, for his sake, bade the\\ntournament cease,\\nHe flung down his warder, the trumpets\\nsung peace\\nAnd the judges declare, and competitors\\nyield,\\nThat the Knight of the Night-gear was first\\nin the field.\\nThe feast it was nigh, and the mass it was\\nnigher,\\nWhen before the fair Princess low louted a\\nsquire,\\nAnd delivered a garment unseemly to view,\\nWith sword-cut and spear-thrust, all hacked\\nand pierced through;\\nAll rent and all tattered, all clotted with\\nblood,\\nWith foam of the horses, with dust, and\\nwith mud;\\nNot the point of that lady s small finger, I\\nween,\\nCould have rested on spot was unsullied\\nand clean.\\nThis token my master, Sir Thomas a\\nKent,\\nRestores to the Princess of fair Bene vent:\\nHe that climbs the tall tree has won right\\nto the fruit,\\nHe that leaps the wide gulf should prevail\\nin his suit;\\nThrough life s utmost peril the prize I have\\nwon,\\nAnd now must the faith of my mistress be\\nshown;\\nFor she who prompts knights on such dan-\\nger to run,\\nMust avouch his true service in front of the\\nsun,\\nI restore, says my master, the garment\\nI ve worn,\\nAnd I claim of the Princess to don it in\\nturn,\\nFor its stains and its rents she should prize\\nit the more,\\nSince by shame t is unsullied, though crim-\\nsoned with gore.\\nThen deep blushed the Princess, yet kissed\\nshe and pressed\\nThe blood-spotted robes to her lips and her\\nbreast.\\nGo tell my true knight, church and cham-\\nber shall show\\nIf I value the blood on this garment or no.\\nAnd when it was time for the nobles to\\npass,\\nIn solemn procession to minster and\\nmass,\\nThe first walked the Princess in purple and\\npall,\\nBut the blood-besmeared night-robe she\\nwore over all;\\nAnd eke, in the hall, where they all sat at\\ndine,\\nWhen she knelt to her father and proffered\\nthe wine,\\nOver all her rich robes and state jewels she\\nwore\\nThat wimple unseemly bedabbled with gore.\\nThen lords whispered ladies, as well you\\nmay think,\\nAnd ladies replied, with nod, titter, and\\nwink:\\nAnd the Prince, who in anger and shame had\\nlooked down,\\nTurned at length to his daughter, and\\nspoke with a frown:\\nNow since thou hast published thy folly\\nand guilt,\\nE en atone with thy hand for the blood\\nthou hast spilt;\\nYet sore for your boldness you both will\\nrepent,\\nWhen you wander as exiles from fair Bene-\\nvent.\\nThen out spoke stout Thomas, in hall\\nwhere he stood,\\nExhausted and feeble, but dauntless of\\nmood;\\nThe blood that I lost for this daughter of\\nthine,\\nI poured forth as freely as flask gives its\\nwine:\\nAnd if for my sake she brooks penance and\\nblame,\\nDo not doubt I will save her from suffering\\nand shame", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0511.jp2"}, "510": {"fulltext": "480\\nMISCELLANEOUS POEMS\\nAnd light will she reck of thy princedom\\nand rent.\\nWhen I hail her, in England, the Countess\\nof Kent\\nVERSES FROM WOODSTOCK\\nPublished in 1826.\\nI\\n\u00e2\u0080\u00a2BY PATHLESS MARCH, BY GREENWOOD\\nTREE\\nFrom Chapter xiv,\\nBy pathless march, by greenwood tree,\\nIt is thy weird to follow me\\nTo follow me through the ghastly moon-\\nlight,\\nTo follow me through the shadows of night,\\nTo follow me, comrade, still art thou bound:\\nI conjure thee by the unstanched wound,\\nI conjure thee by the last words I spoke,\\nWhen the body slept and the spirit awoke,\\nIn the very last pangs of the deadly stroke\\nII\\nGLEE FOR KING CHARLES\\nFrom Chapter xx.\\nBring the bowl which you boast,\\nFill it up to the brim;\\nT is to him we love most,\\nAnd to all who love hirm\\nBrave gallants, stand up,\\nAnd avaunt ye, base carles\\nWere there death in the cup,\\nHere s a health to King Charles\\nThough he wanders through dangers,\\nUnaided, unknown,\\nDependent on strangers,\\nEstranged from his own;\\nThough t is under our breath\\nAmidst forfeits and perils,\\nHere s to honor and faith,\\nAnd a health to King Charles\\nLet such honors abound\\nAs the time can afford,\\nThe knee on the ground,\\nAnd the hand on the sword;\\nBut the time shall come round\\nWhen, mid Lords, Dukes, and Earls,\\nThe loud trumpet shall sound,\\nHere s a health to King Charles\\nHI\\nAN HOUR WITH THEE\\nFrom Chapter xxvi.\\nAn hour with thee When earliest day\\nDapples with gold the eastern gray,\\nOh, what can frame my mind to bear\\nThe toil and turmoil, cark and care,\\nNew griefs, which coming hours unfold,\\nAnd sad remembrance of the old\\nOne hour with thee\\nOne hour with thee When burning June\\nWaves his red flag at pitch of noon;\\nWhat shall repay the faithful swain\\nHis labor on the sultry plain;\\nAnd more than cave or sheltering bough,\\nCool feverish blood, and throbbing brow\\nOne hour with thee\\nOne hour with thee When sun is set,\\nOh what can teach me to forget\\nThe thankless labors of the day;\\nThe hopes, the wishes, flung away;\\nThe increasing wants and lessening gains,\\nThe master s pride who scorns my pains\\nOne hour with thee\\nIV\\nSON OF A WITCH\\nFrom Chapter xxx.\\nSon of a witch,\\nMayst thou die in a ditch,\\nWith the butchers who back thy quarrels\\nAnd rot above ground,\\nWhile the world shall resound\\nA welcome to Royal King Charles.\\nLINES TO SIR CUTHBERT\\nSHARP\\nLockhart, in Chapter lxxv. of the Life.\\nwrites Sir Cuthbert Sharp, who had been\\nparticularly kind and attentive to Scott when\\nat Sunderland, happened, in writing to him on", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0512.jp2"}, "511": {"fulltext": "VERSES FROM CHRONICLES OF THE CANONGATE 481\\nsome matter of business, to say he hoped he had\\nnot forgotten his friends in that quarter. Sir\\nWalter s answer to Sir Cuthbert [October, 1827]\\n(who had been introduced to him by his old and\\ndear friend, Mr. Surtees of Mainsforth) begins\\nthus\\nForget thee No my worthy fere\\nForget blithe mirth and gallant cheer\\nDeath sooner stretch me on my bier\\nForget thee No.\\nForget the universal shout\\nWhen canny Sunderland spoke out:\\nA truth which knaves affect to doubt:\\nForget thee No.\\nForget you No: though nowaday\\nI ve heard your knowing people say,\\nDisown the debt you cannot pay,\\nYou 11 find it far the thriftiest way\\nBut I O no.\\nForget your kindness found for all room,\\nIn what, though large, seemed still a small\\nroom,\\nForget my Surtees in a ball-room:\\nForget you No.\\nForget your sprightly dumpty-diddles,\\nAnd beauty tripping to the fiddles,\\nForget my lovely friends the Liddells\\nForget you No.\\nVERSES FROM CHRONICLES OF\\nTHE CANONGATE\\nPublished in 1827.\\nI\\nOLD SONG\\nFrom The Highland Widow, Chapter ii.\\nOh, I m come to the Low Country,\\nOch, och, ohonochie,\\nWithout a penny in my pouch\\nTo buy a meal for me.\\nI was the proudest of my clan,\\nLong, long may I repine;\\nAnd Donald was the bravest man,\\nAnd Donald he was mine.\\nTHE LAY OF POOR LOUISE\\nFrom Chapter x. of The Fair Maid of Perth.\\nAh, poor Louise the livelong day\\nShe roams from cot to castle gay;\\nAnd still her voice and viol say,\\nAh, maids, beware the woodland way,\\nThink on Louise.\\nAh, poor Louise The sun was high,\\nIt smirched her cheek, it dimmed her eye,\\nThe woodland walk was cool and nigh,\\nWhere birds with chiming streamlets vie\\nTo cheer Louise.\\nAh, poor Louise The savage bear\\nMade ne er that lovely grove his lair;\\nThe wolves molest not paths so fair\\nBut better far had such been there\\nFor poor Louise.\\nAh, poor Louise In woody wold\\nShe met a huntsman fair and bold;\\nHis baldrick was of silk and gold,\\nAnd many a witching tale he told\\nTo poor Louise.\\nAh, poor Louise Small cause to pine\\nHadst thou for treasures of the mine;\\nFor peace of mind, that gift divine,\\nAnd spotless Innocence were thine,\\nAh, poor Louise\\nAh, poor Louise Thy treasure s reft\\nI know not if by force or theft,\\nOr part by violence, part by gift\\nBut misery is all that s left\\nTo poor Louise.\\nLet poor Louise some succor have\\nShe will not long your bounty crave,\\nOr tire the gay with warning stave\\nFor Heaven has grace, and earth a grave,\\nFor poor Louise.\\nIll\\ndeath chant\\nFrom Chapter xxii. Ere he guessed where\\nhe was going, the leech was hurried into the\\nhouse of the late Oliver Proudtute, from which", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0513.jp2"}, "512": {"fulltext": "482\\nMISCELLANEOUS POEMS\\nhe heard the chant of the women, as they\\nswathed and dressed the corpse of the umquhile\\nBonnet-maker, for the ceremony of next morn-\\ning, of which chant, the following verses may\\nbe received as a modern imitation\\nViewless Essence, thin and bare,\\nWell-nigh melted into air;\\nStill with fondness hovering near\\nThe earthly form thou once didst wear;\\nPause upon thy pinion s flight,\\nBe thy course to left or right;\\nBe thou doomed to soar or sink,\\nPause upon the awful brink.\\nTo avenge the deed expelling\\nThee untimely from thy dwelling,\\nMystic force thou shalt retain\\nO er the blood and o er the brain.\\nWhen the form thou shalt espy\\nThat darkened on thy closing eye;\\nWhen the footstep thou shalt hear\\nThat thrilled upon thy dying ear;\\nThen strange sympathies shall wake,\\nThe flesh shall thrill, the nerves shall quake\\nThe wounds renew their clottered flood,\\nAnd every drop cry blood for blood.\\nIV\\nSONG OF THE GLEE-MAIDEN\\nFrom Chapter xxx. The maiden sung a\\nmelancholy dirge in Norman French the\\nwords, of which the following is an imitation,\\nwere united to a tune as doleful as they are\\nthemselves\\nYes, thou mayst sigh,\\nAnd look once more at all around,\\nAt stream and bank, and sky and ground\\nThy life its final course has found,\\nAnd thou must die.\\nYes, lay thee down,\\nAnd while thy struggling pulses flutter,\\nBid the grey monk his soul-mass mutter\\nAnd the deep bell its death-tone utter:\\nThy life is gone.\\nBe not afraid,\\n5 T is but a pang, and then a thrill,\\nA fever fit, and then a chill;\\nAnd then an end of human ill:\\nFor thou art dead.\\nTHE DEATH OF KEELDAR\\nThese verses, written in 1828, were published\\nin The Gem, an annual edited by Hood. They\\naccompanied an engraving from a painting by\\nCooper, suggested by the incident.\\nUp rose the sun o er moor and mead;\\nUp with the sun rose Percy Rede;\\nBrave Keeldar, from his couples freed,\\nCareered along the lea;\\nThe Palfrey sprung with sprightly bound,\\nAs if to match the gamesome hound;\\nHis horn the gallant huntsman wound:\\nThey were a jovial three\\nMan, hound, or horse, of higher fame,\\nTo wake the wild deer never came\\nSince Alnwick s Earl pursued the game\\nOn Cheviot s rueful day:\\nKeeldar was matchless in his speed,\\nThan Tarras ne er was stancher steed,\\nA peerless archer, Percy Rede;\\nAnd right dear friends were they.\\nThe chase engrossed their joys and woes.\\nTogether at the dawn they rose,\\nTogether shared the noon s repose\\nBy fountain or by stream;\\nAnd oft when evening skies were red\\nThe heather was their common bed,\\nWhere each, as wildering fancy led,\\nStill hunted in his dream.\\nNow is the thrilling moment near\\nOf sylvan hope and sylvan fear;\\nYon thicket holds the harbored deer,\\nThe signs the hunters know:\\nWith eyes of flame and quivering ears\\nThe brake sagacious Keeldar nears;\\nThe restless palfrey paws and rears;\\nThe archer strings his bow.\\nThe game s afoot Halloo Halloo\\nHunter and horse and hound pursue\\nBut woe the shaft that erring flew\\nThat e er it left the string\\nAnd ill betide the faithless yew\\nThe stag bounds scathless o er the dew,\\nAnd gallant Keeldar s life-blood true\\nHas drenched the gray-goose wing.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0514.jp2"}, "513": {"fulltext": "THE SECRET TRIBUNAL\\n483\\nThe noble hound he dies, he dies;\\nDeath, death has glazed his fixed eyes;\\nStiff on the bloody heath he lies\\nWithout a groan or quiver.\\nNow day may break and bugle sound,\\nAnd whoop and hollow ring around,\\nAnd o er his couch the stag may bound,\\nBut Keeldar sleeps forever.\\nDilated nostrils, staring eyes,\\nMark the poor palfrey s mute surprise;\\nHe knows not that his comrade dies,\\nNor what is death but still\\nHis aspect hath expression drear\\nOf grief and wonder mixed with fear,\\nLike startled children when they hear\\nSome mystic tale of ill.\\nBut he that bent the fatal bow\\nCan well the sum of evil know,\\nAnd o er his favorite bending low\\nIn speechless grief recline\\nCan think he hears the senseless clay\\nIn unreproachf ul accents say,\\nThe hand that took my life away,\\nDear master, was it thine\\nAnd if it be, the shaft be blessed\\nWhich sure some erring aim addressed,\\nSince in your service prized, caressed,\\nI in your service die;\\nAnd you may have a fleeter hound\\nTo match the dun-deer s merry bound,\\nBut by your couch will ne er be found\\nSo true a guard as I.\\nAnd to his last stout Percy rued\\nThe fatal chance, for when he stood\\nGainst fearful odds in deadly feud\\nAnd fell amid the fray,\\nE en with his dying voice he cried,\\nHad Keeldar but been at my side,\\nYour treacherous ambush had been spied\\nI had not died to-day\\nRemembrance of the erring bow\\nLong since had joined the tides which\\nflow,\\nConveying human bliss and woe\\nDown dark oblivion s river;\\nBut Art can Time s stern doom arrest\\nAnd snatch his spoil from Lethe s breast,\\nAnd, in her Cooper s colors drest,\\nThe scene shall live forever.\\nTHE SECRET TRIBUNAL\\nFrom Anne of Geierstein, published in 1829.\\nFrom Chapter xx. Philipson could perceive\\nthat the lights proceeded from many torches,\\nborne by men muffled in black cloaks, like\\nmourners at a funeral, or the Black Friars of\\nSaint Francis s Order, wearing their cowls\\ndrawn over their heads, so as to conceal their\\nfeatures. They appeared anxiously engaged\\nin measuring off a portion of the apartment\\nand, while occupied in that employment, they\\nsung, in the ancient German language, rhymes\\nmore rude than Philipson could well under-\\nstand, but which may be imitated thus\\nMeasurers of good and evil,\\nBring the square, the line, the level,\\nRear the altar, dig the trench,\\nBlood both stone and ditch shall drench.\\nCubits six, from end to end,\\nMust the fatal bench extend;\\nCubits six, from side to side,\\nJudge and culprit must divide.\\nOn the east the Court assembles,\\nOn the west the Accused trembles:\\nAnswer, brethren, all and one,\\nIs the ritual rightly done\\nOn life and soul, on blood and bone,\\nOne for all, and all for one,\\nWe warrant this is rightly done.\\nHow wears the night Doth morning\\nshine\\nIn early radiance on the Rhine\\nWhat music floats upon his tide\\nDo birds the tardy morning chide\\nBrethren, look out from hill and height,\\nAnd answer true, how wears the night\\nThe night is old; on Rhine s broad breast\\nGlance drowsy stars which long to rest.\\nNo beams are twinkling in the east.\\nThere is a voice upon the flood,\\nThe stern still call of blood for blood;\\nT is time we listen the behest.\\nUp, then, up When day s at rest,\\nTis time that such as we are watchers;", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0515.jp2"}, "514": {"fulltext": "4 8 4\\nMISCELLANEOUS POEMS\\nRise to judgment, brethren, rise\\nVengeance knows not sleepy eyes,\\nHe and night are matchers.\\nTHE FORAY\\nPrinted in Thomson s Scottish Collection,\\n1830, and set to music by John Whitefield,\\nMus. Doc. Cam.\\nThe last of our steers on the board has\\nbeen spread,\\nAnd the last flask of wine in our goblet is\\nred;\\nUp up, my brave kinsmen belt swords\\nand begone,\\nThere are dangers to dare and there s spoil\\nto be won.\\nThe eyes that so lately mixed glances with\\nours\\nFor a space must be dim, as they gaze\\nfrom the towers,\\nAnd strive to distinguish through tempest\\nand gloom\\nThe prance of the steed and the toss of the\\nplume.\\nThe rain is descending; the wind rises\\nloud;\\nAnd the moon her red beacon has veiled\\nwith a cloud;\\nT is the better, my mates for the war-\\nder s dull eye\\nShall in confidence slumber nor dream we\\nare nigh.\\nOur steeds are impatient I hear my\\nblithe Gray\\nThere is life in his hoof-clang and hope in\\nhis neigh;\\nLike the flash of a meteor, the glance of\\nhis mane\\nShall marshal your march through the\\ndarkness and rain.\\nThe drawbridge has dropped, the bugle\\nhas blown;\\nOne pledge is to quaff yet then mount\\nand begone\\nTo their honor and peace that shall rest\\nwith the slain;\\nTo their health and their glee that see\\nTeviot again!\\nINSCRIPTION\\nFOR THE MONUMENT OF THE REV.\\nGEORGE SCOTT\\nGeorge Scott was the son of Hugh Scott of\\nHarden. He died at Kentisbeare, in Devon-\\nshire, where he was rector of the church, in\\n1830. The verses are on his tomb.\\nTo youth, to age, alike, this tablet pale\\nTells the brief moral of its tragic tale.\\nArt thou a parent Reverence this bier,\\nThe parents fondest hopes lie buried here.\\nArt thou a youth, prepared on life to start,\\nWith opening talents and a generous heart\\nFair hopes and flattering prospects all thine\\nown\\nLo here their end a monumental stone.\\nBut let submission tame each sorrowing\\nthought,\\nHeaven crowned its champion ere the fight\\nwas fought.\\nSONGS FROM THE DOOM OF\\nDEVORGOIL\\nScott s play, The Doom of Devorgoil, though\\nnot published till 1830, was sketched, and appa-\\nrently written as early as 1817, and the song of\\nBonny Dundee was written, Scott notes in his\\ndiary, in December, 1825. He notes also that\\nthe first song was abridged into County Guy.\\n1 THE SUN UPON THE LAKE\\nThe sun upon the lake is low,\\nThe wild birds hush their song,\\nThe hills have evening s deepest glow,\\nYet Leonard tarries long.\\nNow all whom varied toil and care\\nFrom home and love divide,\\nIn the calm sunset may repair\\nEach to the loved one s side.\\nThe noble dame, on turret high\\nWho waits her gallant knight,\\nLooks to the western beam to spy\\nThe flash of armor bright.\\nThe village maid, with hand on brow\\nThe level ray to shade,\\nUpon the footpath watches now\\nFor Colin s darkening plaid.\\nNow to their mates the wild swans row,\\nBy day they swam apart;", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0516.jp2"}, "515": {"fulltext": "SONGS FROM THE DOOM OF DEVORGOIL\\n485\\nAnd to the thicket wanders slow\\nMy form but lingered at the game,\\nThe hind beside the hart.\\nMy soul was still with you.\\nThe woodlark at his partner s side\\nTwitters his closing song\\nAll meet whom day and care divide,\\nIV\\nBut Leonard tarries long.\\nWHEN THE TEMPEST\\nII\\nWhen the tempest s at the loudest\\nOn its gale the eagle rides;\\nWE LOVE THE SHRILL TRUMPET\\nWhen the ocean rolls the proudest\\nThrough the foam the sea-bird glides\\nWe love the shrill trumpet, we love the\\nAll the rage of wind and sea\\ndrum s rattle,\\nIs subdued by constancy.\\nThey call us to sport, and they call us to\\nbattle\\nGnawing want and sickness pining,\\nAnd old Scotland shall laugh at the threats\\nAll the ills that men endure,\\nof a stranger,\\nEach their various pangs combining,\\nWhile our comrades in pastime are com-\\nConstancy can find a cure\\nrades in danger.\\nPain and Fear and Poverty\\nAre subdued by constancy.\\nIf there s mirth in our house, tis our\\nneighbor that shares it\\nBar me from each wonted pleasure,\\nIf peril approach, tis our neighbor that\\nMake me abject, mean, and poor,\\ndares it;\\nHeap on insults without measure,\\nAnd when we lead off to the pipe and the\\nChain me to a dungeon floor\\ntabor,\\nI 11 be happy, rich, and free,\\nThe fair hand we press is the hand of a\\nIf endowed with constancy.\\nneighbor.\\nThen close your ranks, comrades, the bands\\nV\\nthat combine them,\\nFaith, friendship, and brotherhood, joined\\nBONNY DUNDEE\\nto entwine them;\\nAnd we 11 laugh at the threats of each in-\\nAnt The Bonnets of Bonny Dundee\\nsolent stranger,\\nTo the Lords of Convention t was Clav-\\nWhile our comrades in sport are our com-\\nrades in danger.\\ner se who spoke,\\nEre the King s crown shall fall there are\\ncrowns to be broke;\\nhi\\nSo let each Cavalier who loves honor and\\nADMIRE NOT THAT I GAINED THE PRIZE\\nme,\\nCome follow the bonnet of Bonny Dundee.\\nCome fill up my cup, come fill up my\\nAdmire not that I gained the prize\\ncan,\\nFrom all the village crew;\\nCome saddle your horses and call up\\nHow could I fail with hand or eyes\\nyour men;\\nWhen heart and faith were true\\nCome open the West Port and let me\\ngang free,\\nAnd when in floods of rosy wine\\nAnd it s room for the bonnets of Bonny\\nMy comrades drowned their cares,\\nDundee\\nI thought but that thy heart was mine,\\nMy own leapt light as theirs.\\nDundee he is mounted, he rides up the\\nstreet,\\nMy brief delay then do not blame,\\nThe bells are rung backward, the drums\\nNor deem your swain untrue;\\nthey are beat;", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0517.jp2"}, "516": {"fulltext": "486\\nMISCELLANEOUS POEMS\\nBut the Provost, douce man, said, Just\\ne en let him be,\\nThe Gude Town is weel quit of that Deil\\nof Dundee.\\nCome fill up my cup, etc.\\nAs he rode down the sanctified bends of\\nthe Bow,\\nIlk carline was flyting and shaking her\\npow;\\nBut the young plants of grace they looked\\ncouthie and slee,\\nThinking, luck to thy bonnet, thou Bonny\\nDundee\\nCome fill up my cup, etc.\\nWith sour-featured Whigs the Grassmar-\\nket was crammed\\nAs if half the West had set tryst to be\\nhanged;\\nThere was spite in each look, there was\\nfear in each e e,\\nAs they watched for the bonnets of Bonny\\nDundee.\\nCome fill up my cup, etc.\\nThese cowls of Kilmarnock had spits and\\nhad spears,\\nAnd lang-hafted gullies to kill Cava-\\nliers\\nBut they shrunk to close-heads and the\\ncauseway was free,\\nAt the toss of the bonnet of Bonny Dundee.\\nCome fill up my cup, etc.\\nHe spurred to the foot of the proud Castle\\nrock,\\nAnd with the gay Gordon he gallantly\\nspoke\\nLet Mons Meg and her marrows speak\\ntwa words or three,\\nFor the love of the bonnet of Bonny Dun-\\ndee.\\nCome fill up my cup, etc.\\nThe Gordon demands of him which way he\\ngoes\\nWhere er shall direct me the shade of\\nMontrose\\nYour Grace in short space shall hear tidings\\nof me,\\nOr that low lies the bonnet of Bonny Dun-\\ndee.\\nCome fill up my cup, etc.\\nThere are hills beyond Pentland and lands\\nbeyond Forth,\\nIf there s lords in the Lowlands, there s\\nchiefs in the North;\\nThere are wild Duniewassals three thou-\\nsand times three,\\nWill cry hoigh for the bonnet of Bonny\\nDundee.\\nCome fill up my cup, etc.\\nThere s brass on the target of barkened\\nbull-hide\\nThere s steel in the scabbard that dangles\\nbeside\\nThe brass shall be burnished, the steel\\nshall flash free,\\nAt a toss of the bonnet of Bonny Dundee.\\nCome fill up my cup, etc.\\nAway to the hills, to the caves, to the\\nrocks\\nEre I own an usurper, I 11 couch with the\\nfox;\\nAnd tremble, false Whigs, in the midst of\\nyour glee,\\nYou have not seen the last of my bonnet\\nand me\\nCome fill up my cup, etc.\\nHe waved his proud hand and the trumpets\\nwere blown,\\nThe kettle-drums clashed, and the horse-\\nmen rode on,\\nTill on Ravelston s cliffs and on Clermis-\\nton s lee\\nDied away the wild war-notes of Bonny\\nDundee.\\nCome fill up my cup, come fill up my\\ncan,\\nCome saddle the horses and call up\\nthe men;\\nCome open your gates and let me gae\\nfree,\\nFor it s up with the bonnets of Bonny\\nDundee\\nVI\\nWHEN FRIENDS ARE MET 7\\nWhen friends are met o er merry cheer\\nAnd lovely eyes are laughing near,\\nAnd in the goblet s bosom clear\\nThe cares of day are drowned;", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0518.jp2"}, "517": {"fulltext": "LINES ON FORTUNE\\n487\\nWhen puns are made and bumpers quaffed,\\nAnd wild Wit shoots his roving shaft,\\nAnd Mirth his jovial laugh has laughed,\\nThen is our banquet crowned,\\nAh! gay,\\nThen is our banquet crowned.\\nWhen glees are sung and catches trolled,\\nAnd bashfulness grows bright and bold,\\nAnd beauty is no longer cold,\\nAnd age no longer dull;\\nWhen chimes are brief and cocks do crow\\nTo tell us it is time to go,\\nYet how to part we do not know,\\nThen is our feast at full,\\nAh gay,\\nThen is our feast at full.\\nHITHER WE COME\\nA song from the drama of Auchindrane or\\nThe Ayrshire Tragedy, published in 1830.\\nHither we come,\\nOnce slaves to the drum,\\nBut no longer we list to its rattle\\nAdieu to the wars,\\nWith their slashes and scars,\\nThe march, and the storm, and the battle.\\nThere are some of us maimed,\\nAnd some that are lamed,\\nAnd some of old aches are complaining;\\nBut we 11 take up the tools\\nWhich we flung by like fools,\\nGainst Don Spaniard to go a-campaigning.\\nDick Hathorn doth vow\\nTo return to the plough,\\nJack Steele to his anvil and hammer;\\nThe weaver shall find room\\nAt the wight-wapping loom,\\nAnd your clerk shall teach writing and\\ngrammar.\\nTHE DEATH OF DON PEDRO\\nLockhart included this ballad in his Ancient\\nSpanish Ballads, published in 1823, and credits\\nthe translation to Sir Walter. He reminds the\\nreader that it was quoted more than once by\\nCervantes in his Don Quixote.\\nHenry and King Pedro clasping,\\nHold in straining arms each other;\\nTugging hard and closely grasping,\\nBrother proves his strength with\\nbrother.\\nHarmless pastime, sport fraternal,\\nBlends not thus their limbs in strife;\\nEither aims, with rage infernal,\\nNaked dagger, sharpened knife.\\nClose Don Henry grapples Pedro,\\nPedro holds Don Henry strait;\\nBreathing, this, triumphant fury,\\nThat, despair and mortal hate.\\nSole spectator of the struggle,\\nStands Don Henry s page afar,\\nIn the chase, who bore his bugle,\\nAnd who bore his sword in war.\\nDown they go in deadly wrestle,\\nDown upon the earth they go,\\nFierce King Pedro has the vantage,\\nStout Don Henry falls below.\\nMarking then the fatal crisis,\\nUp the page of Henry ran,\\nBy the waist he caught Don Pedro,\\nAiding thus the fallen man.\\nKing to place, or to depose him,\\nDwelleth not in my desire,\\nBut the duty which he owes him,\\nTo his master pays the squire.\\nNow Don Henry has the upmost,\\nNow King Pedro lies beneath,\\nIn his heart his brother s poniard,\\nInstant finds its bloody sheath.\\nThus with mortal gasp and quiver,\\nWhile the blood in bubbles welled,\\nFled the fiercest soul that ever\\nIn a Christian bosom dwelled.\\nLINES ON FORTUNE\\nAnother object of this journey was to con-\\nsult, on the advice of Dr. Ebenezer Clarkson,\\na skilful mechanist, by name Fortune, about a\\ncontrivance for the support of the lame limb,\\nwhich had of late given him much pain, as\\nwell as inconvenience. Mr. Fortune produced", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0519.jp2"}, "518": {"fulltext": "MISCELLANEOUS POEMS\\nmy\\na clever piece of handiwork, and Sir Walter\\nfelt at first great relief from the use of it in-\\nasmuch that his spirits rose to quite the old\\npitch, and his letter to me upon the occasion\\noverflows with merry applications of sundry-\\nmaxims and verses ahout Fortune. Fortes\\nFortuna adjuvat he says never more\\nsing 1 1 Lockhart, Chapter lxxix. The first\\nstanza is an old Elizabethan song. The second,\\nScott s palinode, appears to be his last effort in\\nverse. The incident was in February, 1831.\\nFortune, my Foe, why dost thou frown\\non me\\nAnd will my Fortune never better be\\nWilt thou, I say, forever breed m\\npain\\nAnd wilt thou ne er return my joys\\nagain\\nNo let my ditty be henceforth\\nFortune, my friend, how well thou favor-\\nest me\\nA kinder Fortune man did never see\\nThou propp st my thigh, thou ridd st my\\nknee of pain,\\nI ll walk, I ll mount I ll be a man\\nagain.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0520.jp2"}, "519": {"fulltext": "APPENDIX", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0521.jp2"}, "520": {"fulltext": "", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0522.jp2"}, "521": {"fulltext": "APPENDIX\\nI. JUVENILE LINES\\nA TRANSLATION FROM VIRGIL\\nThe autobiography tells us that his transla-\\ntions in verse from Horace and Virgil were\\noften approved by Dr. Adam. One of these\\nlittle pieces, written in a weak boyish scrawl,\\nwithin pencilled marks still visible, had been\\ncarefully preserved by his mother it was\\nfound folded up in a cover, inscribed by the\\nold lady My Walter s first lines, 1782.\\nLockhart, Life of Scott, Chapter iii.\\nIn awful ruins iEtna thunders nigh,\\nAnd sends in pitchy whirlwinds to the sky\\nBlack clouds of smoke, which still as they as-\\npire,\\nFrom their dark sides there bursts the glowing\\nfire\\nAt other times huge balls of fire are tossed,\\nThat lick the stars, and in the smoke are lost\\nSometimes the mount, with vast convulsions\\ntorn,\\nEmits huge rocks, which instantly are borne\\nWith loud explosions to the starry skies,\\nThe stones made liquid as the huge mass flies,\\nThen back again with greater weight recoils,\\nWhile iEtna thundering from the bottom boils.\\nON A THUNDER-STORM\\nIn Scott s Introduction to the Lay, he\\nalludes to an original effusion of these school-\\nboy days, prompted by a thunder-storm, which\\nhe says was much approved of, until a malevo-\\nlent critic sprung up in the shape of an apothe-\\ncary s blue-buskined wife she affirmed that\\nmy most sweet poetry was copied from an old\\nmagazine. Lockhart, Chapter iii. The\\nlines were written in 1783.\\nLoud o er my head though awf id thunders roll,\\nAnd vivid lightnings flash from pole to pole,\\nYet tis thy voice, my God, that bids them\\nfly,\\nThy arm directs those lightnings through the\\nsky.\\nThen let the good thy mighty name revere,\\nAnd hardened sinners thy just vengeance fear.\\nON THE SETTING SUN\\nThese lines, as well as the foregoing, were\\nfound wrapped in a paper with the inscription,\\nby Dr. Adam, Walter Scott, July, 1783.\\nLockhart, Chapter iii.\\nThose evening clouds, that setting ray,\\nAnd beauteous tints, serve to display\\nTheir great Creator s praise\\nThen let the short-lived thing called man,\\nWhose life s comprised within a span,\\nTo Him his homage raise.\\nWe often praise the evening clouds,\\nAnd tints so gay and bold,\\nBut seldom think upon our God,\\nWho tinged these clouds with gold.\\nII. MOTTOES FROM THE NOVELS\\nThe scraps of poetry, which have been in\\nmost cases tacked to the beginning of chap-\\nters in these novels, are sometimes quoted\\neither from reading or from memory, but, in\\nthe general case, are pure invention. I found\\nit too troublesome to turn to the collection of\\nthe British Poets to discover apposite mottoes,\\nand in the situation of the theatrical machinist,\\nwho, when the white paper which represented\\nhis shower of snow was exhausted, continued\\nthe shower by snowing brown, I drew on my\\nmemory as long as I could, and when that\\nfailed, eked it out with invention. I believe\\nthat in some cases, where actual names are af-\\nfixed to the supposed quotations, it would be\\nto little purpose to seek them in the works of\\nthe authors referred to. In some cases I have\\nbeen entertained when Dr. Watts and other\\ngraver authors have been ransacked in vain for\\nstanzas for which the novelist alone was re-\\nsponsible. Introduction to Chronicles of the\\nCanongate.\\n1 It may be worth noting that it was in cor-\\nrecting the proof-sheets of The Antiquary that\\nScott first took to equipping his characters\\nwith mottoes of his own fabrication. On one\\noccasion he happened to ask John Ballantyne,\\nwho was sitting by him, to hunt for a particu-\\n491", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0523.jp2"}, "522": {"fulltext": "492\\nAPPENDIX\\nlar passage in Beaumont and Fletcher. John\\ndid as he was hid, but did not succeed in dis-\\ncovering the lines. Hang it, Johnnie cried\\nScott, I believe I can make a motto sooner\\nthan you will find one. He did so accord-\\ningly and from that hour, whenever memory\\nfailed to suggest an appropriate epigraph, he\\nhad recourse to the inexhaustible mines of old\\nplay or old ballad to which we owe some\\nof the most exquisite verse that ever flowed\\nfrom his pen. Lockhart s Life of Scott, Chap-\\nFrom The Antiquary\\nI knew Anselmo. He was shrewd and pru-\\ndent,\\nWisdom and cunning had their shares of him\\nBut he was shrewish as a wayward child,\\nAnd pleased again by toys which childhood\\nplease\\nAs book of fables graced with print of wood,\\nOr else the jingling of a rusty medal,\\nOr the rare melody of some old ditty\\nThat first was sung to please King Pepin s\\ncradle.\\nBe brave, she cried, you yet may be our\\nguest.\\nOur haunted room was ever held the best\\nIf then your valor can the fight sustain\\nOf rustling curtains and the clinking chain,\\nIf your courageous tongue have powers to talk\\nWhen round your bed the horrid ghost shall\\nwalk,\\nIf you dare ask it why it leaves its tomb,\\nI 11 see your sheets well aired and show the\\nroom.\\nTrue Story.\\nSometimes he thinks that Heaven this vision\\nsent,\\nAnd ordered all the pageants as they went\\nSometimes that only t was wild Fancy s play,\\nThe loose and scattered relics of the day.\\nBeggar the only freemen of your Common-\\nwealth,\\nFree above Scot-free, that observe no laws,\\nObey no governor, use no religion\\nBut what they draw from their own ancient\\ncustoms\\nOr constitute themselves, yet they are no rebels.\\nBronte.\\nHere has been such a stormy encounter _\\nBetwixt my cousin Captain and this soldier,\\nAbout I know not what nothing, indeed\\nCompetitions, degrees, and comparatives\\nOf soldiership\\nA Faire Quarrel.\\nIf you fail honor here,\\nNever presume to serve her any more\\nBid farewell to the integrity of arms,\\nAnd the honorable name of soldier\\nFall from you, like a shivered wreath of laurel\\nBy thunder struck from a desertlesse forehead.\\nA Faire Quarrel.\\nThe Lord Abbot had a soul\\nSubtile and quick, and searching as the fire\\nBy magic stairs he went as deep as hell,\\nAnd if in devils possession gold be kept,\\nHe brought some sure from thence t is hid in\\ncaves,\\nKnown, save to me, to none\\nThe Wonder of a Kingdome.\\nMany great ones\\nWould part with half their states, to have the\\nplan\\nAnd credit to beg in the first style.\\nBeggar s Bush.\\nWho is he One that for the lack of land\\nShall fight upon the water he hath challenged\\nFormerly the grand whale and by his titles\\nOf Leviathan, Behemoth, and so forth.\\nHe tilted with a sword-fish Marry, sir,\\nTh aquatic had the best the argument\\nStill galls our champion s breech.\\nOld Play.\\nTell me not of it, friend when the young\\nweep,\\nTheir tears are lukewarm brine from our\\nold eyes\\nSorrow falls down like hail-drops of the North,\\nChilling the furrows of our withered cheeks,\\nCold as our hopes and hardened as our feeling\\nTheirs, as they fall, sink sightless ours recoil,\\nHeap the fair plain and bleaken all before us.\\nOld Play.\\nRemorse she ne er forsakes us\\nA bloodhound stanch she tracks our rapid\\nstep\\nThrough the wild labyrinth of youthful frenzy,\\nUnheard, perchance, until old age hath tamed\\nus\\nThen in our lair, when Time hath chilled our\\njoints\\nAnd maimed our hope of combat or of flight,\\nWe hear her deep-mouthed bay, announcing all\\nOf wrath and woe and punishment that bides\\nus.\\nOld Play.\\nStill in his dead hand clenched remain the\\nstrings\\nThat thrill his father s heart e en as the limb,\\nLopped off and laid in grave, retains, they tell\\nus,\\nStrange commerce with the mutilated stump,\\nWhose nerves are twinging still in maimed ex-\\nistence.\\nOld Play.\\nLife, with you,\\nGlows in the brain and dances in the arteries\\nTis like the wine some joyous guest hath\\nquaffed,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0524.jp2"}, "523": {"fulltext": "MOTTOES FROM THE NOVELS\\n493\\nThat glads the heart and elevates the fancy:\\nMine is the poor residuum of the cup.\\nVapid and dull and tasteless, only soiling:\\nWith its base dregs the vessel that contains it.\\nOld Play.\\nYes I love Justice well as well as you do\\nBut, since the good dame s blind, she shall ex-\\ncuse me,\\nIf, time and reason fitting, I prove dumb\\nThe breath I utter now shall be no means\\nTo take away from me my breath in future.\\nOld Play.\\nWell, well, at worst, tis neither theft nor\\ncoinage,\\nGranting I knew all that you charge me with.\\nWhat tho the tomb hath borne a second birth\\nAnd given the wealth to one that knew not on t,\\nYet fair exchange was never robbery,\\nFar less pure bounty\\nOld Play.\\nLife ebbs from such old age, unmarked and\\nsilent,\\nAs the slow neap-tide leaves yon stranded galley.\\nLate she rocked merrily at the least impulse\\nThat wind or wave could give but now her\\nkeel\\nIs settling on the sand, her mast has ta en\\nAn angle with the sky from which it shifts not.\\nEach wave receding shakes her less and less,\\nTill, bedded on the strand, she shall remain\\nUseless as motionless.\\nOld Play.\\nSo, while the Goose, of whom the fable told,\\nIncumbent brooded o er her eggs of gold,\\nWith hand outstretched impatient to destroy,\\nStole on her secret nest the cruel Boy,\\nWhose gripe rapacious changed her splendid\\ndream\\nFor wings vain fluttering and for dying scream.\\nThe Loves of the Sea- Weeds.\\nLet those go see who will I like it not\\nFor, say he was a slave to rank and pomp,\\nAnd all the nothings he is now divorced from\\nBy the hard doom of stern necessity\\nYet is it sad to mark his altered brow,\\nWhere Vanity adjiists her flimsy veil\\nO er the deep wrinkles of repentant Anguish.\\nOld Play.\\nFortune, you say, flies from us She but\\ncircles,\\nLike the fleet sea-bird round the fowler s skiff,\\nLost in the mist one moment, and the next\\nBrushing the white sail with her whiter wing,\\nAs if to court the aim. Experience watches,\\nAnd has her on the wheel.\\nOld Play.\\nFrom The Black Dwarf\\nThe bleakest rock upon the loneliest heath\\nFeels in its barrenness some touch of spring\\nAnd, in the April dew or beam of May,\\nIts moss and lichen freshen and revive\\nAnd thus the heart, most seared to human\\npleasure,\\nMelts at the tear, joys in the smile of woman.\\nBeaumont.\\nT was time and griefs\\nThat framed him thus Time, with his fairer\\nhand,\\nOffering the fortunes of his former days,\\nThe former man may make him Bring us to\\nhim,\\nAnd chance it as it may.\\nOld Play.\\nFrom Old Mortality\\nArouse thee, youth it is no common call,\\nGod s Church is leaguered haste to man the\\nwall;\\nHaste where the Red-cross banners wave on\\nhigh\\nSignals of honored death or victory.\\nJames Duff.\\nMy hounds may a rin masterless,\\nMy hawks may fly frae tree to tree,\\nMy lord may grip my vassal lands,\\nFor there again maun I never be\\nOld Ballad.\\nSound, sound the clarion, fill the fife\\nTo all the sensual world proclaim,\\nOne crowded hour of glorious fife\\nIs worth an age without a name.\\nAnonymous.\\nFrom Rob Roy\\nIn the wide pile, by others heeded not,\\nHers was one sacred solitary spot,\\nWhose gloomy aisles and bending shelves con-\\ntain\\nFor moral hunger food, and cures for moral\\npain.\\nAnonymous.\\nDire was his thought who first in poison steeped\\nThe weapon formed for slaughter direr his,\\nAnd worthier of damnation, who instilled\\nThe mortal venom in the social cup,\\nTo fill the veins with death instead of life.\\nAnonymous.\\nLook round thee, young Astolpho Here s the\\nplace\\nWhich men for being poor are sent to\\nstarve in\\nRude remedy, I trow, for sore disease.\\nWithin these walls, stifled by damp and stench,\\nDoth Hope s fair torch expire; and at the snuff,\\nEre yet tis quite extinct, rude, wild, and way-\\nward,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0525.jp2"}, "524": {"fulltext": "494\\nAPPENDIX\\nThe desperate revelries of wild despair,\\nKindling their hell-born cressets, light to deeds\\nThat the poor captives would have died ere\\npractised,\\nTill bondage sunk his soul to his condition.\\nThe Prison, Act I. Scene 3.\\nFar as the eye could reach no tree was seen,\\nEarth, clad in russet, scorned the lively green;\\nNo birds, except as birds of passage, flew;\\nNo bee was heard to hum, no dove to coo;\\nNo streams, as amber smooth, as amber clear,\\nWere seen to glide, or heard to warble here.\\nProphecy of Famine.\\nWoe to the vanquished was stern Brenno s\\nword,\\nWhen sunk proud Rome beneath the Gallic\\nsword\\nWoe to the vanquished when his massive\\nblade\\nBore down the scale against her ransom\\nweighed,\\nAnd on the field of f oughten battle still,\\nWho knows no limit save the victor s will.\\nThe Gaulliad.\\nAnd be he safe restored ere evening set,\\nOr, if there s vengeance in an injured heart\\nAnd power to wreak it in an armed hand,\\nYour land shall ache for t.\\nOld Play.\\nFarewell to the land where the clouds love to\\nrest,\\nLike the shroud of the dead, on the mountain s\\ncold breast:\\nTo the cataract s roar where the eagles reply,\\nAnd the lake her lone bosom expands to the\\nsky.\\nFrom The Heart of Midlothian\\nTo man, in this his trial state,\\nThe privilege is given,\\nWhen lost by tides of human fate,\\nTo anchor fast in Heaven.\\nWatts Hymns.\\nLaw, take thy victim May she find the mercy\\nIn yon mild heaven which this hard world de-\\nnies her\\nAnd Need and Misery, Vice and Danger, bind\\nIn sad alliance each degraded mind.\\nI BESEECH you\\nThese tears beseech you, and these chaste\\nhands woo you,\\nThat never yet were heaved but to things holy\\nThings like yourself You are a God above\\nus;\\nBe as a God then, full of saving mercy\\nThe Bloody Brother.\\nHappy thou art then happy be,\\nNor envy me my lot:\\nThy happy state I envy thee,\\nAnd peaceful cot.\\nLady C C\\nFrom The Bride of Lammermoor\\nThe hearth in hall was black and dead,\\nNo board was dight in bower within,\\nNor merry bowl nor welcome bed;\\nHere s sorry cheer, quoth the Heir\\nLinne.\\nOld Ballad\\n(Altered from The Heir of Linne\\nAs, to the Autumn breeze s bugle-sound,\\nVarious and vague the dry leaves dance thei\\nround\\nOr from the garner-door, on aether borne,\\nThe chaff flies devious from the winnowed\\ncorn;\\nSo vague, so devious, at the breath of heaven\\nFrom their fixed aim are mortal councils driven.\\nAnonymous.\\nHere is a father now,\\nWill truck his daughter for a foreign venture,\\nMake her the stop-gap to some cankered feud,\\nOr fling her o er, like Jonah, to the fishes,\\nTo appease the sea at highest.\\nA7ionymous.\\nSir, stay at home and take an old man s counsel:\\nSeek not to bask you by a stranger s hearth;\\nOur own blue smoke is warmer than their fire.\\nDomestic food is wholesome, though tis\\nhomely,\\nAnd foreign dainties poisonous, though tasteful.\\nThe French Courtezan.\\nTrue-love, an thou be true,\\nThou hast ane kittle part to play,\\nFor fortune, fashion, fancy, and thou\\nMaun strive for many a day.\\nI ve kend by mony a friend s tale,\\nFar better by this heart of mine,\\nWhat time and change of fancy avail,\\nA true love-knot to untwine.\\nHendersoun.\\nWhy, now I have Dame Fortune by the fore-\\nlock,\\nAnd if she scapes my grasp the fault is mine\\nHe that hath buffeted with stern adversity,\\nBest knows to shape his course to favoring\\nbreezes.\\nOld Play.\\nFrom The Legend of Montrose\\nDark on their journey loured the gloomy day,\\nWild were the hills and doubtful grew the way;", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0526.jp2"}, "525": {"fulltext": "MOTTOES FROM THE NOVELS\\n495\\nMore dark, more gloomy, and more doubtful\\nshowed\\nThe mansion which received them from the\\nroad.\\nThe Travellers^ a Romance,\\nIs this thy castle, Baldwin Melancholy\\nDisplays her sable banner from the donjon,\\nDarkening the foam of the whole surge beneath.\\nWere I a habitant, to see this gloom\\nPollute the face of nature, and to hear\\nThe ceaseless sound of wave and sea-bird s\\nscream,\\nI d wish me in the hut that poorest peasant\\nEre framed to give him temporary shelter.\\nBrowne.\\nThis was the entry, then, these stairs but\\nwhither after\\nYet he that s sure to perish on the land\\nMay quit the nicety of card and compass.\\nAnd trust the open sea without a pilot.\\nTragedy of Brennovalt.\\nFrom Ivanhoe\\nAway our journey lies through dell and\\ndingle,\\nWhere the blithe fawn trips by its timid mother,\\nWhere the broad oak with intercepting boughs\\nChequers the sun-beam in the greensward\\nalley\\nUp and away for lovely paths are these\\nTo tread, when the glad sun is on his throne\\nLess pleasant and less safe when Cynthia s\\nlamp\\nWith doubtful glimmer lights the dreary forest.\\nEttrick Forest.\\nWhen autumn nights were long and drear,\\nAnd forest walks were dark and dim,\\nHow sweetly on the pilgrim s ear\\nWas wont to steal the hermit s hymn\\nDevotion borrows Music s tone,\\nAnd Music took Devotion s wing,\\nAnd, like the bird that hails the sun,\\nThey soar to heaven, and soaring sing.\\nThe Hermit of Saint Clements VVell.\\nThe hottest horse will oft be cool,\\nThe dullest will show fire\\nThe friar will often play the fool,\\nThe fool will play the friar.\\nOld Song.\\nThis wandering race, severed from other men,\\nBoast yet their intercourse with human arts;\\nThe seas, the woods, the deserts, which they\\nhaunt,\\nFind them acquainted with their secret trea-\\nsures\\nAnd unregarded herbs and flowers and blossoms\\nDisplay undreamed-of powers when gathered\\nby them.\\nThe Jew.\\nApproach the chamber, look upon his bed.\\nHis is the passing of no peaceful ghost,\\nWhich, as the lark arises to the sky,\\nMid morning s sweetest breeze and softest dew,\\nIs winged to heaven by good men s sighs and\\ntears\\nAnselm parts otherwise.\\nOld Play.\\nTrust me, each state must have its policies:\\nKingdoms have edicts, cities have their charters;\\nEven the wild outlaw in his forest-walk\\nKeeps yet some touch of civil discipline.\\nFor not since Adam wore his verdant apron\\nHath man with man in social union dwelt,\\nBut laws were made to draw that union closer.\\nOld Play.\\nArouse the tiger of Hyrcanian deserts,\\nStrive with the half -starved lion for his prey;\\nLesser the risk than rouse the slumbering fire\\nOf wild Fanaticism.\\nAnonymous.\\nSay not my art is fraud all live by seeming.\\nThe beggar begs with it, and the gay courtier\\nGains land and title, rank and rule, by seeming\\nThe clergy scorn it not, and the bold soldier\\nWill eke with it his service. All admit it,\\nAll practise it and he who is content\\nWith showing what he is shall have small\\ncredit\\nIn church or camp or state. So wags the world.\\nOld Play.\\nStern was the law which bade its votaries leave\\nAt human woes with human hearts to grieve\\nStern was the law which at the winning wile\\nOf frank and harmless mirth forbade to smile;\\nBut sterner still when high the iron-rod\\nOf tyrant power she shook, and called that\\npower of God.\\nThe Middle Ages.\\nFrom The Monastery\\nAY the Monks, the Monks, they did the mis-\\nchief\\nTheirs all the grossness, all the superstition\\nOf a most gross and superstitious age.\\nMay He be praised that sent the healthful\\ntempest,\\nAnd scattered all these pestilential vapors;\\nBut that we owed them all to yonder Harlot\\nThroned on the seven hills with her cup of gold,\\n1 will as soon believe, with kind Sir Roger,\\nThat old Moll White took wing with eat and\\nbroomstick,\\nAnd raised the last night s thunder.\\nOld Play.\\nIn yon lone vale his early youth was bred.\\nNot solitary then the bugle-horn\\nOf fell Alecto often waked its windings,\\nFrom where the brook joins the majestic river", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0527.jp2"}, "526": {"fulltext": "49 6\\nAPPENDIX\\nTo the wild northern hog, the curlieu s haunt,\\nWhere oozes forth its first and feehle streamlet.\\nOld Play.\\nA priest, ye cry, a priest lame shepherds\\nthey,\\nHow shall they gather in the straggling flock\\nDumb dogs which bark not how shall they\\ncompel\\nThe loitering vagrants to the Master s fold\\nFitter to bask before the blazing fire,\\nAnd snuff thejtnegs n eat-handed Phillis dres sesj\\nThan on the snow-wreath battle with the woHT\\nThe Reformation.\\nNow let us sit in conclave. That these weeds\\nBe rooted from the vineyard of the Church,\\nThat these foul tares be severed from the wheat,\\nWe are, I trust, agreed. Yet how to do this,\\nNor hurt the wholesome crop and tender vine-\\nplants,\\nCraves good advisement.\\nThe Reformation.\\nNay, dally not with time, the wise man s trea-\\nsure,\\nThough fools are lavish on t the fatal Fisher\\nHooks souls while we waste moments.\\nOld Play.\\nYou call this education, do you not\\nWhy, t is the forced march of a herd of bullocks\\nBefore a shouting drover. The glad van\\nMove on at ease, and pause awhile to snatch\\nA passing morsel from the dewy greensward,\\nWhile all the blows, the oaths, the indignation,\\nFall on the croupe of the ill-fated laggard\\nThat cripples in the rear.\\nOld Play.\\nThere s something in that ancient superstition,\\nWhich, erring as it is, our fancy loves.\\nThe spring that, with its thousand crystal bub-\\nbles,\\nBursts from the bosom of some desert rock\\nIn secret solitude, may well be deemed\\nThe haunt of something purer, more refined,\\nAnd mightier than ourselves.\\nOld Play.\\nNay, let me have the friends who eat my\\nvictuals\\nAs various as my dishes. The feast s naught,\\nWhere one huge plate predominates. John\\nPlaintext,\\nHe shall be mighty beef, our English staple;\\nThe worthy Alderman, a buttered dumpling;\\nYon pair of whiskered Cornets, ruffs and rees;\\nTheir friend the Dandy, a green goose in sippets.\\nAnd so the board is spread at once and filled\\nOn the same principle Variety.\\nNew Play.\\nHe strikes no coin, tis true, but coins new\\nphrases,\\nAnd vends them forth as knaves vend gilded\\ncounters,\\nWhich wise men scorn and fools accept in pay-\\nment.\\nOld Play.\\nA courtier extraordinary, who by diet\\nOf meats and drinks, his temperate exercise,\\nChoice music, frequent bath, his horary shifts\\nOf shirts and waistcoats, means to immortalize\\nMortality itself, and makes the essence\\nOf his whole happiness the trim of court.\\nMagnetic Lady.\\nNow choose thee, gallant, betwixt wealth and\\nhonor\\nThere lies the pelf, in sum to bear thee through\\nThe dance of youth and the turmoil of manhood,\\nYet leave enough for age s chimney-corner\\nBut an thou grasp to it, farewell Ambition\\nFarewell each hope of bettering thy condition,\\nAnd raising thy low rank above the churls\\nThat till the earth for bread\\nOld Play.\\nIndifferent, but indifferent pshaw! he\\ndoth it not\\nLike one who is his craft s master ne ertheless\\nI have seen a clown confer a bloody coxcomb\\nOn one who was a master of defence.\\nOld Play.\\nYes, life hath left him every busy thought,\\nEach fiery passion, every strong affection,\\nThe sense of outward ill and inward sorrow,\\nAre fled at once from the pale trunk before\\nme;\\nAnd I have given that which spoke and moved,\\nThought, acted, suffered, as a living man,\\nTo be a ghastly form of bloody clay,\\nSoon the foid food for reptiles.\\nOld Play.\\nT is when the wound is stiffening with the cold,\\nThe warrior first feels pain t is when the heat\\nAnd fiery fever of his soul is past,\\nThe sinner feels remorse.\\nOld Play.\\nI ll walk on tiptoe arm my eye with caution,\\nMy heart with courage, and my hand with\\nweapon,\\nLike him who ventures on a lion s den.\\nOld Play.\\nNow, by Our Lady, Sheriff, t is hard reckoning\\nThat I, with every odds of birth and barony,\\nShould be detained here for the casual death\\nOf a wild forester, whose utmost having\\nIs but the brazen buckle of the belt\\nIn which he sticks his hedge-knife.\\nOld Play.\\nYou call it an ill angel it may be so\\nBut sure I am, among the ranks which fell,\\nT is the first fiend e er counselled man to rise,\\nAnd win the bliss the sprite himself had for-\\nfeited.\\nOld Play.", "height": "3815", "width": "2591", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0528.jp2"}, "527": {"fulltext": "MOTTOES FROM THE NOVELS\\n497\\nAt school I knew him a sharp-witted youth,\\nGrave, thoughtful, and reserved amongst his\\nTurning the hours of sport and food to labor,\\nStarving his body to inform his mind.\\nOld Play.\\nNow on my faith this gear is all entangled,\\nLike to the yarn-clew of the drowsy knitter,\\nDragged by the frolic kitten through the cabin\\nWhile the good dame sits nodding o er the fire\\nMasters, attend; twill crave some skill to\\nclear it.\\nOld Play.\\nIt is not texts will do it Church artillery\\nAre silenced soon by real ordnance,\\nAnd canons are but vain opposed to cannon.\\nGo, coin your crosier, melt your church plate\\ndown,\\nBid the starved soldier banquet in your halls,\\nAnd quaff your long-saved hogsheads. Turn\\nthem out\\nThus primed with your good cheer, to guard\\nyour wait,\\nAnd they will venture for t.\\nOld Play.\\nFrom The Abbot\\nIn the wild storm\\nThe seaman hews his mast down, and the mer-\\nchant\\nHeaves to the billows wares he once deemed\\nprecious:\\nSo prince and peer, mid popular contentions,\\nCast off their favorites.\\nOld Play.\\nThou hast each secret of the household, Francis.\\nI dare be sworn thou hast been in the but-\\ntery,\\nSteeping thy curious humor in fat ale,\\nAnd in the butler s tattle ay, or chatting\\nWith the glib waiting-woman o er her comfits\\nThese bear the key to each domestic mystery.\\nOld Play.\\nThe sacred tapers lights are gone,\\nGray moss has clad the altar stone,\\nThe holy image is o erthrown,\\nThe bell has ceased to toll.\\nThe long ribbed aisles are burst and shrunk,\\nThe holy shrines to ruin sunk,\\nDeparted is the pious monk,\\nGod s blessing on his soul\\nRediviva.\\nLife hath its May, and all is mirthful then:\\nThe woods are vocal and the flowers all odor\\nIts very blast has mirth in t, and the maidens,\\nThe while they don their cloaks to skreen their\\nkirtles,\\nLaugh at the rain that wets them.\\nOld Play.\\nNay, hear me, brother I am elder, wiser,\\nAnd holier than thou; and age and wisdom\\nAnd holiness have peremptory claims,\\nAnd will be listened to.\\nOld Play.\\nNot the wild billow, when it breaks its bar-\\nrier\\nNot the wild wind, escaping from its cavern\\nNot the wild fiend, that mingles both together\\nAnd pours their rage upon the ripening harvest,\\nCan match the wild freaks of this mirthful\\nmeeting\\nComic, yet fearful droll, and yet destructive.\\nThe Conspiracy.\\nYouth thou wear st to manhood now;\\nDarker lip and darker brow,\\nStatelier step, more pensive mien,\\nIn thy face and gait are seen:\\nThou must now brook midnight watches,\\nTake thy food and sport by snatches 1\\nFor the gambol and the jest\\nThou wert wont to love the best,\\nGraver follies must thou follow,\\nBut as senseless, false, and hollow.\\nLife, a Poem.\\nIt is and is not t is the thing I sought for,\\nHave kneeled for, prayed for, risked my fame\\nand life for,\\nAnd yet it is not no more than the shadow\\nUpon the hard, cold, flat, and polished mirror,\\nIs the warm, graceful, rounded, living substance\\nWhich it presents in form and lineament.\\nOld Play.\\nGive me a morsel on the greensward rather,\\nCoarse as you will the cooking let the fresh\\nspring\\nBubble beside my napkin and the free birds,\\nTwittering and chirping, hop from bough to\\nbough,\\nTo claim the crumbs I leave for perquisites\\nYour prison-feasts I like not.\\nThe Woodman, a Drama.\\nT IS a weary life this\\nVaults overhead, and grates and bars around\\nme,\\nAnd my sad hours spent with as sad compan-\\nions,\\nWhose thoughts are brooding o er their own\\nmischances,\\nFar, far too deeply to take part in mine.\\nThe Woodman.\\nAnd when Love s torch hath set the heart in\\nflame,\\nComes Seignior Reason, with his saws and cau-\\ntions,\\nGiving such aid as the old gray-beard Sexton,\\nWho from the church-vault drags his crazy\\nengine,\\nTo ply its dribbling ineffectual streamlet\\nAgainst a conflagration.\\nOld Play.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0529.jp2"}, "528": {"fulltext": "49 8\\nAPPENDIX\\nYes, it is she whose eyes looked on thy child-\\nhood,\\nAnd watched with trembling hope thy dawn of\\nyouth,\\nThat now, with these same eyeballs, dimmed\\nwith age,\\nAnd dimmer yet with tears, sees thy dishonor.\\nOld Play.\\nIn some breasts passion lies concealed and silent,\\nLike war s swart powder in a castle vault,\\nUntil occasion, like the linstock, lights it\\nThen come at once the lightning and the thun-\\nder,\\nAnd distant echoes tell that all is rent asunder.\\nOld Play.\\nDeath distant No, alas he s ever with us,\\nAnd shakes the dart at us in all our actings\\nHe lurks within our cup while we re in health\\nSits by our sick-bed, mocks our medicines\\nWe cannot walk, or sit, or ride, or travel,\\nBut Death is by to seize us when he lists.\\nThe Spanish Father.\\nAt, Pedro, come you here with mask and\\nlantern,\\nLadder of ropes, and other moonshine tools\\nWhy, youngster, thou mayst cheat the old\\nDuenna,\\nFlatter the waiting-woman, bribe the valet\\nBut know, that I her father play the Gryphon,\\nTameless and sleepless, proof to fraud or bribe,\\nAnd guard the hidden treasure of her beauty.\\nThe Spanish Father.\\nIt is a time of danger, not of revel,\\nWhen churchmen turn to masquers.\\nThe Spanish Father.\\nAt, sir our ancient crown, in these wild times,\\nOft stood upon a cast the gamester s ducat,\\nSo often staked and lost and then regained,\\nScarce knew so many hazards.\\nThe Spanish Father.\\nFrom Kenilworth\\nNot serve two masters Here s a youth will\\ntry it\\nWould fain serve God, yet give the devil his due;\\nSays grace before he doth a deed of villany,\\nAnd returns his thanks devoutly when tis\\nacted.\\nOld Play.\\nHe was a man\\nVersed in the world as pilot in his compass.\\nThe needle pointed ever to that interest\\nWhich was his loadstar, and he spread his sails\\nWith vantage to the gale of others passion.\\nThe Deceiver, a Tragedy.\\nThis is he\\nWho rides on the court-gale controls its tides\\nKnows all their secret shoals and fatal eddies;\\nWhose frown abases and whose smile exalts.\\nHe shines like any rainbow and, perchance,\\nHis colors are as transient.\\nOld Play.\\nThis is rare news thou tell st me, my good fel-\\nlow\\nThere are two bulls fierce battling on the green\\nFor one fair heifer if the one goes down,\\nThe dale will be more peaceful, and the herd,\\nWhich have small interest in their brulziement,\\nMay pasture there in peace.\\nOld Play.\\nWell, then, our course is chosen spread the\\nsail,\\nHeave oft the lead and mark the soundings well\\nLook to the helm, good master many a shoal\\nMarks this stern coast, and rocks where sits the\\nsiren\\nWho, like ambition, lures men to their ruin.\\nThe Shipwreck.\\nNow God be good to me in this wild pilgrimage\\nAll hope in human aid I cast behind me.\\nO, who would be a woman who that fool,\\nA weeping, pining, faithful, loving woman\\nShe hath hard measure still where she hopes\\nkindest,\\nAnd all her bounties only make ingrates.\\nLove s Pilgrimage.\\nHark the bells summon and the bugle calls,\\nBut she the fairest answers not the tide\\nOf nobles and of ladies throngs the halls,\\nBut she the loveliest must in secret hide.\\nWhat eyes were thine, proud prince, which in\\nthe gleam\\nOf yon gay meteors lost that better sense\\nThat o er the glow-worm doth the star esteem,\\nAnd merit s modest blush o er courtly inso-\\nlence\\nThe Glass Slipper.\\nWhat, man, ne er lack a draught when the full\\ncan\\nStands at thine elbow and craves emptying\\nNay, fear not me, for I have no delight\\nTo watch men s vices, since I have myself\\nOf virtue naught to boast of, I m a striker,\\nWould have the world strike with me, pellmell,\\nall.\\nPandcemonium.\\nNow fare thee well, my master if true service\\nBe guerdoned with hard looks, e en cut the\\ntow-line,\\nAnd let our barks across the pathless flood\\nHold different courses.\\nShipwreck.\\nNow bid the steeple rock she comes, she\\ncomes\\nSpeak for us, bells speak for us, shrill-tongued\\ntuckets", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0530.jp2"}, "529": {"fulltext": "MOTTOES FROM THE NOVELS\\n499\\nStand to the linstock, gunner let thy cannon\\nPlay such a peal as if a Paynim foe\\nCame stretched, in turbaned ranks to storm the\\nramparts.\\nWe will have pageants too hut that craves wit,\\nAnd I m a rough-hewn soldier.\\nThe Virgin-Queen, a Tragi-Comedy.\\nThe wisest sovereigns err like private men,\\nAnd royal hand has sometimes laid the sword\\nOf chivalry upon a worthless shoulder,\\nWhich better had been branded by the hang-\\nman.\\nWhat then Kings do their best, and they\\nand we\\nMust answer for the intent, and not the event.\\nOld Play.\\nHere stands the victim there the proud be-\\ntrayer,\\nE en as the hind pulled down by strangling dogs\\nLies at the hunter s feet, who courteous proffers\\nTo some high dame, the Dian of the chase,\\nTo whom he looks for guerdon, his sharp blade\\nTo gash the sobbing throat.\\nThe Woodman.\\nHigh o er the eastern steep the sun\\nAnd darkness flies with her deceitful shadows;\\nSo truth prevails o er falsehood.\\nOld Play.\\nFro?n The Pirate\\nT is not alone the scene the man, Anselmo.\\nThe man finds sympathies in these wild wastes\\nAnd roughly tumbling seas, which fairer views\\nAnd smoother waves deny him.\\nAncient Drama.\\nShe does no work by halves, yon raving ocean;\\nEngulfing those she strangles, her wild womb\\nAffords the mariners whom she hath dealt on\\nTheir death at once and sepulchre.\\nOld Play.\\nThis is a gentle trader and a prudent\\nHe s no Autolycus, to blear your eye\\nWith quips of worldly gauds and gamesome-\\nness,\\nBut seasons all his glittering merchandise\\nWith wholesome doctrine suited to the use,\\nAs men sauce goose with sage and rosemary.\\nOld Play.\\nAll your ancient customs\\nAnd long-descended usages I 11 change.\\nYe shall not eat, nor drink, nor speak, nor move,\\nThink, look, or walk, as ye were wont to do;\\nEven your marriage-beds shall know mutation;\\nThe bride shall have the stock, the groom the\\nwall;\\nFor all old practice will I turn and change,\\nAnd call it reformation marry, will I\\nT is Even that we We at Odds.\\nWe ll keep our customs what is law it-\\nself\\nBut old established custom What religion\\nI mean, with one half of the men that use it\\nSave the good use and wont that carries them\\nTo worship how and where their fathers wor-\\nshipped\\nAll things resolve in custom we 11 keep ours.\\nOld Play.\\nI DO love these ancient ruins\\nWe never tread upon them but we set\\nOur foot upon some reverend history,\\nAnd questionless, here in this open court\\nWhich now lies naked to the injuries\\nOf stormy weather some men lie interred,\\nLoved the Church so well and gave so largely\\nto it,\\nThey thought it should have canopied their\\nbones\\nTill doomsday; but all things have their\\nend\\nChurches and cities, which have diseases like\\nto men,\\nMust have like death which we have.\\nDuchess of Malfy.\\nSee yonder woman, whom our swains revere\\nAnd dread in secret, while they take her coun-\\nsel\\nWhen sweetheart shall be kind, or when cross\\ndame shall die;\\nWhere lurks the thief who stole the silver\\ntankard,\\nAnd how the pestilent murrain may be cured;\\nThis sage adviser s mad, stark mad, my friend;\\nYet in her madness hath the art and cunning\\nTo wring fools secrets from their inmost\\nbosoms,\\nAnd pay inquirers with the coin they gave her.\\nOld Play.\\nWhat ho, my jovial mates come on we 11\\nfrolic it\\nLike fairies frisking in the merry moonshine,\\nSeen by the curtal friar, who, from some chris-\\ntening\\nOr some blithe bridal, hies belated cell- ward\\nHe starts, and changes his bold bottle swagger\\nTo churchman s pace professional, and, ran-\\nsacking\\nHis treacherous memory for some holy hymn,\\nFinds but the roundel of the midnight catch.\\nOld Play.\\nI strive like to the vessel in the tide-way,\\nWhich, lacking favoring breeze, hath not the\\npower\\nTo stem the powerful current. Even so,\\nResolving daily to forsake my vices,\\nHabit, strong circumstance, renewed tempta-\\ntion,\\nSweep me to sea again. heavenly breath,\\nFill thou my sails, and aid the feeble vessel,\\nWhich ne er can reach the blessed port without\\nthee\\nTis Odds when Evens meet.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0531.jp2"}, "530": {"fulltext": "5\u00c2\u00b0\u00c2\u00b0\\nAPPENDIX\\nParental love, my friend, has power o er\\nwisdom,\\nAnd is the charm, which like the falconer s\\nlure,\\nCan bring from heaven the highest soaring\\nspirits.\\nSo, when famed Prosper doffed his magic\\nrobe\\nIt was Miranda plucked it from his shoul-\\nders.\\nOld Play.\\nHark to the insult loud, the bitter sneer,\\nThe fierce threat answering to the brutal jeer\\nOaths fly like pistol-shots, and vengeful words\\nClash with each other like conflicting swords.\\nThe robber s quarrel by such sounds is shown,\\nAnd true men have some chance to gain their\\nown.\\nCaptivity, a Poem.\\nOver the mountains and under the waves,\\nOver the fountains and under the graves,\\nOver floods that are deepest,\\nWhich Neptune obey,\\nOver rocks that are steepest,\\nLove will find out the way.\\nOld Song.\\nFrom The Fortunes of Nigel\\nNow Scot and English are agreed,\\nAnd Saunders hastes to cross the Tweed,\\nWhere, such the splendors that attend him,\\nHis very mother scarce had kenned him.\\nHis metamorphosis behold\\nFrom Glasgow frieze to cloth of gold\\nHis back-sword with the iron-hilt,\\nTo rapier fairly hatched and gilt\\nWas ever seen a gallant braver\\nHis very bonnet s grown a beaver.\\nThe Reformation.\\nThis, sir, is one among the Seigniory,\\nHas wealth at will, and will to use his wealth,\\nAnd wit to increase it. Marry, his worst folly\\nLies in a thriftless sort of charity,\\nThat goes a-gadding sometimes after objects\\nWhich wise men will not see when thrust upon\\nthem.\\nThe Old Couple.\\nAy, sir, the clouted shoe hath ofttimes craft\\nin t,\\nAs says the rustic proverb and your citizen,\\nIn s grogram suit, gold chain, and well-blacked\\nshoes,\\nBears under his flat cap ofttimes a brain\\nWiser than burns beneath the cap and feather,\\nOr seethes within the statesman s velvet night-\\ncap.\\nRead me my Riddle.\\nWherefore come ye not to court\\nCertain t is the rarest sport\\nThere are silks and jewels glistening,\\nPrattling fools and wise men listening,\\nBullies among brave men justfing,\\nBeggars amongst nobles bustling\\nLow-breathed talkers, minion lispers,\\nCutting honest throats by whispers\\nWherefore come ye not to court\\nSkelton swears t is glorious sport.\\nSkelton Skeltonizeth.\\n0, I do know him t is the mouldy lemon\\nWhich our court wits will wet their lips withal,\\nWhen they would sauce their honied conversa-\\ntion\\nWith somewhat sharper flavor. Marry, sir,\\nThat virtue s wellnigh left him all the juice\\nThat was so sharp and poignant is squeezed\\nout\\nWhile the poor rind, although as sour as ever,\\nMust season soon the draff we give our grunters,\\nFor two-legged things are weary on t.\\nThe Chamberlain, a Comedy.\\nThings needful we have thought on but the\\nthing\\nOf all most needful that which Scripture\\nterms,\\nAs if alone it merited regard,\\nThe ONE thing needful that s yet unconsid-\\nered.\\nThe Chamberlain.\\nAh mark the matron well and laugh not,\\nHarry,\\nAt her old steeple-hat and velvet guard\\nI ve called her like the ear of Dionysius\\nI mean that ear-formed vault, built o er the\\ndungeon\\nTo catch the groans and discontented murmurs\\nOf his poor bondsmen. Even so doth Martha\\nDrink up for her own purpose all that passes,\\nOr is supposed to pass, in this wide city\\nShe can retail it too, if that her profit\\nShall call on her to do so and retail it\\nFor your advantage, so that you can make\\nYour profit jump with hers.\\nThe Conspiracy.\\nBid not thy fortune troll upon the wheels\\nOf yonder dancing cups of mottled bone\\nAnd drown it not, like Egypt s royal harlot,\\nDissolving her rich pearl in the brimmed wine-\\ncup.\\nThese are the arts, Lothario, which shrink acres\\nInto brief yards bring sterling pounds to\\nfarthings,\\nCredit to infamy and the poor gull,\\nWho might have lived an honored, easy life,\\nTo ruin and an unregarded grave.\\nThe Changes.\\nThis is the very barn-yard\\nWhere muster daily the prime cocks o the\\ngame,\\nRuffle their pinions, crow till they are hoarse,\\nAnd spar about a barleycorn. Here, too,\\nchickens,\\nThe callow unfledged brood of forward folly,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0532.jp2"}, "531": {"fulltext": "MOTTOES FROM THE NOVELS\\n5oi\\nLearn first to rear the crest, and aim the spm%\\nAnd tune their note like full-plumed Chanti-\\ncleer.\\nThe Bear Garden.\\nLet the proud salmon gorge the feathered hook,\\nThen strike, and then you have him. He will\\nwince\\nSpin out your line that it shall whistle from you\\nSome twenty yards or so, yet you shall have\\nhim\\nMarry you must have patience the stout rock\\nWhich is his trust hath edges something sharp\\nAnd the deep pool hath ooze and sludge enough\\nTo mar your fishing less you are more care-\\nful.\\nAlbion, or the Double Kings.\\nGive way give way I must and will have\\njustice,\\nAnd tell me not of privilege and place\\nWhere I am injured, there I 11 sue redress.\\nLook to it, every one who bars my access\\nI have a heart to feel the injury,\\nA hand to right myself, and, by my honor,\\nThat hand shall grasp what gray- beard Law\\ndenies me.\\nThe Chamberlain.\\nCome hither, young one Mark me Thou art\\nnow\\nMongst men o the sword, that live by reputa-\\ntion\\nMore than by constant income Single-suited\\nThey are, I grant you yet each single suit\\nMaintains, on the rough guess, a thousand fol-\\nlowers\\nAnd they be men who, hazarding their all,\\nNeedful apparel, necessary income,\\nAnd human body, and immortal soul,\\nDo in the very deed but hazard nothing\\nSo strictly is that all bound in reversion\\nClothes to the broker, income to the usurer,\\nAnd body to disease, and soul to the foul fiend;\\nWho laughs to see Soldadoes and fooladoes\\nPlay better than himself his game on earth.\\nThe Mohocks.\\nMother. What dazzled by a flash of Cupid s\\nmirror,\\nWith which the boy, as mortal urchins wont,\\nFlings back the sunbeam in the eye of passen-\\ngers\\nThen laughs to see them stumble\\nDaughter. Mother! no\\nIt was a lightning-flash which dazzled me,\\nAnd never shall these eyes see true again.\\nBeef and Ptidding, an Old English Comedy.\\nBy this good light, a wench of matchless mettle\\nThis were a leaguer-lass to love a soldier,\\nTo bind his wounds, and kiss his bloody brow,\\nAnd sing a roundel as she helped to arm him,\\nThough the rough foeman s drums were beat\\nso nigh\\nThey seemed to bear the burden.\\nOld Play.\\nCredit me, friend, it hath been ever thus\\nSince the ark rested on Mount Ararat.\\nFalse man hath sworn, and woman hath be-\\nlieved\\nRepented and reproached, and then believed\\nonce more.\\nThe New World.\\nRove not from pole to pole the man lives\\nhere\\nWhose razor s only equalled by his beer\\nAnd where, in either sense, the cockney-put\\nMay if he pleases, get confounded cut.\\nOn the Sign of an Alehouse kept by a Barber.\\nChance will not do the work Chance sends\\nthe breeze\\nBut if the pilot slumber at the helm,\\nThe very wind that wafts us towards the port\\nMay dash us on the shelves. The steersman s\\npart is vigilance,\\nBlow it or rough or smooth.\\nOld Play.\\nThis is the time Heaven s maiden-sentinel\\nHath quitted her high watch the lesser\\nspangles\\nAre paling one by one give me the ladder\\nAnd the short lever bid. Anthony\\nKeep with his carabine the wicket-gate\\nAnd do thou bare thy knife and follow me,\\nFor we will in and do it darkness like this\\nIs dawning of our fortunes.\\nOld Play.\\nDeath finds us mid our playthings snatches\\nus,\\nAs a cross nurse might do a wayward child,\\nFrom all our toys and baubles. His rough call\\nUnlooses all our favorite ties on earth\\nAnd well if they are such as may be answered\\nIn yonder world, where all is judged of truly.\\nOld Play.\\nGive us good voyage, gentle stream we stun\\nnot\\nThy sober ear with sounds of revelry,\\nWake not the slumbering echoes of thy banks\\nWith voice of flute and horn we do but seek\\nOn the broad pathway of thy swelling bosom\\nTo glide in silent safety.\\nThe Double Bridal.\\nThis way lie safety and a sure retreat\\nYonder lie danger, shame, and punishment.\\nMost welcome danger then nay, let me say,\\nThough spoke with swelling heart welcome\\ne en shame\\nAnd welcome punishment for, call me guilty,\\nI do but pay the tax that s due to justice\\nAnd call me guiltless, then that punishment\\nIs shame to those alone who do inflict it.\\nThe Tribunal.\\nHow fares the man on whom good men would\\nlook\\nWith eyes where scorn and censure combated,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0533.jp2"}, "532": {"fulltext": "502\\nAPPENDIX\\nBut that kind Christian love hath taught the\\nThat they who merit most contempt and hate\\nDo most deserve our pity\\nOld Play.\\nMarry, come up, sir, with your gentle Mood\\nHere s a red stream beneath this coarse blue\\ndoublet\\nThat warms the heart as kindly as if drawn\\nFrom the far source of old Assyrian kings,\\nWho first made mankind subject to their sway.\\nOld Play.\\nWe are not worse at once the course of evil\\nBegins so slowly and from such slight source,\\nAn infant s hand might stem its breach with\\nclay\\nBut let the stream get deeper, and philosophy\\nAy, and religion too shall strive in vain\\nTo turn the headlong torrent.\\nOld Play.\\nFrom Peveril of the Peak\\nWhy then, we will have bellowing of beeves,\\nBroaching of barrels, brandishing of spigots\\nBlood shall flow freely, but it shall be gore\\nOf herds and flocks and venison and poultry,\\nJoined to the brave heart s-blood of John-a-\\nBarleycorn\\nOld Play.\\nNo, sir, I will not pledge I m one of those\\nWho think good wine needs neither bush nor\\npreface\\nTo make it welcome. If you doubt my word,\\nFill the quart-cup, and see if I will choke on t.\\nOld Play.\\nYou shall have no worse prison than my cham-\\nber,\\nNor jailer than myself.\\nThe Captain.\\nAscasto. Can she not speak\\nOswald. If speech be only in accented sounds,\\nFramed by the tongue and lips, the maiden s\\ndumb\\nBut if by quick and apprehensive look,\\nBy motion, sign, and glance, to give each mean-\\ning,\\nExpress as clothed in language, be termed\\nspeech,\\nShe hath that wondrous faculty for her eyes,\\nLike the bright stars of heaven, can hold dis-\\ncourse,\\nThough it be mute and soundless.\\nOld Play.\\nThis is a love meeting See the maiden mourns,\\nAnd the sad suitor bends his looks on earth.\\nThere s more hath passed between them than\\nbelongs\\nTo Love s sweet sorrows.\\nOld Play.\\nNow, hoist the anchor, mates and let the\\nsails\\nGive their broad bosom to the buxom wind,\\nLike lass that woos a lover.\\nAnonymous.\\nHe was a fellow in a peasant s garb\\nYet one could censure you a woodcock s carv-\\n_ \u00e2\u0084\u00a2g,\\nLike any courtier at the ordinary.\\nThe Ordinary.\\nWe meet, as men see phantoms in a dream,\\nWhich glide and sigh and sign and move their\\nlips,\\nBut make no sound or, if they utter voice,\\nT is but a low and undistinguished moaning,\\nWhich has nor word nor sense of uttered sound.\\nThe Chieftain.\\nThe course of human life is changeful still\\nAs is the fickle wind and wandering rill\\nOr, like the fight dance which the wild-breeze\\nAmidst the faded race of fallen leaves\\nWhich now its breath bears down, now tosses\\nhigh,\\nBeats to the earth, or wafts to middle sky.\\nSuch, and so varied, the precarious play\\nOf fate with man, frail tenant of a day\\nAnonymous.\\nNecessity thou best of peacemakers,\\nAs well as surest prompter of invention\\nHelp us to composition\\nAnonymous.\\nThis is some creature of the elements\\nMost like your sea-gull. He can wheel and\\nwhistle\\nHis screaming song, e en when the storm is\\nloudest\\nTake for his sheeted couch the restless foam\\nOf the wild wave-crest slumber in the calm,\\nAnd dally with the storm. Yet t is a gull,\\nAn arrant gull, with all this.\\nThe Chieftain.\\nI fear the devil worst when gown and cas-\\nsock,\\nOr in the lack of them, old Calvin s cloak,\\nConceals his cloven hoof.\\nAnonymous\\nTis the black ban-dog of our jail pray look\\non him,\\nBut at a wary distance rouse him not\\nHe bays not till he worries.\\nThe Black Dog of Newgate.\\nSpeak not of niceness, when there s chance of\\nwreck,\\nThe captain said, as ladies writhed their\\nneck\\nTo see the dying dolphin flap the deck\\nIf we go down, on us these gentry sup\\nWe dine upon them, if we haul them up.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0534.jp2"}, "533": {"fulltext": "MOTTOES FROM THE NOVELS\\n5\u00c2\u00b03\\nWise men applaud us when we eat the eaters,\\nAs the devil laughs when keen folks cheat the\\ncheaters.\\nThe Sea Voyage.\\nContentions fierce,\\nArdent, and dire, spring from no petty cause.\\nAlbion.\\nHe came amongst them like a new-raised spirit,\\nTo speak of dreadful judgments that impend,\\nAnd of the wrath to come.\\nThe Reformer.\\nAnd some for safety took the dreadful leap\\nSome for the voice of Heaven seemed calling on\\nthem\\nSome for advancement, or for lucre s sake\\nI leaped in frolic.\\nThe Dream.\\nHigh feasting was there there the gilded\\nroofs\\nRung to the wassail-health the dancer s step\\nSprung to the chord responsive the gay game-\\nster\\nTo fate s disposal flung his heap of gold,\\nAnd laughed alike when it increased or les-\\nsened\\nSuch virtue hath court-air to teach us patience\\nWhich schoolmen preach in vain.\\nWhy come ye not to Court\\nHere stand I tight and trim,\\nQuick of eye, though little of limb\\nHe who denieth the word I have spoken,\\nBetwixt him and me shall lances be broken.\\nLay of the Little John de Saintre.\\nFrom Quentin Dicrward\\nPainters show Cupid blind hath Hymen\\neyes\\nOr is his sight warped by those spectacles\\nWhich parents, guardians, and advisers lend\\nhim\\nThat he may look through them on lands and\\nmansions,\\nOn jewels, gold, and all such rich donations,\\nAnd see their value ten times magnified\\nMethinks t will brook a question.\\nThe Miseries of Enforced Marriage.\\nThis is a lecturer so skilled in policy\\nThat no disparagement to Satan s cunning\\nHe well might read a lesson to the devil,\\nAnd teach the old seducer new temptations.\\nOld Play.\\nI see thee yet, fair France thou favored\\nland\\nOf art and nature thou art still before me\\nThy sons, to whom their labor isa sport,\\nSo well thy grateful soil returns its tribute\\nThy sun-burnt daughters, with their laughing\\neyes\\nAnd glossy raven-locks. But, favored France,\\nThou hast had many a tale of woe to tell,\\nIn ancient times as now.\\nAnonymous.\\nHe was a son of Egypt, as he told me,\\nAnd one descended from those dread magicians\\nWho waged rash war, when Israel dwelt in\\nGoshen,\\nWith Israel and her Prophet matching rod\\nWith his the son of Levi s and encounter-\\ning\\nJehovah s miracles with incantations,\\nTill upon Egypt came the Avenging Angel,\\nAnd those proud sages wept for their first-\\nborn,\\nAs wept the unlettered peasant.\\nAnonymous.\\nRescue or none, Sir Knight, I am your captive\\nDeal with me what your nobleness suggests\\nThinking the chance of war may one day place\\nyou\\nWhere I must now be reckoned i the roll\\nOf melancholy prisoners.\\nAnonymous\\nNo human quality is so well wove\\nIn warp and woof but there s some flaw in it\\nI ve known a brave man fly a shepherd s cur,\\nA wise man so demean him drivelling idiocy\\nHad wellnigh been ashamed on t. For your\\ncrafty,\\nYour worldly-wise man, he, above the rest,\\nWeaves his own snares so fine he s often caught\\nin them.\\nOld Play.\\nWhen Princes meet, astrologers may mark it\\nAn ominous conjunction, full of boding,\\nLike that of Mars with Saturn.\\nOld Play.\\nThy time is not yet out the devil thou servest\\nHas not as yet deserted thee. He aids\\nThe friends who drudge for him, as the blind\\nman\\nWas aided by the guide, who lent his shoulder\\nO er rough and smooth, until he reached the\\nbrink\\nOf the fell precipice then hurled him down-\\nward.\\nOld Play.\\nOur counsels waver like the unsteady bark,\\nThat reels amid the strife of meeting cur-\\nrents.\\nOld Play.\\nHold fast thy truth, young soldier. Gentle\\nmaiden,\\nKeep you your promise plight leave age its\\nsubtleties,\\nAnd gray-haired policy its maze of falsehood\\nBut be you candid as the morning sky,\\nEre the high sun sucks vapors up to stain it.\\nThe Trial.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0535.jp2"}, "534": {"fulltext": "5\u00c2\u00b04\\nAPPENDIX\\nFrom Saint Ronarts Well\\nQuis novus hie hospes\\nDido afud Virgilium.\\nCh m-maid The Gen man in the front parlor\\nBoots s free Translation of the ^ineid.\\nThere must be government in all society\\nBees have their Queen, and stag herds have\\ntheir leader\\nRome had her Consuls, Athens had her Archons,\\nAnd we, sir, have our Managing Committee.\\nThe Album of Saint Ro?ian s.\\nCome, let me have thy counsel, for I need it\\nThou art of those, who better help their friends\\nWith sage advice, than usurers with gold,\\nOr brawlers with their swords I 11 trust to\\nthee,\\nFor I ask only from thee words, not deeds.\\nThe Devil hath met his Match.\\nNearest of blood should still be next in love\\nAnd when I see these happy children playing,\\nWhile William gathers flowers for Ellen s ring-\\nlets\\nAnd Ellen dresses flies for William s angle,\\nI scarce can think that in advancing life\\nColdness, unkindness, interest, or suspicion\\nWill e er divide that unity so sacred,\\nWhich Nature bound at birth.\\nAnoiiyjnous.\\nOh you would be a vestal maid, I warrant,\\nThe bride of Heaven Come we may shake\\nyour purpose\\nFor here I bring in hand a jolly suitor\\nHath ta en degrees in the seven sciences\\nThat ladies love best He is young and noble,\\nHandsome and valiant, gay and rich, and\\nliberal.\\nThe Nun.\\nIt comes it wrings me in my parting hour,\\nThe long-hid crime the well-disguised guilt.\\nBring me some holy priest to lay the spectre\\nOld Play.\\nSedet post equitevi atra cur a\\nStell though the headlong cavalier,\\nO er rough and smooth, in wild career,\\nSeems racing with the wind\\nHis sad companion ghastly pale,\\nAnd darksome as a widow s veil,\\nCare keeps her seat behind,\\nHorace.\\nWhat sheeted ghost is wandering through the\\nstorm\\nFor never did a maid of middle earth\\nChoose such a time or spot to vent her sorrows.\\nOld Play.\\nHere come we to our close for that which\\nfollows\\nIs but the tale of dull, unvaried miserv.\\nSteep crags and headlong lins may court the\\npencil\\nLike sudden haps, dark plots, and strange ad-\\nventures\\nBut who would paint the dull and fog-wrapt\\nmoor\\nIn its long tract of sterile desolation\\nOld Play.\\nFrom The Betrothed\\nIn Madoe s tent the clarion sounds,\\nWith rapid clangor hurried far\\nEach hill and dale the note rebounds,\\nBut when return the sons of war\\nThou, born of stern Necessity,\\nDull Peace the valley yields to thee,\\nAnd owns thy melancholy sway.\\nWelsh Poem.\\n0, sadly shines the morning sun\\nOn leaguered castle wall,\\nWhen bastion, tower, and battlement\\nSeem nodding to their fall.\\nOld Ballad.\\nNow, all ye ladies of fair Scotland,\\nAnd ladies of England that happy would\\nprove,\\nMarry never for houses, nor marry for land,\\nNor marry for nothing but only love.\\nFamily Quarrels.\\nToo much rest is rust,\\nThere s ever cheer in changing\\nWe tyne by too much trust,\\nSo we 11 be up and ranging.\\nOld Song.\\nRing out the merry bells, the bride approaches.\\nThe blush upon her cheek has shamed the\\nmorning,\\nFor that is dawning palely. Grant, good saints,\\nThese clouds betoken naught of evil omen\\nOld Play.\\nJulia. Gentle sir,\\nYou are our captive but we 11 use you so,\\nThat you shall think your prison joys may\\nmatch\\nWhate er your liberty hath known of plea-\\nsure.\\nRoderick. No, fairest, we have trifled here\\ntoo long\\nAnd, lingering to see your roses blossom,\\nI ve let my laurels wither.\\nOld Play.\\nFrom The Talisman\\nThis is the Prince of Leeches fever, plague,\\nCold rheum, and hot podagra, do but look on\\nhim,\\nAnd quit their grasp upon the tortured sinews.\\nAnonymous.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0536.jp2"}, "535": {"fulltext": "MOTTOES FROM THE NOVELS\\n5\u00c2\u00b05\\nOne thing is certain in our Northern land,\\nAllow that birth or valor, wealth or wit,\\nGive each precedence to their possessor,\\nEnvy, that follows on such eminence\\nAs comes the lyme-hound on the roebuck s\\ntrace,\\nShall pull them down each one.\\nSir David Lindsay.\\nYou talk of Gayety and Innocence\\nThe moment when the fatal fruit was eaten,\\nThey parted ne er to meet again and Malice\\nHas ever since been playmate to light Gayety,\\nFrom the first moment when the smiling in-\\nfant\\nDestroys the flower or butterfly he toys with,\\nTo the last chuckle of the dying miser,\\nWho on his death-bed laughs his last to hear\\nHis wealthy neighbor has become a bankrupt.\\nOld Play.\\nT is not her sense for sure, in that\\nThere s nothing more than common\\nAnd all her wit is only chat,\\nLike any other woman.\\nSong.\\nWere every hair upon his head a life,\\nAnd every life were to be supplicated\\nBy numbers equal to those hairs quadrupled,\\nLife after life should out like waning stars\\nBefore the daybraak or as festive lamps,\\nWhich have lent lustre to the midnight revel,\\nEach after each are quenched when guests\\ndepart. Old Play.\\nMust we then sheath our still victorious sword\\nTurn back our forward step, which ever trode\\nO er foemen s necks the onward path of glory\\nUnclasp the mail, which with a solemn vow\\nIn God s own house we hung upon our shoul-\\nders\\nThat vow, as unaccomplished as the promise\\nWhich village nurses make to still their chil-\\ndren,\\nAnd after think no more of\\nThe Crusade, a Tragedy.\\nWhen beauty leads the lion in her toils,\\nSuch are her charms he dare not raise his mane,\\nFar less expand the terror of his fangs\\nSo great Alcides made his club a distaff,\\nAnd spun to please fair Omphale.\\nAnonymous.\\nMid these wild scenes Enchantment waves her\\nhand,\\nTo change the face of the mysterious land\\nTill the bewildering scenes around us seem\\nThe vain productions of a feverish dream.\\nAstolpho, a Romance.\\nA GRAIN of dust\\nSoiling our cup, will make our sense reject\\nFastidiously the draught which we did thirst\\nfor\\nA rusted nail, placed near the faithful compass,\\nWill sway it from the truth and wreck the\\nargosy.\\nEven this small cause of anger and disgust\\nWill break the bonds of amity mongst princes\\nAnd wreck their noblest purposes.\\nThe Crusade.\\nThe tears I shed must ever fall\\nI weep not for an absent swain,\\nFor time may happier hours recall,\\nAnd parted, lovers meet again.\\nI weep not for the silent dead,\\nTheir pains are past, their sorrows o er,\\nAnd those that loved their steps must tread,\\nWhen death shall join to part no more.\\nBut worse than absence, worse than death,\\nShe wept her lover s sullied fame,\\nAnd, fired with all the pride of birth,\\nShe wept a soldier s injured name.\\nBallad.\\nFrom Woodstock\\nCome forth, old man thy daughter s side\\nIs now the fitting place for thee\\nWhen Time hath quelled the oak s bold pride,\\nThe youthful tendril yet may hide\\nThe ruins of the parent tree.\\nNow, ye wild blades, that make loose inns your\\nstage,\\nTo vapor forth the acts of this sad age,\\nStout Edgehill fight, the Newberries and the\\nWest,\\nAnd northern clashes, where you still fought\\nbest\\nYour strange escapes, your dangers void of\\nfear,\\nWhen bullets flew between the head and ear,\\nWhether you fought by Damme or the Spirit,\\nOf you I speak.\\nLegend of Captain Jones.\\nYon path of greensward\\nWinds round by sparry grot and gay pavilion\\nThere is no flint to gall thy tender foot,\\nThere s ready shelter from each breeze or\\nshower.\\nBut Duty guides not that way see her stand,\\nWith wand entwined with amaranth, near yon\\ncliffs.\\nOft where she leads thy blood must mark thy\\nfootsteps,\\nOft where she leads thy head must bear the\\nstorm,\\nAnd thy shrunk form endure heat, cold, and\\nhunger\\nBut she will guide thee up to noble heights,\\nWhich he who gains seems native of the sky.\\nWhile earthly things lie stretched beneath his\\nfeet,\\nDiminished, shrunk, and valueless\\nAnonymous.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0537.jp2"}, "536": {"fulltext": "5\u00c2\u00b0 6\\nAPPENDIX\\nMy tongue pads slowly under this new language,\\nAnd starts and stumbles at these uncouth\\nphrases.\\nThey may be great in worth and weight, but\\nhang\\nUpon the native glibness of my language\\nLike Saul s plate-armor on the shepherd boy,\\nEncumbering and not arming him.\\nJ.B.\\nHere we have one head\\nUpon two bodies your two-headed bullock\\nIs but an ass to such a prodigy.\\nThese two have but one meaning, thought, and\\ncounsel\\nAnd when the single noddle has spoke out,\\nThe four legs scrape assent to it.\\nOld Play.\\nDeeds are done on earth\\nWhich have their punishment ere the earth\\ncloses\\nUpon the perpetrators. Be it the working\\nOf the remorse-stirred fancy, or the vision,\\nDistinct and real, of unearthly being,\\nAll ages witness that beside the couch\\nOf the fell homicide oft stalks the ghost\\nOf him he slew, and shows the shadowy wound.\\nOld Play.\\nWe do that in our zeal\\nOur calmer moments are afraid to answer.\\nAnony7nous.\\nThe deadliest snakes are those which, twined\\nmongst flowers,\\nBlend their bright coloring with the varied\\nblossoms,\\nTheir fierce eyes glittering like the spangled\\ndew-drop\\nIn all so like what nature has most harmless,\\nThat sportive innocence, which dreads no dan-\\nIs poisoned unawares.\\nOld Play.\\nFrom Chronicles of the Canongate\\nWere ever such two loving friends\\nHow could they disagree\\nO, thus it was: he loved him dear,\\nAnd thought but to requite him\\nAnd, having no friend left but he,\\nHe did resolve to fight him.\\nDuke upon Duke.\\nThere are times\\nWhen Fancy plays her gambols, in despite\\nEven of our watchful senses, when in sooth\\nSubstance seems shadow, shadow substance\\nseems,\\nWhen the broad, palpable, and marked parti-\\ntion\\nT wixt that which is and is not, seems dissolved,\\nAs if the mental eye gained power to gaze\\nBeyond the limits of the existing world.\\nSuch hours of shadowy dreams I better love\\nThan all the gross realities of life.\\nAnonymous.\\nFrom The Fair Maid of Perth\\nThe ashes here of murdered kings\\nBeneath my footsteps sleep\\nAnd yonder lies the scene of death\\nWhere Mary learned to weep.\\nCaptain Marjoribanks-\\nBehold the Tiber the vain Roman cried,\\nViewing the ample Tay from Baiglie s side\\nBut where s the Scot that would the vaunt n\\npay,\\nAnd hail the puny Tiber for the Tay.\\nAnonymous.\\nFair is the damsel, passing fair\\nSunny at distance gleams her smile\\nApproach the cloud of wof ul care\\nHangs trembling in her eye the while.\\nLuanda, a Ballad.\\nfor a draught of power to steep\\nThe soul of agony in sleep\\nBertha.\\nLo where he lies embalmed in gore,\\nHis wound to Heaven cries\\nThe floodgates of his blood implore\\nFor vengeance from the skies.\\nUranus and Psyche.\\nFrom Anne of Geierstein\\nCursed be the gold and silver which persuade\\nWeak man to follow far fatiguing trade.\\nThe lily, peace, outshines the silver store,\\nAnd life is dearer than the golden ore.\\nYet money tempts us o er the desert brown\\nTo every distant mart and wealthy town.\\nHassan, or the Camel-Driver.\\nI was one\\nWho loved the greenwood bank and lowing\\nherd,\\nThe russet prize, the lowly peasant s life,\\nSeasoned with sweet content, more than the\\nhalls\\nWhere revellers feast to fever-height. Believe\\nme,\\nThere ne er was poison mixed in maple bowl.\\nAnonymous.\\nWhen we two meet, we meet like rushing tor-\\nrents\\nLike warring winds, like flames from various\\npoints,\\nThat mate each other s fury there is naught\\nOf elemental strife, were fiends to guide it,\\nCan match the wrath of man.\\nFrenaud.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0538.jp2"}, "537": {"fulltext": "MOTTOES FROM THE NOVELS\\n5\u00c2\u00b07\\nWe know not when we sleep nor when we wake.\\nVisions distinct and perfect cross our eye,\\nWhich to the slumberer seem realities\\nAnd while they waked, some men have seen\\nsuch sights\\nAs set at naught the evidence of sense,\\nAnd left them well persuaded they were dream-\\ning.\\nAnonymous.\\nThese he the adept s doctrines every ele-\\nment\\nIs peopled with its separate race of spirits.\\nThe airy Sylphs on the blue ether float\\nDeep in the earthy cavern skulks the Gnome\\nThe sea-green Naiad skims the ocean-billow,\\nAnd the fierce fire is yet a friendly home\\nTo its peculiar sprite the Salamander.\\nAnonymous.\\nUpon the Rhine, upon the Rhine they cluster,\\nThe grapes of juice divine,\\nWhich make the soldier s jovial courage mus-\\nter\\n0, blessed be the Rhine\\nDrinking Song.\\nTell me not of it I could ne er abide\\nThe mummery of all that forced civility.\\nPray, seat yourself, my lord. With cringing\\nhams\\nThe speech is spoken, and with bended knee\\nHeard by the smiling courtier. Before you,\\nsir?\\nIt must be on the earth, then. Hang it all\\nThe pride which cloaks itself in such poor fashion\\nIs scarcely fit to swell a beggar s bosom.\\nOld Play.\\nA mirthful man he was the snows of age\\nFell, but they did not chill him. Gayety,\\nEven in lif e s closing, touched his teeming brain\\nWith such wild visions as the setting sun\\nRaises in front of some hoar glacier,\\nPainting the bleak ice with a thousand hues.\\nOld Play.\\nAy, this is he who wears the wreath of bays\\nWove by Apollo and the Sisters Nine,\\nWhich Jove s dread lightning scathes not. He\\nhath doft\\nThe cumbrous helm of steel, and flung aside\\nThe yet more galling diadem of gold\\nWhile, with a leafy circlet round his brows,\\nHe reigns the King of Lovers and of Poets.\\nWant you a man\\nExperienced in the world and its affairs\\nHere he is for your purpose. He s a monk.\\nHe hath forsworn the world and all its work\\nThe rather that he knows it passing well,\\nSpecial the worst of it, for he s a monk.\\nOld Play.\\nToll, toll the bell!\\nGreatness is o er,\\nThe heart has broke,\\nTo ache no more\\nAn unsubstantial pageant all\\nDrop o er the scene the funeral pall.\\nOld Poem.\\nHere s a weapon now\\nShall shake a conquering general in his tent,\\nA monarch on his throne, or reach a prelate,\\nHowever holy be his offices,\\nE en while he serves the altar.\\nOld Play.\\nFrom Count Robert of Paris\\nOthus. This superb successor\\nOf the earth s mistress, as thou vainly speakest,\\nStands midst these ages as, on the wide ocean,\\nThe last spared fragment of a spacious land,\\nThat in some grand and awful ministration\\nOf mighty nature has engulfed been,\\nDoth lift aloft its dark and rocky cliffs\\nO er the wild waste around, and sadly frowns\\nIn lonely majesty.\\nConstantine Paleologus, Scene i.\\nHere, youth, thy foot unbrace,\\nHere, youth, thy brow unbraid,\\nEach tribute that may grace\\nThe threshold here be paid.\\nWalk with the stealthy pace\\nWhich Nature teaches deer,\\nWhen, echoing in the chase,\\nThe hunter s horn they hear.\\nThe Court.\\nThe storm increases t is no sunny shower,\\nFostered in the moist breast of March or April,\\nOr such as parched Summer cools his lip with\\nHeaven s windows are flung wide the inmost\\nCall in hoarse greeting one upon another\\nOn comes the flood in all its foaming horrors,\\nAnd where s the dike shall stop it\\nThe Deluge, a Poem.\\nVain man thou mayst esteem thy love as fair\\nAs fond hyperboles suffice to raise.\\nShe may be all that s matchless in her person,\\nAnd all-divine in soul to match her body\\nBut take this from me thou shalt never call\\nher\\nSuperior to her sex while one survives\\nAnd I am her true votary.\\nOld Play.\\nThrough the vain webs which puzzle sophists\\nskill,\\nPlain sense and honest meaning work their\\nway;\\nSo sink the varying clouds upon the hill\\nWhen the clear dawning brightens into day.\\nDr. Watts.\\nBetween the foaming jaws of the white tor-\\nrent\\nThe skilful artist draws a sudden mound", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0539.jp2"}, "538": {"fulltext": "5 o8\\nAPPENDIX\\nPage 5\\nBy level long he subdivides their strength,\\nStealing the waters from their rocky bed,\\nFirst to diminish what he means to conquer\\nThen, for the residue he forms a road,\\nEasy to keep, and painful to desert,\\nAnd guiding to the end the planner aimed at.\\nThe Engineer.\\nThese were wild times the antipodes of ours\\nLadies were there who oftener saw themselves\\nIn the broad lustre of a foeman s shield\\nThan in a mirror, and who rather sought\\nTo match themselves in battle than in dalliance\\nTo meet a lover s onset. But though Nature\\nWas outraged thus, she was not overcome.\\nFeudal Times.\\nWithout a ruin, broken, tangled, cumbrous,\\nWithin it was a little paradise,\\nWhere Taste had made her dwelling. Statuary,\\nFirst-born of human art, moulded her images\\nAnd bade men mark and worship.\\nAnonymous.\\nThe parties met. The wily, wordy Greek,\\nWeighing each word, and canvassing each syl-\\nlable,\\nEvading, arguing, equivocating.\\nAnd the stern Frank came with his two-hand\\nsword,\\nWatching to see which way the balance sways,\\nThat he may throw it in and turn the scales.\\nPalestine.\\nStrange ape of man who loathes thee while\\nhe scorns thee\\nHalf a reproach to us and half a jest.\\nWhat fancies can be ours ere we have pleasure\\nIn viewing our own form, our pride and passions,\\nReflected in a shape grotesque as thine\\nAnonymous.\\nT is strange that in the dark sulphureous mine\\nWhere wild ambition piles its ripening stores\\nOf slumbering thunder, Love will interpose\\nHis tiny torch, and cause the stern explosion\\nTo burst when the deviser s least aware.\\nAnonymous.\\nAll is prepared the chambers of the mine\\nAre crammed with the combustible, which,\\nharmless\\nWhile yet unkindled as the sable sand,\\nNeeds but a spark to change its nature so\\nThat he who wakes it from its slumbrous mood\\nDreads scarce the explosion less than he who\\nknows\\nThat t is his towers which meet its fury.\\nAnonymous.\\nHeaven knows its time the bullet has its\\nbillet,\\nArrow and javelin each its destined purpose\\nThe fated beasts of Nature s lower strain\\nHave each their separate task.\\nOld Play.\\nFrom Castle D anger otis\\nA tale of sorrow, for your eyes may weep\\nA tale of horror, for your flesh may tingle\\nA tale of wonder, for the eyebrows arch,\\nAnd the flesh curdles if you read it rightly.\\nOld Play.\\nWhere is he Has the deep earth swallowed\\nhim?\\nOr hath he melted like some airy phantom\\nThat shuns the approach of morn and the young\\nsun\\nOr hath he wrapt him in Cimmerian darkness,\\nAnd passed beyond the circuit of the sight\\nWith things of the night s shadows\\nAnonymous.\\nThe way is long, my children, long and rough\\nThe moors are dreary and the woods are dark\\nBut he that creeps from cradle on to grave,\\nUnskilled save in the velvet course of fortune,\\nHath missed the discipline of noble hearts.\\nOld Play.\\nHis talk was of another world his bodements\\nStrange, doubtful, and mysterious those who\\nheard him\\nListened as to a man in feverish dreams,\\nWho speaks of other objects than the present,\\nAnd mutters like to him who sees a vision.\\nOld Play.\\nCry the wild war-note, let the champions pass,\\nDo bravely each, and God defend the right\\nUpon Saint Andrew thrice can they thus cry,\\nAnd thrice they shout on height,\\nAnd then marked them on the Englishmen,\\nAs I have told you right.\\nSaint George the bright, our ladies knight,\\nTo name they were full fain\\nOur Englishmen they cried on height,\\nAnd thrice they shout again.\\nOld Ballad.\\nIII. NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS\\n[These notes, except when enclosed in brack-\\nets, are from editions prepared or supervised by\\nScott.]\\nPage 5. The Wild Huntsman.\\nThe tradition upon which it is founded bears,\\nthat formerly a Wildgrave, or keeper of a royal\\nforest, named Faulkenburg, was so much ad-\\ndicted to the pleasures of the chase, and other-\\nwise so extremely profligate and cruel, that he\\nnot only followed this unhallowed amusement\\non the Sabbath, and other days consecrated to\\nreligious duty, but accompanied it with the\\nmost unheard-of oppression upon the poor peas-\\nants, who were under his vassalage. When\\nthis second Nimrod died, the people adopted a\\nsuperstition, founded probably on the many va-", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0540.jp2"}, "539": {"fulltext": "Pages 9 to i 4 NOTES: EARLY BALLADS AND LYRICS\\n509\\nrious uncouth sounds heard in the depth of a\\nGerman forest, during the silence of the night.\\nThey conceived they still heard the cry of the\\nWildgrave s hounds and the well-known cheer\\nof the deceased hunter, the sounds of his horses\\nfeet, and the rustling of the branches before the\\ngame, the pack, and the sportsmen, are also\\ndistinctly discriminated but the phantoms are\\nrarely, if ever, visible. Once, as a benighted\\nChasseur heard this infernal chase pass by him,\\nat the sound of the halloo, with which the\\nSpectre Huntsman cheered his hounds, he could\\nnot refrain from crying, Gluck zu Falken-\\nburgh! (Good sport to ye, Falkenburgh Dost\\nthou wish me good sport answered a hoarse\\nvoice thou shalt share the game and there\\nwas thrown at him what seemed to be a huge\\npiece of foul carrion. The daring Chasseur lost\\ntwo of his best horses soon after, and never per-\\nfectly recovered the personal effects of this\\nghostly greeting. This tale, though told with\\nsome variations, is universally believed all over\\nGermany.\\nThe French had a similar tradition concern-\\ning an aerial hunter who infested the forest of\\nFontainebleau. He was sometimes visible\\nwhen he appeared as a huntsman, surrounded\\nwith dogs, a tall grisly figure. Some account\\nof him may be found in Sully s Memoirs, who\\nsays he was called Le Grand Veneur. At one\\ntime he chose to hunt so near the palace, that\\nthe attendants, and, if I mistake not, Sully him-\\nself, came out into the court, supposing it was\\nthe sound of the king returning from the chase.\\nThis phantom is elsewhere called St. Hubert.\\nThe superstition seems to have been very gen-\\neral, as appears from the following fine poetical\\ndescription of this phantom chase, as it was\\nheard in the wilds of Ross-shire\\nEre since of old, the haughty thanes of Ross\\nSo to the simple swain tradition tells\\nWere wont with clans, and ready vassals thronged,\\nTo wake the bounding stag, or guilty wolf,\\nThere oft is heard, at midnight, or at noon,\\nBeginning faint, but rising still more loud,\\nAnd nearer, voice of hunters, and of hounds,\\nAnd horns, hoarse winded, blowing far and keen\\nForthwith the hubbub multiplies; the gale\\nLabors with wilder shrieks, and rifer din\\nOf hot pursuit; the broken cry of deer\\nMangled by throttling dogs; the shouts of men,\\nAnd hoofs, thick beating on the hollow hill.\\nSudden the grazing heifer in the vale\\nStarts at the noise, and both the herdsman s ears\\nTingle with inward dread. Aghast, he eyes\\nThe mountain s height, and all the ridges round,\\nYet not one trace of living wight discerns,\\nNor knows, o erawed, and trembling as he stands,\\nTo what, or whom, he owes his idle fear,\\nTo ghost, to witch, to fairy, or to fiend\\nBut wonders, and no end of wondering finds.\\nAlbania reprinted in Scottish Descriptive Poems,\\npp. 167, 168.\\nA posthumous miracle of Father Lesley, a\\nScottish capuchin, related to his being buried\\non a hill haunted by these unearthly cries of\\nhounds and huntsmen. After his sainted relics\\nhad been deposited there, the noise was never\\nheard more. The reader will find this, and\\nother miracles, recorded in the life of Father\\nBonaventura, which is written in the choicest\\nItalian.\\nWar-Song.\\nPage 9, line 16. Oh had they marked the\\navenging call.\\nThe allusion is to the massacre of the Swiss\\nGuards on the fatal 10th August, 1792. It is\\npainful, but not useless, to remark, that the pas-\\nsive temper with which the Swiss regarded the\\ndeath of their bravest countrymen, mercilessly\\nslaughtered in discharge of their duty, encour-\\naged and authorized the progressive injustice,\\nby which the Alps, once the seat of the most\\nvirtuous and free people upon the continent,\\nhave, at length, been converted into the citadel\\nof a foreign and military despot. A state de-\\ngraded is half enslaved. [Written in 1812.]\\nGLENFINIiAS.\\nPage 11, line 13. How blazed Lord Ronald s\\nbeltane-tree.\\nThe fires lighted by the Highlanders, on the\\nfirst of May, in compliance with a custom de-\\nrived from the Pagan times, are termed The\\nBeltane-tree. It is a festival celebrated with\\nvarious superstitious rites, both in the north of\\nScotland and in Wales.\\nPage 12, line 26. The seer s prophetic spirit\\nfound.\\nI can only describe the second sight, by\\nadopting Dr. Johnson s definition, who calls it\\nan impression, either by the mind upon the eye,\\nor by the eye upon the mind, by which things\\ndistant and future are perceived and seen as if\\nthey were present. To which I would only add,\\nthat the spectral appearances, thus presented,\\nusually presage misfortune that the faculty is\\npainful to those who suppose they possess it\\nand that they usually acquire it while them-\\nselves under the pressure of melancholy.\\nLine 87. Will good Saint Oran s rule pre-\\nvail\\nSt. Oran was a friend and follower of St.\\nColumba, and was buried at Icolmkill. His\\npretensions to be a saint were rather dubious.\\nAccording to the legend, he consented to be\\nburied alive, in order to propitiate certain de-\\nmons of the soil, who obstructed the attempts\\nof Columba to build a chapel. Columba caused\\nthe body of his friend to be dug up, after three\\ndays had elapsed when Oran, to the horror\\nand scandal of the assistants, declared that\\nthere was neither a God, a judgment, nor a fu-\\nture state He had no time to make further\\ndiscoveries, for Columba caused the earth once\\nmore to be shovelled over him with the utmost\\ndespatch. The chapel, however, and the ceme-\\ntery, was called Relig Ouran and, in memory\\nof his rigid celibacy, no female was permitted\\nto pay her devotions or be buried in that place.\\nThis is the rule alluded to in the poem.\\nPage 14, line 218. And thrice Saint Fillan s\\npowerful prayer.\\nSt. Fillan has given his name to many chap-", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0541.jp2"}, "540": {"fulltext": "5i\u00c2\u00b0\\nAPPENDIX\\nPages 14 to\\nels, holy fountains, etc., in Scotland. He was,\\naccording to Camerarius, an Abbot of Pitten-\\nweem, in Fife from which situation he retired,\\nand died a hermit in the wilds of Glenurchy,\\nA. D. 649. While engaged in transcribing the\\nScriptures, his left hand was observed to send\\nforth such a splendor as to afford light to that\\nwith which he wrote, a miracle which saved\\nmany candles to the convent, as St. Fillan\\nused to spend whole nights in that exercise.\\nThe 9th of January was dedicated to this saint,\\nwho gave his name to Kilfillan, in Renfrew, and\\nSt. Phillans, or Forgend, in Fife.\\nThe Eve of St. John.\\nPage 14, line 1. The Baron of Smaylhd* me\\nrose with day.\\nSmaylholme or Smallholm Tower, the scene\\nof the ballad, is situated on the northern bound-\\nary of Roxburghshire, among a cluster of wild\\nrocks, called Sandiknow-Crags, the property of\\nHugh Scott, Esq., of Harden. [It was at the\\nfarmhouse of Sandy-Knowe, one is glad to re-\\nmember, that Scott spent his earliest boyhood,\\nwith_ his paternal grandfather, as recorded by\\nhim in his autobiographic sketch.] The tower\\nis a high square building, surrounded by an\\nouter wall, now ruinous. The circuit of the\\nouter court, being defended on three sides by\\na precipice and morass, is accessible only from\\nthe west, by a steep and rocky path. The\\napartments, as is usual in a Border keep, or\\nfortress, are placed one above another, and\\ncommunicate by a narrow stair on the roof are\\ntwo bartizans, or platforms, for defence or plea-\\nsure. The inner door of the tower is wood, the\\nouter an iron gate the distance between them\\nbeing nine feet, the thickness, namely, of the\\nwall. From the elevated situation of Smayl-\\nholme Tower, it is seen many miles in every\\ndirection. Among the crags by which it is sur-\\nrounded, one, more eminent, is called the\\nWatchfold, and is said to have been the station\\nof a beacon, in the times of war with England.\\nWithout the tower-court is a ruined chapel.\\nBrotherstone is a heath, in the neighborhood of\\nSmaylholme Tower.\\nPage 15, lines 17, 18.\\nHe came not from where Ancram Moor\\nRan red with English blood.\\n[Sir Ralph Eversand Sir Brian Laboun, during\\nthe year 1544, committed heavy ravages upon\\nthe Scottish border. For this Sir Ralph was\\nmade a Lord of Parliament and the next year\\nthe two reentered Scotland with a larger army\\nand repeated their bloody work. As they re-\\nturned toward Jedburgh they were followed by\\nthe Earl of Angus at the head of a thousand\\nhorse, who was shortly after joined by the fa-\\nmous Norman Lesley, with a body of Fife-men.\\nA fierce battle ensued on Ancram Moor, in\\nwhich Lord Evers and his son Sir Brian and\\n800 Englishmen were slain, and a thousand pris-\\noners were taken.]\\nPage 16, line 79. So, by the black rood-stone\\nand by holy Saint John.\\nThe black rood of Melrose was a crucifix of\\nblack marble, and of superior sanctity.\\nLine 108. All under the Eildon-tree.\\nEildon is a high hill, terminating in three\\nconical summits, immediately above the town\\nof Melrose, where are the admired ruins of a\\nmagnificent monastery. Eildon-tree is said to\\nbe the spot where Thomas the Rhymer uttered\\nhis prophecies. See also note, p. 513.\\nPage 17, line 193. That nun who ne er beholds\\nthe day.\\nThe circumstance of the nun who never saw\\nthe day, is not entirely imaginary. About\\nfifty years ago, an unfortunate female wan-\\nderer took up her residence in a dark vault,\\namong the ruins of Dryburgh Abbey, which,\\nduring the day, she never quitted. When night\\nfell, she issued from this miserable habita-\\ntion, and went to the house of Mr. Haliburton\\nof Newmains, the Editor s great-grandfather,\\nor to that of Mr. Erskine of Sheilfield, two\\ngentlemen of the neighborhood. From their\\ncharity she obtained such necessaries as she\\ncould be prevailed upon to accept. At twelve,\\neach night, she lighted her candle, and returned\\nto her vault, assuring her friendly neighbors\\nthat during her absence her habitation was\\narranged by a spirit, to whom she gave the\\nuncouth name of Fatlips describing him as\\na little man, wearing heavy iron shoes, with\\nwhich he trampled the clay floor of the vault,\\nto dispel the damps. This circumstance caused\\nher to be regarded, by the well-informed, with\\ncompassion, as deranged in her understanding\\nand by the vulgar, with some degree of terror.\\nThe cause of her adopting this extraordinary\\nmode of life she would never explain. It was,\\nhowever, believed to have been occasioned by\\na vow that during the absence of a man to whom\\nshe was attached, she would never look upon\\nthe sun. Her lover never returned. He fell\\nduring the civil war of 1745-46, and she never-\\nmore would behold the light of day.\\nThe vault, or rather dungeon, in which this\\nunfortunate woman lived and died, passes still\\nby the name of the supernatural being with\\nwhich its gloom was tenanted by her disturbed\\nimagination, and few of the neighboring peas-\\nants dare enter it by night.\\nThe Gray Brother.\\nPage 18, lines 17, 18.\\nThe breath of one of evil deed\\nPollutes our sacred day.\\nThe scene with which the ballad opens, was\\nsuggested by the following curious passage, ex-\\ntracted from the Life of Alexander Peden, one\\nof the wandering and persecuted teachers of\\nthe sect of Cameronians, during the reign of\\nCharles II. and his successor, James. This\\nperson was supposed by his followers, and,\\nperhaps, really believed himself, to be possessed\\nof supernatural gifts for the wild scenes which\\nthey frequented, and the constant dangers which\\nwere incurred through their proscription, deep-\\nened upon their minds the gloom of superstition,\\nso general in that age.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0542.jp2"}, "541": {"fulltext": "Pages i8 to 26 NOTES: EARLY BALLADS AND LYRICS\\n5\\n4 About the same time he [Peden] came to\\nAndrew Normand s house, in the parish of\\nAlloway, in the shire of Ayr, being to preach\\nat night in his barn. After he came in, he\\nhalted a little, leaning upon a chair-back, with\\nhis face covered when he lifted up his head\\nhe said, They are in this house that I have\\nnot one word of salvation unto he halted a\\nlittle again, saying, This is strange, that the\\ndevil will not go out, that we may begin our\\nwork Then there was a woman went out,\\nill-looked upon almost all her life, and to her\\ndying hour, for a witch, with many presump-\\ntions of the same. It escaped me, in the former\\npassages, what John Muirhead (whom I have\\noften mentioned) told me, that when he came\\nfrom Ireland to Galloway, he was at family-\\nworship, and giving some notes upon the Scrip-\\nture read, when a very ill-looking man came,\\nand sat down within the door, at the back of\\nthe kalian [partition of the cottage] immedi-\\nately he halted and said, There is some un-\\nhappy body just now come into this house. I\\ncharge him to go out, and not stop my mouth\\nThis person went out, and he insisted [went on],\\nyet he saw him neither come in nor go out.\\nPage 18, line 66. By blast of bugle free.\\nThe barony of Penny cuick, the property of\\nSir George Clerk, Bart., is held by a singular\\ntenure the proprietor being bound to sit upon\\na large rocky fragment, called the Buckstane,\\nand wind three blasts of a horn, when the king\\nshall come to hunt on the Borough Muir, near\\nEdinburgh. Hence, the family have adopted,\\nas their crest, a demi-forester proper, winding\\na horn, with the motto, Free for a Blast.\\nLine 67. To Auchendinny s hazel glade.\\n[Auchendinny, situated upon the Eske, be-\\nlow Penny cuick, when Scott wrote, was the\\nresidence of H. Mackenzie, author of the Man\\nof Feeling, ^c]\\nLine 70. And BosHn s rocky glen.\\n[The rocky glen is less an object of interest\\nthan the marvellous chapel with an elaborate-\\nness of sculptured story which to the modern\\ntourist seems singularly unidiomatic in Scot-\\nland.]\\nLine 71. Dalkeith, which all the virtues love.\\n[In Scott s time the place once belonging\\nto the Earl of Morton, was endeared to him\\nby being the residence of the family of Buc-\\ncleuch.]\\nLine 72. And classic Hawthornden.\\nHawthornden, the residence of the poet\\nDrummond. A house, of more modern date,\\nis enclosed, as it were, by the ruins of the an-\\ncient castle, and overhangs a tremendous preci-\\npice, upon the banks of the Eske, perforated by\\nwinding caves, which, in former times, were a\\nrefuge to the oppressed patriots of Scotland.\\nHere Drummond received Ben Jonson, who\\njourneyed from London, on foot, in order to\\nvisit him.\\nUpon the whole, tracing the Eske from its\\nsource, till it joins the sea at Musselburgh, no\\nstream in Scotland can boast such a varied\\nsuccession of the most interesting objects, as\\nwell as of the most romantic and beautiful\\nscenery.\\nPage 26. Cadyow Castle.\\nThe ruins of Cadyow, or Cadzow Castle, the\\nancient baronial residence of the family of\\nHamilton, are situated upon the precipitous\\nbanks of the river Evan, about two miles above\\nits junction with the Clyde. It was dismantled,\\nin the conclusion of the Civil Wars, during the\\nreign of the unfortunate Mary, to whose cause\\nthe house of Hamilton devoted themselves with\\na generous zeal, which occasioned their tem-\\nporary obscurity, and, very nearly, their total\\nruin. The situation of the ruins, embosomed\\nin wood, darkened by ivy and creeping shrubs,\\nand overhanging the brawling torrent, is roman-\\ntic in the highest degree. In the immediate\\nvicinity of Cadyow is a grove of immense oaks,\\nthe remains of the Caledonian Forest, which\\nanciently extended through the south of Scot-\\nland, from the eastern to the Atlantic Ocean.\\nSome of these trees measure twenty-five feet,\\nand upwards, in circumference and the state\\nof decay in which they now appear shows that\\nthey have witnessed the rites of the Druids.\\nThe whole scenery is included in the magnifi-\\ncent and extensive park of the Duke of Hamil-\\nton. There was long preserved in this forest\\nthe breed of the Scottish wild cattle, until their\\nferocity occasioned their being extirpated, about\\nforty years ago. Their appearance was beauti-\\nful, being milk-white, with black muzzles,\\nhorns, and hoofs. The bulls are described by\\nancient authors as having white manes but\\nthose of latter days had lost that peculiarity,\\nperhaps by intermixture with the tame breed.\\nIn detailing the death of the Regent Murray,\\nwhich is made the subject of the ballad, it would\\nbe injustice to my reader to use other words than\\nthose of Dr. Robertson, whose account of that\\nmemorable event forms a beautiful piece of his-\\ntorical painting.\\nHamilton of Bothwellhaugh was the person\\nwho committed this barbarous action. He had\\nbeen condemned to death soon after the battle\\nof Langside, as we have already related, and\\nowed his life to the Regent s clemency. But\\npart of his estate had been bestowed upon one\\nof the Regent s favorites [Sir James Bellenden,\\nLord Justice-Clerk] who seized his house and\\nturned out his wife, naked, in a cold night, into\\nthe open fields, where, before next morning,\\nshe became furiously mad. This injury made\\na deeper impression on him than the benefit he\\nhad received, and from that moment he vowed\\nto be revenged of the Regent. Party rage\\nstrengthened and inflamed his private resent-\\nment. His kinsmen, the Hamiltons, applauded\\nthe enterprise. The maxims of that age justi-\\nfied the most desperate course he could take\\nto obtain vengeance. He followed the Regent\\nfor some time, and watched for an opportunity\\nto strike the blow. He resolved at last to wait\\ntill his enemy should arrive at Linlithgow,\\nthrough which he was to pass in his way from\\nStirling to Edinburgh. He took his stand in", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0543.jp2"}, "542": {"fulltext": "5 12\\nAPPENDIX\\nPages 27, 2\\na wooden gallery, which had a window towards\\nthe street spread a feather-bed on the floor to\\nhinder the noise of his feet from being heard\\nhung up a black cloth behind him, that his\\nshadow might not be observed from without.;\\nand, after all this preparation, calmly expected,\\nthe Regent s approach, who had lodged, during\\nthe night, in a house not far distant. Some\\nindistinct information of the danger which\\nthreatened him had been conveyed to the Re-\\ngent, and he paid so much regard to it that he\\nresolved to return by the same gate through\\nwhich he had entered, and to fetch a compass\\nround the town. But as the crowd about the\\ngate was great, and he himself unacquainted\\nwith fear, he proceeded directly along the\\nstreet and. the throng of people obliging him\\nto move very slowly, gave the assassin time to\\ntake so true an aim, that he shot him, with\\na single bullet, through the lower part of his\\nbelly, and killed the horse of a gentleman who\\nrode on his other side. His followers instantly\\nendeavored to break into the house whence\\nthe blow had come but they found the door\\nstrongly barricadoed, and, before it could be\\nforced open, Hamilton had mounted a fleet\\nhorse which stood ready for him at a back pas-\\nsage, and was got far beyond their reach. The\\nRegent died the same night [January 23, 1569]\\nof his wound {History of Scotland, book v.).\\nBothwellhaugh rode straight to Hamilton,\\nwhere he was received in triumph for the\\nashes of the houses in Clydesdale, which had\\nbeen burned by Murray s army, were yet smok-\\ning and party prejudice, the habits of the age,\\nand the enormity of the provocation, seemed to\\nhis kinsmen to justify the deed. After a short\\nabode at Hamilton, this fierce and determined\\nman left Scotland, and served in France, under\\nthe patronage of the family of Guise, to whom\\nhe was doubtless recommended by having\\navenged the cause of their niece, Queen Mary,\\nupon her ungrateful brother. De Thou has\\nrecorded that an attempt was made to engage\\nhim to assassinate Gaspar de Coligni, the fa-\\nmous Admiral of France, and the buckler of\\nthe Huguenot cause. But the character of\\nBothwellhaugh was mistaken. He was no mer-\\ncenary trader in blood, and rejected the offer\\nwith contempt and indignation. He had no au-\\nthority, he said, from Scotland to commit mur-\\nders in France, he had avenged his own just\\nquarrel, but he would neither, for price nor\\nprayer, avenge that of another man (Thuanus,\\ncap. 46).\\nPage 27, line 45. First of his troop, the chief\\nrode on.\\nThe head of the family of Hamilton at this\\nperiod, was James, Earl of Arran, Duke of\\nChatelherault, in France, and first peer of the\\nScottish realm. In 1569, he was appointed by\\nQueen Mary her lieutenant-general in Scotland,\\nunder the singular title of her adopted father.\\nLine 81. Stern Claud replied with darkening\\nface.\\nLord Claud Hamilton, second son of the Duke\\nof Chatelherault, and commendator of the Ab-\\nbey of Paisley, acted a distinguished part dur-\\ning the troubles of Queen Mary s reign, and\\nremained unalterably attached to the cause of\\nthat unfortunate princess. He led the van of\\nher army at the fatal battle of Langside, and\\nwas one of the commanders at the Raid of Stir-\\nling, which had so nearly given complete success\\nto the queen s faction.\\nLine 85. Few suns have set since Woodhouselee.\\nThis barony, stretching along the banks of\\nthe Esk, near Auchendinny, belonged to Both-\\nwellhaugh, in right of his wife. The ruins of\\nthe mansion, from whence she was expelled in\\nthe brutal manner which occasioned her death,\\nare still to be seen in a hollow glen beside the\\nriver. Popular report tenants them with the\\nrestless ghost of the Lady Bothwellhaugh\\nwhom, however, it confounds with Lady Anne\\nBothwell, whose Lament is so popular. This\\nspectre is so tenacious of her rights, that, a part\\nof the stones of the ancient edifice having been\\nemployed in building or repairing the present\\nWoodhouselee, she has deemed it a part of her\\nprivilege to haunt that house also and, even\\nof very late years, has excited considerable dis-\\nturbance and terror among the domestics. This\\nis a more remarkable vindication of the rights\\nof ghosts, as the present Woodhouselee is situ-\\nated on the slope of the Pentland hills, distant\\nat least four miles from her proper abode. She\\nalways appears in white, and with her child in\\nher arms.\\nPage 28, line 112. Drives to the leap his jaded\\nBirrel informs us, that Bothwellhaugh, being\\nclosely pursued, after that spur and wand had\\nfailed him, he drew forth his dagger, and\\nstrocke his horse behind, whilk caused the horse\\nto leap a very brode stanke [i. e. ditch], by\\nwhilk means he escapit, and gat away from all\\nthe rest of the horses (Diary, p. 18).\\nLine 129. From the wild Border s humbled side.\\nMurray s death took place shortly after an\\nexpedition to the Borders.\\nLine 137. With hackbut bent, my secret stand.\\nWith gun cocked.. The carbine with which\\nthe Regent was shot is preserved at Hamilton\\nPalace. It is a brass piece, of a middling\\nlength, very small in the bore, and, what is\\nrather extraordinary, appears to have been rifled\\nor indented in the barrel. It had a matchlock,\\nfor which a modern firelock has been injudi-\\nciously substituted.\\nLine 141 Dark Morton, girt with many a spear.\\nHe was concerned in the murder of David\\nRizzio, and at least privy to that of Darnley.\\nLine 144. The wild Macfarlanes plaided\\nclan.\\nThis clan of Lennox Highlanders were at-\\ntached to the Regent Murray.\\nLine 145. Glencairn and stout Parkhead were\\nnigh.\\nThe Earl of Glencairn was a steady adherent\\nof the Regent. George Douglas of Parkhead\\nwas a natural brother of the Earl of Morton,\\nwhose horse was killed by the same ball by\\nwhich Murray fell.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0544.jp2"}, "543": {"fulltext": "Pages 2 8 to 36 NOTES EARLY BALLADS AND LYRICS\\n5*3\\nLine 147. And haggard Lindesay s iron eye.\\nLord Lindsay, of the Byres, was the most fe-\\nrocious and brutal of the Regent s faction, and,\\nas such, was employed to extort Mary s signa-\\nture to the deed of resignation presented to her\\nin Loehleven Castle. He discharged his com-\\nmission with the most savage rigor and it is\\neven said that when the weeping captive, in the\\nact of signing, averted her eyes from the fatal\\ndeed, he pinched her arm with the grasp of his\\niron glove.\\nLine 152. So close the minions crowded nigh.\\nNot only had the Regent notice of the intended\\nattempt upon his life, but even of the very\\nhouse from which it was threatened. With\\nthat infatuation at which men wonder, after\\nsuch events have happened, he deemed it would\\nbe a sufficient precaution to ride briskly past\\nthe dangerous spot. But even this was pre-\\nvented by the crowd so that Bothwellhaugh\\nhad time to take a deliberate aim. Spottis-\\nwoode, p. 233.\\nPage 29, line 178. Spread to the wind thy ban-\\nnered tree.\\nAn oak, half-sawn, with the motto through, is\\nan ancient cognizance of the family of Hamil-\\nton.\\nThe Reiver s Wedding.\\nPage 29, line 50. Beneath the trysting tree.\\nAt Linton, in Roxburghshire, there is a circle\\nof stones surrounding a smooth plot of turf,\\ncalled the tryst, or place of appointment, which\\ntradition avers to have been the rendezvous of\\nthe neighboring warriors. The name of the\\nleader was cut in the turf, and the arrangement\\nof the letters announced to his followers the\\ncourse which he had taken.\\nChristie s Will.\\nPage 31, line 2. And sae has he down by the\\nGrey Mare s Tail.\\nA cataract above Moffat.\\nLine 13. Bethink how he sware, by the salt and\\nthe bread.\\nHe took bread and salt, by this light, that\\nhe would never open his lips. The Honest\\nWhore, Act v. scene ii.\\nPage 32, line 67. And hunting over Middleton\\nMoor.\\nMiddleton Moor is about fifteen miles from\\nEdinburgh on the way to the Border.\\nLine 87. Or that the gipsies glamoured gang.\\nBesides the prophetic powers ascribed to the\\ngipsies in most European countries, the Scottish\\npeasants believe them possessed of the power of\\nthrowing upon bystanders a spell, to fascinate\\ntheir eyes, and cause them to see the thing that\\nis not. Thus in the old ballad of Johnie Faa,\\nthe elopement of the Countess of Cassillis, with\\na gipsy leader, is imputed to fascination\\nAs sune as they saw her weel-far d face,\\nThey cast the glamour ower her.\\nLine 95. I have tar-barrelled mony a witch.\\nHuman nature shrinks from the brutal scenes\\nproduced by the belief in witchcraft. Under\\nthe idea that the devil imprinted upon the body\\nof his miserable vassals a mark, which was in-\\nsensible to pain, persons were employed to run\\nneedles into the bodies of the old women who\\nwere suspected of witchcraft.\\nThomas the Rhymer.\\nPage 33, line 24. All underneath the Eildon\\nTree.\\nThe Eildon Tree, from beneath the shade of\\nwhich Thomas the Rhymer delivered his pro-\\nphecies, now no longer exists but the spot is\\nmarked by a large stone, called Eildon Tree\\nStone. A neighboring rivulet takes the name\\nof the Bogle Burn (Goblin Brook) from the\\nRhymer s supernatural visitants.\\nLine 66. And she pu d an apple frae a tree.\\nThe traditional commentary upon this ballad\\ninforms us, that the apple was the produce of\\nthe fatal tree of knowledge, and that the garden\\nwas the terrestrial paradise. The repugnance\\nof Thomas to be debarred the use of falsehood,\\nwhen he might find it convenient, has a comic\\neffect.\\nPage 34, line 27. Where a king lay stiff be-\\nneath his steed.\\nKing Alexander, killed by a fall from his\\nhorse, near Kinghorn.\\nLine 42. My doom is not to die this day.\\nThe uncertainty which long prevailed in Scot-\\nland concerning the fate of James IV. is well\\nknown.\\nLine 56. Is by a burn, that s called of bread.\\nOne of Thomas s rhymes, preserved by tradi-\\ntion, runs thus\\n4 The burn of breid\\nShall run fou reid.\\nBannock-burn is the brook here meant. The\\nScots give the name of bannock to a thick round\\ncake of unleavened bread.\\nPage 35, line 3. And Buberslaw showed high\\nDunyon.\\nRuberslaw and Dunyon are two hills near\\nJedburgh.\\nLine 5. Then all by bonny Coldingknow.\\nAn ancient tower near Ercildoune, belong-\\ning to a family of the name of Home. One\\nof Thomas s prophecies is said to have run\\nthus\\nVengeance Vengeance when and where\\nOn the house of Coldingknow, now and evermair\\nThe spot is rendered classical by its having\\ngiven name to the beautiful melody called the\\nBroom o the Cowdenknows.\\nPage 36, line 112. As white as snow on Fair-\\nnalie.\\nAn ancient seat upon the Tweed, in Selkirk-\\nshire. In a popular edition of the first part\\nof Thomas the Rhymer, the Fairy Queen thus\\naddresses him\\nGin ye wad meet wi me again,\\nGang to the bonny banks of Fairnalie.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0545.jp2"}, "544": {"fulltext": "5i4\\nAPPENDIX\\nPages 37 to 48\\nThe Bard s Incantation.\\nPage 37, line 21. The Spectre with his Bloody\\nHand.\\nThe forest of Glenmore is haunted by a\\nspirit called Lhamdearg, or Red-hand.\\nLine 32. On Bloody Largs and Loncarty.\\nWhere the Norwegian invader of Scotland\\nreceived two bloody defeats.\\nThe Lay of the Last Minstrel.\\nPage 46, line 27. He passed where Newark s\\nstately tower.\\nA massive square tower, now unroofed and\\nruinous, surrounded by an outward wall, de-\\nfended by round flanking turrets. It is most\\nbeautifully situated, about three miles from\\nSelkirk, upon the banks of the Yarrow, a fierce\\nand precipitous stream, which unites with the\\nEttrick about a mile beneath the castle.\\nThe castle continued to be an occasional seat of\\nthe Buccleueh family for more than a century\\nand here, it is said, the Duchess of Monmouth\\nand Buccleueh was brought up. Schetky s\\nIllustrations of the Lay of the Last Minstrel.\\nLine 37. The Duchess marked his weary pace.\\nAnne, Duchess of Buccleueh and Mon-\\nmouth, representative of the ancient Lords of\\nBuccleueh, and widow of the unfortunate\\nJames, Duke of Monmouth, who was beheaded\\nin 1685.\\nPage 47, line 49. Of good Earl Francis, dead\\nand gone.\\nFrancis Scott, Earl of Buccleueh, father of\\nthe Duchess.\\nLine 50. And of Earl Walter, rest him, God I\\nWalter, Earl of Buccleueh, grandfather of\\nthe Duchess, and a celebrated warrior.\\nLine 1. The feast was over in Branksome\\ntower.\\nIn the reign of James L, Sir William Scott\\nof Buccleueh, chief of the clan bearing that\\nname, exchanged, with Sir Thomas Inglis of\\nManor, the estate of Murdiestone, in Lanark-\\nshire, for one-half of the barony of Branksome,\\nor Brankholm, lying upon the Teviot, about\\nthree miles above Hawick. He was probably\\ninduced to this transaction from the vicinity of\\nBranksome to the extensive domain which he\\npossessed in Ettrick Forest and in Teviotdale.\\nIn the former district he held by occupancy the\\nestate of Buccleueh, and much of the forest\\nland on the river Ettrick. In Teviotdale, he\\nenjoyed the barony of Eckf ord, by a grant from\\nRobert II. to his ancestor, Walter Scott of\\nKirkurd, for the apprehending of Gilbert Rid-\\nderford, confirmed by Robert III., 3d May,\\n1424. Tradition imputes the exchange betwixt\\nScott and Inglis to a conversation, in which the\\nlatter, a man, it would appear, of a mild and\\nforbearing nature, complained much of the in-\\njuries which he was exposed to from the Eng-\\nlish Borderers, who frequently plundered his\\nlands of Branksome. Sir William Scott in-\\nstantly offered him the estate of Murdiestone,\\nin exchange for that which was subject to such\\negregious inconvenience. When the bargain\\nwas completed, he dryly remarked that the\\ncattle in Cumberland were as good as those of\\nTeviotdale and proceeded to commence a\\nsystem of reprisals upon the English, which\\nwas regularly pursued by his successors. In\\nthe next reign, James II. granted to Sir Walter\\nScott of Branksome, and to Sir David, his son,\\nthe remaining half of the barony of Brank-\\nsome, to be held in blanche for the payment of\\na red rose. The cause assigned for the grant\\nis, their brave and faithful exertions in favor\\nof the King against the house of Douglas, with\\nwhom James had been recently tugging for\\nthe throne of Scotland.\\nBranksome Castle continued to be the princi-\\npal seat of the Buccleueh family, while security\\nwas any object in their choice of a mansion.\\nIt has since been the residence of the Commis-\\nsioners, or Chamberlains of the family. From\\nthe various alterations which the building has\\nundergone, it is not only greatly restricted in its\\ndimensions, but retains little of the castellated\\nform, if we except one square tower of mass;\\nthickness, the only part of the original buil\\nwhich now remains.\\nLines 16, 17.\\nNine-and-twenty knights of fame\\nHung their shields in Branksome Hall.\\nThe ancient Barons of Buccleueh, both froi\\nfeudal splendor and from their frontier situa-\\ntion, retained in their household, at Brank-\\nsome, a number of gentlemen of their own\\nname, who held lands from their chief, for the\\nmilitary service of watching and warding his\\ncastle.\\nLine 39. And with Jedwood-axe at saddle-\\nbow.\\nOf a truth, says Froissart, the Scottish\\ncannot boast great skill with the bow, bui\\nrather bear axes, with which, in time of need,\\nthey give heavy strokes. The Jedwood-ax\\nwas a sort of partisan, used by horsemen, as ai\\npears from the arms of Jedburgh, which bear a\\ncavalier mounted, and armed with this weapon.\\nIt is also called a Jedwood or Jeddart staff,\\nPage 48, line 50. Threaten Branksome s lordly\\ntowers.\\nBranksome Castle was continually exposed\\nto the attacks of the English, both from its\\nsituation and the restless military disposition\\nof its inhabitants, who were seldom on good\\nterms with their neighbors.\\nLines 57, 58.\\nBards long shall tell\\nHow Lord Walter fell!\\nSir Walter Scott of Buccleueh succeeded to\\nhis grandfather, Sir David, in 1492. He was a\\nbrave and powerful baron, and Warden of the\\nWest Marches of Scotland. His death was\\nthe consequence of a feud betwixt the Scotts\\nand Kerrs, which, in spite of all means used\\nto bring about an agreement, raged for many\\nyears upon the Borders.\\nLine 69. No vainly to each holy shrine.\\nAmong other expedients resorted to for\\nstanching the feud betwixt the Scotts and the\\nKerrs, there was a bond executed in 1529,\\nbetween the heads of each clan, binding them-\\n1.\\nd\\nfcs\\nn\\nd", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0546.jp2"}, "545": {"fulltext": "Pages 48, 49\\nNOTES LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL\\n5 J 5\\nselves to perform, reciprocally the four princi-\\npal pilgrimages of Scotland for the benefit of\\nthe souls of those of the opposite name who\\nhad fallen in the quarrel. But either it never\\ntook effect, or else the feud was renewed\\nshortly afterwards.\\nLine 105. With Carr in arms had stood.\\nThe family of Ker, Kerr, or Carr, was very\\npowerful on the Border. Cessford Castle, the\\nancient baronial residence of the family, is\\nsituated near the village of More-battle, within\\ntwo or three miles of the Cheviot Hills. It has\\nbeen a place of great strength and consequence,\\nbut is now ruinous.\\nLine 109. Before Lord Cranstoun she should\\nwed.\\nThe Cranstouns, Lord Cranstoun, are an\\nancient Border family, whose chief seat was\\nat Crailing, in Teviotdale. They were at this\\ntime at feud with the clan of Scott for it ap-\\npears that the Lady of Buccleuch, in 1557, be-\\nset the Laird of Cranstoun, seeking his life.\\nNevertheless, the same Cranstoun, or perhaps\\nhis son, was married to a daughter of the same\\nlady.\\nLine 113. Of Bethunes line of Picardie.\\nThe Bethunes were of French origin, and\\nderived their name from a small town in\\nArtois. There were several distinguished\\nfamilies of the Bethunes in the neighboring\\nprovince of Picardy they numbered among\\ntheir descendants the celebrated Due de Sully\\nand the name was accounted among the most\\nnoble in France. The family of Bethune, or\\nBeaton, in Fife, produced three learned and dig-\\nnified prelates namely, Cardinal Beaton, and\\ntwo successive Archbishops of Glasgow, all of\\nwhom flourished about the date of the romance.\\nOf this family was descended Dame Janet Bea-\\nton, Lady Buccleuch, widow of Sir Walter\\nScott, of Branksome. She was a woman of\\nmasculine spirit, as appeared from her riding\\nat the head of her son s clan after her husband s\\nmurder. She also possessed the hereditary abil-\\nities of her family in such a degree, that the\\nsuperstition of the vulgar imputed them to su-\\npernatural knowledge. With this was mingled,\\nby faction, the foul accusation of her having in-\\nfluenced Queen Mary to the murder of her hus-\\nband.\\nLine 115. In Padua, far beyond the sea.\\nPadua was long supposed, by the Scottish\\npeasants, to be the principal school of necro-\\nmancy.\\nLine 120. His form no darkening shadow\\ntraced.\\nThe shadow of a necromancer is independent\\nof the sun. Glycas informs us, that Simon\\nMagus caused his shadow to go before him,\\nmaking people believe it was an attendant\\nspirit (Heywood s Hierarchie, p. 475.) The\\nvulgar conceive, that when a class of students\\nhave made a certain progress in their mystic\\nstudies, they are obliged to run through a\\nsubterraneous hall where the devil literally\\ncatches the hindmost in the race, unless he\\ncrosses the hall so speedily, that the arch-enemy\\ncan only apprehend his shadow. In the latter\\ncase, the person of the sage never after throws\\nany shade and those who have thus lost their\\nshadow always prove the best magicians. [In\\nChamisso s story of Peter Schlemihl, which ap-\\npeared not long after the Lay, the shadow is\\nparted with by a sale to the Devil.]\\nLine 125. The viewless forms of air.\\nThe Scottish vulgar, without having any very\\ndefined notion of their attributes, believe in\\nthe existence of an intermediate class of spirits,\\nresiding in the air or in the waters to whose\\nagency they ascribe floods, storms, and all such\\nphenomena as their own philosophy cannot\\nreadily explain. They are supposed to inter-\\nfere in the affairs of mortals, sometimes with a\\nmalevolent purpose, and sometimes with milder\\nviews.\\nPage 49, line 197. A fancied moss-trooper.\\nThis was the usual appellation of the maraud-\\ners upon the Border a profession diligently\\npursued by the inhabitants on both sides, and\\nby none more actively and successfully than\\nby Buccleuch s clan. Long after the union of\\nthe crowns, the moss-troopers, although sunk\\nin reputation, and no longer enjoying the pre-\\ntext of national hostility, continued to pursue\\ntheir calling. [Fuller in his Worthies derives\\nthe name from their dwelling in the mosses and\\nriding in troops together.\\nLine 208. Exalt the Crescents and the Star.\\nThe arms of the Kerrs of Cessford were Vert\\non a chevron, betwixt three unicorns heads\\nerased argent, three mullets sable; crest, a\\nunicorn s head erased proper. The Scotts of\\nBuccleuch bore, Or, on a bend azure a star of\\nsix points betwixt two crescents of the first.\\nPage 50, line 214. She called to her William\\nof Beloraine.\\nThe lands of Deloraine are joined to those of\\nBuccleuch in Ettrick Forest. They were im-\\nmemorially possessed by the Buccleuch family,\\nunder the strong title of occupancy, although\\nno charter was obtained from the crown until\\n1545.\\nLine 219. By wily turns, by desperate bounds.\\nThe kings and heroes of Scotland, as well as\\nthe Border-riders, were sometimes obliged to\\nstudy how to evade the pursuit of bloodhounds.\\nBarbour informs us that Robert Bruce was re-\\npeatedly tracked by sleuth-dogs. On one occa-\\nsion he escaped by wading a bow-shot down a\\nbrook, and ascending into a tree by a branch\\nwhich overhung the water thus, leaving no\\ntrace on land of his footsteps, he baffled the\\nscent.\\nLine 258. Were H my neck-verse at Hairibee.\\nHairibee was the place of executing the Bor-\\nder marauders at Carlisle. The neck-verse is\\nthe beginning of the 51st Psalm, Miserere mei,\\netc., anciently read by criminals claiming the\\nbenefit of clergy.\\nLine 267. Dimly he viewed the Moat-hiWs\\nmound.\\nThis is a round artificial mount near Hawick,\\nwhich, from its name (Mot, A. S. Concilium,\\nConventus), was probably anciently used as a", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0547.jp2"}, "546": {"fulltext": "S 6\\nAPPENDIX\\nPages 50 to 53\\nplace for assembling a national council of the\\nadjacent tribes. There are many such mounds\\nin Scotland, and they are sometimes, but rarely,\\nof a square form.\\nLine 287. On Minto-crags the moonbeams glint.\\nA romantic assemblage of cliffs, which rise\\nsuddenly above the vale of Teviot, in the im-\\nmediate vicinity of the family-seat from which\\nLord Minto takes his title. A small plat-\\nform, on a projecting crag, commanding a most\\nbeautiful prospect, is termed Barnhills Bed.\\nThis Barnhills is said to have been a robber, or\\noutlaw. There are remains of a strong tower\\nbeneath the rocks, where he is supposed to have\\ndwelt, and from which he derived his name.\\nLine 300. To ancient BiddelV s fair domain.\\nThe family of Riddell have been very long\\nin possession of the barony called Riddell, or\\nRyedale, part of which still bears the latter\\nname. [At a later date, the family of Riddell\\nparted with all their Scottish estates.]\\nPage 51, line 321. As glanced his eye o er\\nHalidon.\\nAn ancient seat of the Kerrs of Cessford,\\nnow demolished. About a quarter of a mile to\\nthe northward lay the field of battle betwixt\\nBuecleuch and Angus, which is called to this\\nday the Skirmish Field.\\nLine 334. Old Metros 1 rose and fair Tweed\\nran.\\nMelrose Abbey. The ancient and beautiful\\nmonastery of Melrose was founded by King\\nDavid I. Its ruins afford the finest specimen of\\nGothic architecture and Gothic sculpture which\\nScotland can boast. The stone of which it is\\nbuilt, though it has resisted the weather for so\\nmany ages, retains perfect sharpness, so that\\neven the most minute ornaments seem as entire\\nas when newly wrought. In some of the clois-\\nters there are representations of flowers, vege-\\ntables, etc., carved in stone, with accuracy and\\nprecision so delicate, that we almost distrust\\nour senses, when we consider the difficulty of\\nsubjecting so hard a substance to such intricate\\nand exquisite modulation. This superb con-\\nvent was dedicated to St. Mary, and the monks\\nwere of the Cistercian order. At the time of\\nthe Reformation, they shared in the general\\nreproach of sensuality and irregularity, thrown\\nupon the Roman churchmen. The old words\\nof Galashiels, a favorite Scottish air, ran\\nthus\\nthe monks of Melrose made gude kale\\nOn Fridays when they fasted\\nThey wanted neither beef nor ale,\\nAs long as their neighbour s lasted.\\nLine 16. Then view Saint David s ruined\\npile.\\nDavid I. of Scotland purchased the reputation\\nof sanctity by founding, and liberally endowing,\\nnot only the monastery of Melrose, but those\\nof Kelso, Jedburgh, and many others which\\nled to the well-known observation of his suc-\\ncessor, that he was a sore saint for the crown.\\nPage 52, line 30. Had gifted the shrine for\\ntheir souls repose.\\nThe Buecleuch family were great benefactors\\nto the Abbey of Melrose. As early as the\\nreign of Robert II., Robert Scott, Baron of\\nMurdieston and Rankleburn (now Buecleuch),\\ngave to the monks the lands of Hinkery, in\\nEttrick Forest, pro salute animce suae,.\\nLine 66. Save to patter an Ave Mary.\\nThe Borderers were, as may be supposed,\\nvery ignorant about religious matters. But we\\nlearn from Lesley that, however deficient in\\nreal religion, they regularly told their beads,\\nand never with more zeal than when going on a\\nplundering expedition.\\nLine 79. And beneath their feet were the bones\\nof the dead.\\nThe cloisters were frequently used as places\\nof sepulture. An instance occurs in Dryburgh\\nAbbey where the cloister has an inscription\\nbearing, Hie jacetf rater Archibaldus.\\nLine 88. So had he seen, in fair Castile.\\nBy my faith sayd the Duke of Lancaster\\n(to a Portuguese squire) of all the feates of\\narmes that the Castellyans, and they of your\\ncountrey doth use, the castynge of their derkes\\nbest pleaseth me, and gladly I wold se it:\\nfor, as I hear say, if they strike one aryghte,\\nwithout he be well armed, the dart will pierce\\nhim thrughe. By my fayth, sir, sayd the\\nsquyer, ye say troth for I have seen many a\\ngrete stroke given with them, which at one\\ntime cost us deerly, and was to us great dis-\\npleasure for, at the said skyrmishe, Sir John\\nLaurence of Coygne was stricken with a dart\\nin such wise, that the head perced all the\\nplates of his cote of mayle, and a sacke stoffed\\nwith sylke, and passed thrughe his body, so\\nthat he fell down dead. Froissart, chap. 44.\\nThis mode of fighting with darts was imitated\\nin the military game called Jengo de las canas,\\nwhich the Spaniards borrowed from their Moor-\\nish invaders.\\nPage 53, line 109. O gallant Chief of Otter-\\nburne\\nThe famous and desperate battle of Otter-\\nburne was fought 15th August, 1388, betwixt\\nHenry Percy, called Hotspur, and James, Earl\\nof Douglas. Both these renowned champions\\nwere at the head of a^ chosen body of troops,\\nand they were rivals in military fame. The\\nissue of the conflict is well known Percy was\\nmade prisoner, and the Scots won the day,\\ndearly purchased by the death of their gallant\\ngeneral, the Earl of Douglas, who was slain in\\nthe action. He was buried at Melrose beneath\\nthe high altar.\\nLine 110. And thine, dark knight of Liddes-\\ndale\\nWilliam Douglas, called the Knight of Lid\\ndesdale, flourished during the reign of David\\nII. and was so distinguished by his valor that\\nbe was called the Flower of Chivalry. Never-\\ntheless, he tarnished his renown by the cruel\\nmurder of Sir Alexander Ramsay of Dalhousie,\\noriginally his friend and brother in arms. The\\nKing had conferred upon Ramsay the sheriff-\\ndom of Teviotdale, to which Douglas pretended\\nsome claim. In revenge of this preference, the", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0548.jp2"}, "547": {"fulltext": "Page 53\\nNOTES: LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL\\n5i7\\nKnight of Liddesdale came down upon Ram-\\nsay, while he was administering justice at\\nHawick, seized and carried him off to his re-\\nmote and inaccessible castle of Hermitage,\\nwhere he threw his unfortunate prisoner, horse\\nand man, into a dungeon, and left him to per-\\nish of hunger. It is said the miserable captive\\nprolonged his existence for several days by the\\ncorn which fell from a granary above the vault\\nin which he was confined. So weak was the\\nroyal authority, that David, although highly\\nincensed at this atrocious murder, found him-\\nself obliged to appoint the Knight of Liddes-\\ndale successor to his victim, as Sheriff of\\nTeviotdale. But he was soon after slain, while\\nhunting in Ettrick Forest, by his own godson\\nand chieftain, William, Earl of Douglas, in re-\\nvenge, according to some authors, of Ramsay s\\nmurder although a popular tradition, pre-\\nserved in a ballad quoted by Godscroft, and\\nsome parts of which are still preserved, ascribes\\nthe resentment of the Earl to jealousy. The\\nplace where the Knight of Liddesdale was\\nkilled is called, from his name, William-\\nCross, upon the ridge of a hill called William-\\nHope, betwixt Tweed and Yarrow. His\\nbody, according to Godscroft, was carried to\\nLindean church the first night after his death,\\nand thence to Melrose, where he was interred\\nwith great pomp, and where his tomb is still\\nshown.\\nLine 138. To meet the wondrous Michael Scott.\\nSir Michael Scott of Balwearie flourished\\nduring the thirteenth century, and was one of\\nthe ambassadors sent to bring the Maid of Nor-\\nway to Scotland upon the death of Alexander\\nIII. By a poetical anachronism, he is here\\nplaced in a later era. He was a man of much\\nlearning, chiefly acquired in foreign countries.\\nHe wrote a commentary upon Aristotle, printed\\nat Yenice in 1496: and several treatises upon\\nnatural philosophy, from which he appears to\\nhave been addicted to the abstruse studies of\\njudicial astrology, alchemy, physiognomy, and\\nchiromancy. Hence he passed among his con-\\ntemporaries for a skilful magician. Dempster\\ninforms us, that he remembers to have heard\\nin his youth that the magic books of Michael\\nScott were still in existence, but could not be\\nopened without danger, on account of the ma-\\nlignant fiends who were thereby invoked. Tra-\\ndition varies concerning the place of his burial\\nsome contend for Holme Coltrame, in Cumber-\\nland, others for Melrose Abbey. But all agree\\nthat his books of magic were interred in his\\ngrave, or preserved in the convent where he\\ndied.\\nLine 140. That when, in Salamanca s cave.\\nSpain, from the relics, doubtless, of Arabian\\nlearning and superstition, was accounted a fa-\\nvorite residence of magicians. Pope Sylvester,\\nwho actually imported from Spain the use of\\nthe Arabian numerals, was supposed to have\\nlearned there the magic for which he was stig-\\nmatized by the ignorance of his age. There\\nwere public schools where magic, or rather the\\nsciences supposed to involve its mysteries, were\\nregularly taught, at Toledo, Seville, and Sala-\\nmanca. In the latter city, they were held in\\na deep cavern the mouth of which was walled\\nup by Queen Isabella, wife of King Ferdinand.\\nLine 142. The bells would ring in Notre\\nDame.\\nMichael Scott was chosen, it is said, to go\\nupon an embassy, to obtain from the King of\\nFrance satisfaction for certain piracies com-\\nmitted by his subjects upon those of Scotland.\\nInstead of preparing a new equipage and splen-\\ndid retinue, the ambassador retreated to his\\nstudy, opened his book and evoked a fiend in\\nthe shape of a huge black horse, mounted upon\\nhis back, and forced him to fly through the air\\ntowards France. As they crossed the sea, the\\ndevil insidiously asked his rider what it was\\nthat the old women of Scotland muttered at\\nbed-time. A less experienced wizard might\\nhave answered that it was the Pater Noster,\\nwhich would have licensed the devil to precipi-\\ntate him from his back. But Michael sternly\\nreplied, What is that to thee Mount, Dia-\\nbolus, and fly When he arrived at Paris,\\nhe tied his horse to the gate of the palace, en-\\ntered, and boldly delivered his message. An\\nambassador, with so little of the pomp and cir-\\ncumstance of diplomacy, was not received with\\nmuch respect, and the king was about to return\\na contemptuous refusal to his demand, when\\nMichael besought him to suspend his resolu-\\ntion till he had seen his horse stamp three\\ntimes. The first stamp shook every steeple in\\nParis, and caused all the bells to ring the sec-\\nond threw down three of the towers of the pal-\\nace and the infernal steed had lifted his hoof\\nto give the third stamp, when the king rather\\nchose to dismiss Michael, with the most ample\\nconcessions, than to stand to the probable con-\\nsequences.\\nLine 145. The words that cleft Eildon Hills\\nin three.\\nMichael Scott was, once upon a time, much\\nembarrassed by a spirit, for whom he was under\\nthe necessity of finding constant employment.\\nHe commanded him to build a cauld, or dam-\\nhead, across the Tweed at Kelso it was ac-\\ncomplished in one night, and still does honor\\nto the infernal architect. Michael next ordered\\nthat Eildon Hill, which was then a uniform\\ncone, should be divided into three. Another\\nnight was sufficient to part its summit into the\\nthree picturesque peaks which it now bears.\\nAt length the enchanter conquered this inde-\\nfatigable demon, by employing him in the hope-\\nless and endless task of making ropes out of\\nsea-sand.\\nLine 186. That lamp shall burn unquench-\\nably.\\nBaptista Porta, and other authors who treat\\nof natural magic, talk much of eternal lamps,\\npretended to have been found burning in an-\\ncient sepulchres. One of these perpetual lamps\\nis said to have been discovered in the tomb of\\nTulliola, the daughter of Cicero. The wick\\nwas supposed to be composed of asbestos. Kir-\\ncher enumerates three different recipes for con-", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0549.jp2"}, "548": {"fulltext": "5i\u00c2\u00bb\\nAPPENDIX\\nPages 54 to 58\\nstructing such lamps, and wisely concludes that\\nthe thing is nevertheless impossible.\\nPage 54, line 245. He thought, as he took it,\\nthe dead man frowned.\\nWilliam of Deloraine might be strengthened\\nin this belief by the well-known story of the\\nCid Ruy Diaz. When the body of that famous\\nChristian champion was sitting in state by the\\nhigh altar of the cathedral church of Toledo,\\nwhere it remained for ten years, a certain mali-\\ncious Jew attempted to pull him by the beard\\nbut he had no sooner touched the formidable\\nwhiskers, than the corpse started up, and half\\nunsheathed his sword. The Israelite fled and\\nso permanent was the effect of his terror, that\\nhe became Christian. Heywood s Hierarchie, p.\\n480, quoted from Sebastian Cobarruvia s Crozee.\\nPage 56, line 353. The Baron s dwarf his\\ncourser held.\\nThe idea of Lord Cranstoun s Goblin Page is\\ntaken from a being called Gilpin Horner, who\\nappeared, and made some stay, at a farmhouse\\namong the Border-mountains. An old man, of\\nthe name of Anderson, who was born, and lived\\nall his life, at Todshaw-hill in Eskedale-muir,\\nsaid that two men, late in the evening, when it\\nwas growing dark, heard a voice, at some dis-\\ntance, crying, Tint tint tint One of the\\nmen, named Moffat, called out, What deil has\\ntint you Come here. Immediately a crea-\\nture, of something like a human form, appeared.\\nIt was surprisingly little, distorted in features,\\nand misshapen in limbs. As soon as the two\\nmen could see it plainly, they ran home in a\\ngreat fright, imagining they had met with some\\ngoblin. By the way Moffat fell, and it ran over\\nhim, and was home at the house as soon as either\\nof them, and staid there a long time but it is\\nnot stated how long. It was real flesh and\\nblood, and ate and drank, was fond of cream,\\nand, when it could get at it, would destroy a\\ngreat deal. It seemed a mischievous creature\\nand any of the children whom it could master,\\nit would beat and scratch without mercy. It\\nwas once abusing a child belonging to the same\\nMoffat, who had been so frightened by its first\\nappearance and he, in a passion, struck it so\\nviolent a blow upon the side of the head, that\\nit tumbled upon the ground but it was not\\nstunned for it set up its head directly, and ex-\\nclaimed, Ah hah, Will o Moffat, you strike\\nsair (i. e., sore.) After it had staid there long,\\none evening, when the women were milking the\\ncows in the loan, it was playing among the chil-\\ndren near by them, when suddenly they heard\\na loud shrill voice cry, three times, Gilpin\\nHorner It started, and said, That is me, I\\nmust away, and instantly disappeared, and was\\nnever heard of more. Besides constantly re-\\npeating the word tint tint Gilpin Horner was\\noften heard to call upon Peter Bertram, or Be-\\nte-ram, as he pronounced the word and when\\nthe shrill voice called Gilpin Horner, he im-\\nmediately acknowledged it was the summons\\nof the said Peter Bertram, who seems therefore\\nto have been the devil who had tint, or lost, the\\nlittle imp. As much as has been objected to\\nGilpin Horner on account of his being supposed\\nrather a device of the author than a popular\\nsuperstition, I can only say, that no legend\\nwhich I ever heard seemed to be more univer-\\nsally credited, and that many persons of very\\ngood rank and considerable information are\\nwell known to repose absolute faith in the\\ntradition.\\nLine 390. But the Ladye of Branksome gath-\\nered a band.\\nUpon 25th June, 1557, Dame Janet Bea-\\ntoune, Lady Buecleuch, and a great number of\\nthe name of Scott, delaitit (accused) for com-\\ning to the kirk of St. Mary of the Lowes, to\\nthe number of two hundred persons bodin in\\nf eire of weire (arrayed in armor) and breaking\\nopen the door of the said kirk, in order to ap-\\nprehend the Laird of Cranstoune for his de-\\nstruction. On the 20th July, a warrant from\\nthe Queen is presented, discharging the justice\\nto proceed against the Lady Buecleuch while\\nnew calling. Abridgment of Books of Ad-\\njournal, in Advocates Library. No farther\\nprocedure seems to have taken place. It is\\nsaid, that upon this rising, the kirk of St. Mary\\nwas burnt by the Scotts.\\nPage 57, line 33. He marked the crane on the\\nBaron s crest.\\nThe crest of the Cranstouns, in allusion to\\ntheir name, is a crane dormant, holding a stone\\nin his foot, with an emphatic Border motto,\\nThou shalt want ere I want.\\nPage 58, line 90. Like a book-bosomed priest\\nshould, ride.\\nAt Unthank, two miles N. E. from the church\\nof Ewes, there are the ruins of a chapel for di-\\nvine service, in time of Popery. There is a\\ntradition, that friars were wont to come from\\nMelrose, or Jedburgh, to baptize and marry in\\nthis parish and from being in use to carry the\\nmass-book in their bosoms, they were called,\\nby the inhabitants, Book-a-bosomes.\\nPage 58, line 110. All was delusion, nought\\nwas truth.\\nGlamour, in the legends of Scottish supersti-\\ntion, means the magic power of imposing on the\\neyesight of the spectators, so that the appear-\\nance of an object shall be totally different from\\nthe reality. The transformation of Michael\\nScott by the witch of Falsehope, already men-\\ntioned, was a genuine operation of glamour.\\nTo a similar charm the ballad of Johnny Fa\\nimputes the fascination of the lovely Countess,\\nwho eloped with that gypsy leader\\nSae soon as they saw her weel-far d face,\\nThey cast the glamour o er her.\\nLine 155. The running stream dissolved the\\nspell.\\nIt is a firm article of popular faith, that no\\nenchantment can subsist in a living stream.\\nNay, if you can interpose a brook betwixt you\\nand witches, spectres, or even fiends, you are\\nin perfect safety. Burns s inimitable Tarn o\\nShanter turns entirely upon such a circumstance.\\nThe belief seems to be of antiquity. Bromp-\\nton informs us that certain Irish wizards could,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0550.jp2"}, "549": {"fulltext": "Pages 59 to 62 NOTES LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL\\n5*9\\nby spells, convert earthen clods or stones into\\nfat pigs, which they sold in the market, but\\nwhich always reassumed their proper form\\nwhen driven by the deceived purchaser across a\\nrunning stream.\\nPage 59, line 227. He never counted him a\\nman.\\nImitated from Drayton s account of Robin\\nHood and his followers (Polyolbion, Song 26)\\nA hundred valiant men had this brave Robin Hood,\\nStill ready at his call, that bowmen were right good\\nAll clad in Lincoln green, with caps of red and blue,\\nHis fellow s winded horn not one of them but knew.\\nWhen setting to their lips their bugles shrill,\\nThe warbling echoes waked from every dale and hill;\\nTheir bauldrics set with studs athwart their shoulders\\ncast,\\nTo which under their arms their sheafs were buckled\\nfast,\\nA short sword at their belt, a buckler scarce a span,\\nWho struck below the knee not counted then a man.\\nAll made of Spanish yew, their bows were wondrous\\nstrong,\\nThey not an arrow drew but was a clothyard long.\\nOf archery they had the very perfect craft,\\nWith broad arrow, or but, or prick, or roving shaft.\\nTo wound an antagonist in the thigh, or leg,\\nwas reckoned contrary to the law of arms.\\nPage 60, line 291. And with a charm she\\nstanched the blood.\\nSee several charms for this purpose in Regi-\\nnald Scott s Discovery of Witchcraft, p. 273.\\nTom Potts was but a serving man,\\nBut yet he was a doctor good\\nHe bound his handkerchief on the wound,\\nAnd with some kinds of words he stanched the blood.\\nPieces of Ancient Popular Poetry, London, 1791, p. 131.\\nLine 326. O, H is the beacon-blaze of war.\\nThe Border beacons, from their number and\\nposition, formed a sort of telegraphic communi-\\ncation with Edinburgh. The Act of Parliament,\\n1455, c. 48, directs that one bale or fagot^ shall\\nbe warning of the approach of the English in\\nany manner two bales, that they are coming in-\\ndeed four bales blazing beside each other, that\\nthe enemy are in great force.\\nPage 61, line 387. On many a cairn s gray\\npyramid.\\nThe cairns, or piles of loose stones, which\\ncrown the summit of most of our Scottish hills,\\nand are found in other remarkable situations,\\nseem usually, though not universally, to have\\nbeen sepulchral monuments. Six flat stones\\nare commonly found in the centre, forming a\\ncavity of greater or smaller dimensions, in\\nwhich an urn is often placed. The author is\\npossessed of one, discovered beneath an im-\\nmense cairn at Roughlee, in Liddesdale. It\\nis of the most barbarous construction the\\nmiddle of the substance alone having been sub-\\njected to the fire, over which, when hardened,\\nthe artist had laid an inner and outer coat of\\nunbaked clay, etched with some very rude orna-\\nments his skill apparently being inadequate\\nto baking the vase, when completely finished.\\nThe contents were bones and ashes, and a\\nquantity of beads made of coal. This seems to\\nhave been a barbarous imitation of the Ro-\\nman fashion of Sepulture.\\nPage 62, line 20. Fell by the side of great\\nDundee.\\nThe Viscount of Dundee, slain in the battle\\nof KiUiecrankie.\\nLine 28. For pathless marsh and mountain\\ncell.\\nThe morasses were the usual refuge of the\\nBorder herdsmen, on the approach of an Eng-\\nlish army. Caves, hewed in the most danger-\\nous and inaccessible places, also afforded an\\noccasional retreat. Such caverns may be seen\\nin the precipitous banks of the Teviot at Sun-\\nlaws, upon the Ale at Ancram, upon the Jed at\\nHundalee, and in many other places upon the\\nBorder. The banks of the Esk at Gorton and\\nHawthornden are hollowed into similar recesses.\\nBut even these dreary dens were not always\\nsecure places of concealment.\\nLine 40. Watt Tinlinn, from the Liddel-side.\\nThis person was, in my younger days, the\\ntheme of many a fireside tale. He was a re-\\ntainer of the Buccleuch family, and held for\\nhis Border service a small tower on the fron-\\ntiers of Liddesdale. Watt was, by profession,\\na sutor, but, by inclination and practice, an\\narcher and warrior. Upon one occasion, the\\nCaptain of Bewcastle, military governor of that\\nwild district of Cumberland, is said to have\\nmade an incursion into Scotland, in which he\\nwas defeated and forced to fly. Watt Tinlinn\\npursued him closely through a dangerous mo-\\nrass the captain, however, gained the firm\\nground; and seeing Tinlinn dismounted, and\\nfloundering in the bog, used these words of in-\\nsult: Sutor Watt, ye cannot sew your boots;\\nthe heels risp [creak], and the seams rive.\\nIf I cannot sew, retorted Tinlinn, discharg-\\ning a shaft, which nailed the captain s thigh to\\nhis saddle, if I cannot sew, I can yerk, i. e.\\ntwitch, as shoemakers do in securing the stitches\\nof their work.\\nLine 51. I think twill prove a Warden-raid.\\nAn inroad commanded by the warden in per-\\nson.\\nLine 60. Of silver brooch and bracelet proud.\\nAs the Borderers were indifferent about the\\nfurniture of their habitations, so much exposed\\nto be burned and plundered, they were propor-\\ntionally anxious to display splendor in deco-\\nrating and ornamenting their females.\\nLine 74. Belted Will Howard is marching\\nhere.\\nLord William Howard, third son of Thomas,\\nDuke of Norfolk, succeeded to Naworth Castle,\\nand a large domain annexed to it, in right of\\nhis wife Elizabeth, sister of George Lord Dacre,\\nwho died without heirs-male, in the 11th of\\nQueen Elizabeth. By a poetical anachronism,\\nhe is introduced into the romance a few years\\nearlier than he actually flourished. He was\\nwarden of the Western Marches; and, from the\\nrigor with which he repressed the Border ex-\\ncesses, the name of Belted Will Howard is still\\nfamous in our traditions. In the castle of Na-\\nworth, his apartments, containing a bedroom,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0551.jp2"}, "550": {"fulltext": "5 2\\nAPPENDIX\\nPages 62 to 66\\noratory, and library, are still shown. They im-\\npress us with an unpleasing idea of the life of a\\nlord warden of the Marches. Three or four\\nstrong doors, separating these rooms from the\\nrest of the castle, indicate the ..apprehensions of\\ntreachery from his garrison and the secret\\nwinding passages, through which he could pri-\\nvately descend into the guard-room, or even\\ninto the dungeons, imply the necessity of no\\nsmall degree of secret superintendence on the\\npart of the governor. As the ancient books and\\nfurniture have remained undisturbed, the ven-\\nerable appearance of these apartments, and the\\narmor scattered around the chamber, almost\\nlead us to expect the arrival of the warden\\nin person. Na worth Castle is situated _ near\\nBrampton, in Cumberland. Lord William\\nHoward is ancestor of the Earls of Carlisle.\\nLine 75. And hot Lord Dacre, with many a\\nspear.\\nThe well-known name of Dacre is derived\\nfrom the exploits of one of their ancestors at\\nthe siege of Acre, or Ptolemais, under Richard\\nCoeur-de-Lion.\\nLine 76. And all the German hackbut-men.\\nIn the wars with Scotland, Henry VIII. and\\nhis successors employed numerous bands of mer-\\ncenary troops. At the battle of Pinky, there\\nwere in the English army six hundred hack-\\nbutters on foot, and two hundred on horseback,\\ncomposed chiefly of foreigners. From the bat-\\ntle-pieces of the ancient Flemish painters, we\\nlearn that the Low Country and German sol-\\ndiers marched to an assault with their right\\nknees bared. And we may also observe, in\\nsuch pictures, the extravagance to which they\\ncarried the fashion of ornamenting their dress\\nwith knots of ribbon.\\nPage 63, line 119. Beady, aye ready, for the\\n.field.\\nSir John Scott of Thirlestane flourished in the\\nreign of James V., and possessed the estates of\\nThirlestane, Gamescleuch, etc., lying upon the\\nriver of Ettrick, and extending to St. Mary s\\nLoch, at the head of Yarrow. It appears that\\nwhen James had assembled his nobility, and\\ntheir feudal followers, at Fala, with the pur-\\npose of invading England, and was, as is well\\nknown, disappointed by the obstinate refusal of\\nhis peers, this baron alone declared himself\\nready to follow the King wherever he should\\nlead. In memory of his fidelity, James granted\\nto his family a charter of arms, entitling them\\nto bear a border of fleurs-de-luce similar to the\\ntressure in the royal arms, with a bundle of\\nspears for the crest motto, Ready, aye ready.\\nLine 120. An aged knight, to danger steeled.\\nThe family of Harden are descended from a\\nyounger son of the Laird of Buccleuch, who\\nflourished before the estate of Murdieston was\\nacquired by the marriage of one of those chief-\\ntains with the heiress, in 1296. Walter Scott of\\nHarden, who flourished during the reign of\\nQueen Mary, was a renowned Border freebooter.\\nHis castle was situated upon the very brink of\\na dark and precipitous dell, through which a\\nscanty rivulet steals to meet the Borthwick. In\\nthe recess of this glen he is said to have kept his\\nspoil, which served for the daily maintenance\\nof his retainers, until the production of a pair\\nof clean spurs, in a covered dish, announced to\\nthe hungry band that they must ride for a sup-\\nply of provisions. He was married to Mary\\nScott, daughter of Philip Scott of Dryhope,\\nand called in song the Flower of Yarrow. He\\npossessed a very extensive estate, which was\\ndivided among his five sons.\\nLine 145. Scotts of Eskdale, a stalwart band.\\nIn this and the following stanzas, some ac-\\ncount is given of the mode in which the pro-\\nperty in the valley of Esk was transferred from\\nthe Beattisons, its ancient possessors, to the\\nname of Scott. It is needless to repeat the cir-\\ncumstances, which are given in the poem liter-\\nally as they have been preserved by tradition.\\nLord Maxwell, in the latter part of the sixteenth\\ncentury, took upon himself the title of Earl\\nof Morton. The descendants of Beattison of\\nWoodkerrick, who aided the earl to escape from\\nhis disobedient vassals, continued to hold these\\nlands within the memory of man, and were the\\nonly Beattisons who had property in the dale.\\nThe old people give locality to the story by show-\\ning the GaUiard s Haugh, the place where Buc-\\ncleuch s men were concealed, etc.\\nPage 64, line 229. Their gathering word was\\nBellenden.\\nBellenden is situated near the head of Borth-\\nwick Water, and being in the centre of the pos-\\nsessions of the Scotts, was frequently used as\\ntheir place of rendezvous and gathering word.\\nPage 65, line 365. Bore high a gauntlet on his\\nspear.\\nA glove upon a lance was the emblem of faith\\namong the ancient Borderers, who were wont,\\nwhen any one broke his word, to expose this\\nemblem, and proclaim him a faithless villain at\\nthe first Border meeting. This ceremony was\\nmuch dreaded.\\nPage 66, line 409. That he may suffer march-\\ntreason pain.\\nSeveral species of offences, peculiar to the\\nBorder, constituted what was called march-\\ntreason. Among others, was the crime of rid-\\ning, or causing to ride, against the opposite\\ncountry during the time of truce.\\nLine 437. Will cleanse him by oath of march-\\ntreason stain.\\nIn dubious cases, the innocence of Border\\ncriminals was occasionally referred to their own\\noath. The form of excusing bills, or indictments,\\nby Border-oath, ran thus You shall swear by\\nheaven above you, hell beneath you, by your\\npart of Paradise, by all that God made in six\\ndays and seven nights, and by God himself, you\\nare whart out sackless of art, part, way, witting,\\nridd, kenning, having, or recetting of any of the\\ngoods and cattels named in this bill. So help\\nyou God.\\nLine 442. Knighthood he took of Douglas*\\nsword.\\nThe dignity of knighthood, according to the\\noriginal institution, had this peculiarity, that it\\ndid not flow from the monarch, but could be", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0552.jp2"}, "551": {"fulltext": "Pages 66 to 7 o NOTES LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL\\n521\\nconferred by one who himself possessed it, upon\\nany squire who, after due probation, was found\\nto merit the honor of chivalry. Latterly, this\\npower was confined to generals, who were wont\\nto create knights bannerets after or before an\\nengagement. Even so late as the reign of Queen\\nElizabeth, Essex highly offended his jealous\\nsovereign by the indiscriminate exertion of this\\nprivilege.\\nLine 443. When English blood swelled Ancram\\nford.\\nThe battle of Ancram Moor, or Penielheuch,\\nwas fought A. d. 1545. The English, com-\\nmanded by Sir Ralph Evers, and Sir Brian La-\\ntoun, were totally routed, and both their lead-\\ners slain in the action. The Scottish army was\\ncommanded by Archibald Douglas, Earl of\\nAngus, assisted by the Laird of Buccleuch, and\\nNorman Lesley.\\nPage 67, line 505. Said the Blanche Lion e er\\nfall back.\\nThis was the cognizance of the noble house\\nof Howard in all its branches. The crest, or\\nbearing, of a warrior was often used as a nom\\nde guerre. Thus Richard III. acquired his well-\\nknown epithet, The Boar of York. In the vio-\\nlent satire on Cardinal Wolsey, written by Roy,\\nthe Duke of Buckingham is called the Beauti-\\nful Swan, and the Duke of Norfolk, or Earl of\\nSurrey, the White Lion.\\nPage 68, line 570. But he, the jovial harper,\\ntaught.\\nThe person here alluded to, is one of our an-\\ncient Border minstrels, called Rattling Roaring\\nWillie. This sobriquet was probably derived\\nfrom his bullying disposition being, it would\\nseem, such a roaring boy as is frequently men-\\ntioned in old plays. While drinking at Newmill,\\nupon Teviot, about five miles above Hawick,\\nWillie chanced to quarrel with one of his own\\nprofession, who was usually distinguished by the\\nodd name of Sweet Milk, from a place on Rule\\nWater so called. They retired to a meadow\\non the opposite side of the Teviot, to decide\\nthe contest with their swords, and Sweet Milk\\nwas killed on the spot. A thorn-tree marks the\\nscene of the murder, which is still called Sweet\\nMilk Thorn. Willie was taken and executed\\nat Jedburgh, bequeathing his name to the beau-\\ntiful Scotch air, called Rattling Roaring Wil-\\nlie.\\nLine 574. Of Black Lord Archibald s battle-\\nlaws.\\nThe most ancient collection of Border regula-\\ntions.\\nPage 69, line 51. The Bloody Heart blazed in\\nthe van.\\nThe chief of this potent race of heroes, about\\nthe date of the poem, was Archibald Douglas,\\nseventh Earl of Angus, a man of great courage\\nand activity. The Bloody Heart was the well-\\nknown cognizance of the House of Douglas, as-\\nsumed from the time of good Lord James, to\\nwhose care Robert Bruce committed his heart,\\nto be carried to the Holy Land.\\nLine 54. Where the Seven Spears of Wedder-\\nburne.\\nSir David Home, of Wedderburn, who was\\nslain in the fatal battle of Flodden, left seven\\nsons by his wife Isabel. They were called the\\nSeven Spears of Wedderburn.\\nLine 58. Of Clarence s Plantagenet.\\nAt the battle of Beauge, in France, Thomas,\\nDuke of Clarence, brother to Henry V., was\\nunhorsed by Sir John Swinton of Swinton, who\\ndistinguished him by a coronet set with precious\\nstones, which he wore around his helmet. The\\nfamily of Swinton is one of the most ancient in\\nScotland, and produced many celebrated war-\\nriors.\\nLine 65. And shouting still, A Home a\\nHome.\\nThe Earls of Home, as descendants of the\\nDunbars, ancient Earls of March, carried a lion\\nrampant, argent but, as a difference, changed\\nthe color of the shield from gules to vert, in\\nallusion to Greenlaw, their ancient possession.\\nThe slogan, or war-cry, of this powerful family,\\nwas, A Home a Home It was anciently\\nplaced in an escrol above the crest. The hel-\\nmet is armed with a lion s head erased gules,\\nwith a cap of state gules, turned up ermine.\\nThe Hepburns, a powerful family in East Lo-\\nthian, were usually in close alliance with the\\nHomes. The chief of this clan was Hepburn,\\nLord of Hailes, a family which terminated in\\nthe too famous Earl of Both well.\\nLine 110. Pursued the football play.\\nThe football was anciently a very favorite\\nsport all through Scotland, but especially upon\\nthe Borders. Sir John Carmichael of Carmi-\\nchael, Warden of the Middle Marches, was\\nkilled in 1600 by a band of the Armstrongs, re-\\nturning from a football match. Sir Robert\\nCarey, in his Memoirs, mentions a great meet-\\ning, appointed by the Scotch riders to be held at\\nKelso for the purpose of playing at football, but\\nwhich terminated in an incursion upon England.\\nPage 70, line 122. Twixt truce and war, such\\nsudden change.\\nNotwithstanding the constant wars upon the\\nBorders, and the occasional cruelties which\\nmarked the mutual inroads, the inhabitants on\\neither side do not appear to have regarded each\\nother with that violent and personal animosity,\\nwhich might have been expected. On the con-\\ntrary, like the outposts of hostile armies, they\\noften carried on something resembling friendly\\nintercourse, even in the middle of hostilities\\nand it is evident, from various ordinances\\nagainst trade and intermarriages, between Eng-\\nlish and Scottish Borderers, that the govern-\\nments of both countries were jealous of their\\ncherishing too intimate a connection.\\nThe Border meetings of truce which, although\\nplaces of merchandise and merriment, often\\nwitnessed the most bloody scenes, may serve to\\nillustrate the description in the text. They are\\nvividly portrayed in the old ballad of the Reid-\\nsquair. Both parties came armed to a meeting\\nof the wardens, yet they intermixed fearlessly\\nand peaceably with each other in mutual sports\\nand familiar intercourse, until a casual fray\\narose", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0553.jp2"}, "552": {"fulltext": "522\\nAPPENDIX\\nPages 74 to 76\\n1 Then was there nought hut bow and spear\\nAnd every man pulled out a brand.\\nIn the 29th stanza of this canto, there is an\\nattempt to express some of the mixed feelings\\nwith which the Borderers on each side were led\\nto regard their neighbors.\\nPage 74, line 494. Cheer the dark bloodhound\\non his way.\\nThe pursuit of Border maurauders was fol-\\nlowed by the injured party and his friends with\\nbloodhounds and bugle-horn, and was called the\\nhot-trod. He was entitled, if his dog could trace\\nthe scent, to follow the invaders into the oppo-\\nsite kingdom a privilege which often occa-\\nsioned bloodshed. The breed was kept up by\\nthe Buccleuch family on their Border estates\\ntill within the eighteenth century.\\nPage 75, bine 68. She wrought not by forbidden\\nspell.\\nPopular belief, though contrary to the doc-\\ntrines of the Church, made a favorable distinc-\\ntion betwixt magicians and necromancers, or\\nwizards the former were supposed to command\\nthe evil spirits, and the latter to serve, or at\\nleast to be in league and compact with, those\\nenemies of mankind. The arts of subjecting\\nthe demons were manifold sometimes the\\nfiends were actually swindled by the magicians.\\nLine 79. A merlin sat upon her wrist.\\nA merlin, or sparrow-hawk, was actually car-\\nried by ladies of rank, as a falcon was, in time\\nof peace, the constant attendant of a knight or\\nbaron. Godscroft relates, that when Mary of\\nLorraine was regent, she pressed the Earl of\\nAngus to admit a royal garrison into his Castle\\nof Tantallon. To this he returned no direct\\nanswer but, as if apostrophizing a goshawk,\\nwhich sat on his wrist, and which he was feed-\\ning during the Queen s speech, he exclaimed,\\nThe devil s in this greedy glede, she will never\\nbe full. Barclay complains of the common and\\nindecent practice of bringing hawks and hounds\\ninto churches.\\nLines 90, 91.\\nAnd princely peacock s gilded train,\\nAnd o er the boar-head garnished brave.\\nThe peacock, it is well known, was considered,\\nduring the times of chivalry, not merely as an\\nexquisite delicacy, but as a dish of peculiar\\nsolemnity. After being roasted, it was again\\ndecorated with its plumage, and a sponge,\\ndipped in lighted spirits of wine, was placed\\nin its bill. When it was introduced on days\\nof grand festival, it was the signal for the ad-\\nventurous knights to take upon them vows to\\ndo some deed of chivalry, before the peacock\\nand the ladies.\\nThe boar s head was also a usual dish of\\nfeudal splendor. In Scotland it was sometimes\\nsurrounded with little banners, displaying the\\ncolors and achievements of the baron at whose\\nboard it was served.\\nLine 92. And cygnet from Saint Mary s wave.\\nThere are often flights of swans upon St.\\nMary s Lake, at the head of the river Yar-\\nrow.\\n[Wordsworth s Yarrow Visited will be re-\\ncalled\\nThe swan on still Saint Mary s Lake\\nFloats double, swan and shadow.\\nLine 120. Smote with his gauntlet stout Hunt-\\nhill.\\nThe Butherf ords of Hunthill were an ancient\\nrace of Border Lairds, whose names occur in\\nhistory, sometimes as defending the frontier\\nagainst the English, sometimes as disturbing the\\npeace of their own country. Dickon Draw-the-\\nsword was son to the ancient warrior, called in\\ntradition the Cock of Hunthill, remarkable for\\nleading into battle nine sons, gallant warriors,\\nall sons of the aged champion.\\nLine 128. But bit his glove and shook his head.\\nTo bite the thumb, or the glove, seems not to\\nhave been considered, upon the Border, as a\\ngesture of contempt, though so used by Shake-\\nspeare, but as a pledge of mortal revenge. It\\nis yet remembered that a young gentleman of\\nTeviotdale, on the morning after a hard drink-\\ning-bout, observed that he had bitten his glove.\\nHe instantly demanded of his companion, with\\nwhom he had quarrelled And, learning that\\nhe had had words with one of the party, insisted\\non instant satisfaction, asserting that though he\\nremembered nothing of the dispute, yet he was\\nsure he never would have bit his glove unless he\\nhad received some unpardonable insult. He\\nfell in the duel, which was fought near Selkirk,\\nin 1721.\\nPage 76, line 144. The pledge to Arthur Fire-\\nthe-Braes.\\nThe person bearing this redoubtable nom de\\nguerre was an Elliot, and resided at Thorles-\\nhope, in Liddesdale. He occurs in the list of\\nBorder riders, in 1597.\\nLine 154. Since old Buccleuch the name did\\ngain.\\n_ A tradition preserved by Scott of Satehells\\ngives the following romantic origin of that name.\\nTwo brethren, natives of Galloway, having been\\nbanished from that country for a riot, or insur-\\nrection, came to Rankleburn, in Ettriek Forest,\\nwhere the keeper, whose name was Brydone,\\nreceived them joyfully, on account of their skill\\nin winding the horn, and in the other mysteries\\nof the chase. Kenneth MacAlpin, then King of\\nScotland, came soon after to hunt in the royal\\nforest, and pursued a buck from Ettrickheuch\\nto the glen now called Buckcleuch, about two\\nmiles above the junction of Rankleburn with\\nthe river Ettriek. Here the stag stood at bay\\nand the king and his attendants, who followed\\non horseback, were thrown out by the steep-\\nness of the hill and the morass. John, one of\\nthe brethren from Galloway, had followed the\\nchase on foot and now coming in, seized the\\nbuck by the horns, and, being^ a man of great\\nstrength and activity, threw him on his back,\\nand ran with his burden about a mile up the\\nsteep hill, to a place called Craera-Cross, where\\nKenneth had halted, and laid the buck at the\\nsovereign s feet.\\nLine 181. And first stepped forth old Albert\\nGrozme.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0554.jp2"}, "553": {"fulltext": "Pages 77 to 79 NOTES LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL\\n5 2 3\\nJohn Grahame, second son of Malice, Earl of\\nMonteith, commonly surnamed John with the\\nBright Sword, upon some displeasure risen\\nagainst him at court, retired with many of his\\nclan and kindred into the English Borders, in\\nthe reign of King Henry the Fourth, where they\\nseated themselves and many of their posterity\\nhave continued there ever since. Mr. Sandf ord,\\nspeaking of them, says (which indeed was appli-\\ncable to most of the Borderers on both sides)\\nThey were all stark moss-troopers, and arrant\\nthieves: Both to England and Scotland out-\\nlawed: yet sometimes connived at, because they\\ngave intelligence forth of Scotland, and would\\nraise 400 horse at any time upon a raid of the\\nEnglish into Scotland. A saying is recorded\\nof a mother to her son (which is now become\\nproverbial), Ride, Rowley, hough s V the pot\\nthat is, the last piece of beef was in the pot, and\\ntherefore it was high time for him to go and\\nfetch more. History of Cumberland, introd.\\nThe residence of the Grammes being chiefly in\\nthe Debatable Land, so called because it was\\nclaimed by both kingdoms, their depredations\\nextended both to England and Scotland with\\nimpunity for as both wardens accounted them\\nthe proper subjects of their own prince, neither\\ninclined to demand reparation for their excesses\\nfrom the opposite officers, which would have\\nbeen an acknowledgment of his jurisdiction\\nover them.\\nPage 77, line 229. The gentle Surrey loved his\\nlyre.\\nThe gallant and unfortunate Henry Howard,\\nEarl of Surrey, was unquestionably the most\\naccomplished cavalier of his time and his\\nsonnets display beauties which would do honor\\nto a more polished age. He was beheaded on\\nTower-hill in 1546 a victim to the mean jeal-\\nousy of Henry VIII., who could not bear so\\nbrilliant a character near his throne.\\nThe song of the supposed bard is founded on\\nan incident said to have happened to the Earl\\nin his travels. Cornelius Agrippa, the cele-\\nbrated alchemist, showed him, in a looking-\\nglass, the lovely Geraldine, to_ whose service\\nhe had devoted his pen and his sword. The\\nvision represented her as indisposed, and re-\\nclining upon a couch, reading her lover s verses\\nby the light of a waxen taper.\\nPage 78, line 312. Where erst Saint Clairs held\\nprincely sway.\\nThe St. Clairs are of Norman extraction, be-\\ning descended from William de St. Clair, second\\nson of Walderne Compte de St. Clair, and Mar-\\ngaret, daughter to Richard, Duke of Normandy.\\nHe was called, for his fair deportment, the\\nSeemly St._ Clair and, settling in Scotland dur-\\ning the reign of Malcolm Calnmore, obtained\\nlarge grants of land in Mid-Lothian.\\nLine 314. Still nods their palace to its fall.\\nThe Castle of Kirkwall was built by the St.\\nClairs while Earls of Orkney. It was dismantled\\nby the Earl of Caithness about 1615, having been\\n\u00c2\u00a7arrisoned against the government by Robert\\ntewart, natural son to the Earl of Orkney.\\nLine 329. Their barks the dragons of the wave.\\nThe chief of the Vakingr or Scandinavian\\npirates assumed the title of Ssekonungs, or Sea-\\nkings. Ships, in the inflated language of the\\nSkalds, are often termed the serpents of the\\nocean.\\nLine 336. Of that Sea-snake, tremendous\\ncurled.\\nThe jormungandr, or Snake of the Ocean,\\nwhose folds surround the earth, is one of the\\nwildest fictions of the Edda. It was very nearly\\ncaught by the god Thor, who went to fish for it\\nwith a hook baited with a bull s head. In the\\nbattle betwixt the evil demons and the divini-\\nties of Odin, which is to precede the Ragna-\\nrockr, or Twilight of the Gods, this Snake is to\\nact a conspicuous part.\\nLine 338. Of those dread Maids whose hide-\\nous yell.\\nThese were the Valkyrier, or Selectors of the\\nSlain, despatched by Odin from Valhalla, to\\nchoose those who were to die, and to distribute\\nthe contest. They are well known to the Eng-\\nlish reader as Gray s Fatal Sisters.\\nLine 340. Of chiefs who, guided through the\\ngloom.\\nThe Northern warriors were usually entombed\\nwith their arms and their other treasures. Thus\\nAngantyr, before commencing the duel in which\\nhe was slain, stipulated that if he fell, his sword\\nTyrfing should be buried with him. His daugh-\\nter, Hervor, afterwards took it from his tomb.\\nThe dialogue which passed betwixt her and An-\\ngantyr s spirit on this occasion has been often\\ntranslated. The whole history may be found\\nin the Hervarar-Saga. Indeed, the ghosts of\\nthe Northern warriors were not wont tamely to\\nsuffer their tombs to be plundered and hence\\nthe mortal heroes had an additional temptation\\nto attempt such adventures for they held no-\\nthing more worthy of their valor than to en-\\ncounter supernatural beings.\\nLine 355. That mourns the lovely Rosabelle.\\nThis was a family name in the house of St.\\nClair. Henry St. Clair, the second of the line,\\nmarried Rosabelle, fourth daughter of the Earl\\nof Stratherne.\\nLine 358. Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch.\\nA large and strong castle, situated betwixt\\nKirkaldy and Dysart, on a steep crag, washed\\nby the Frith of Forth. It was conferred on\\nSir William St. Clair, as a slight compensation\\nfor the earldom of Orkney, by a charter of King\\nJames III., dated in 1471.\\nPage 79, line 455. Who spoke the spectre-hound\\nin Man.\\nThe ancient castle of Peel-town in the Isle of\\nMan is surrounded by four churches, now ruin-\\nous. They say that an apparition, called, in\\nthe Mankish language, the Mauthe JDoog, in the\\nshape of a large black spaniel, with curled\\nshaggy hair, was used to haunt Peel-castle\\nand has been frequently seen in every room,\\nbut particularly in the guard-chamber, where,\\nas soon as candles were lighted, it came and\\nlay down before the fire, in presence of all\\nthe soldiers, who, at length, by being so much\\naccustomed to the sight of it, lost great part", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0555.jp2"}, "554": {"fulltext": "5 2 4\\nAPPENDIX\\nPages 80 to 91\\nof the terror they were seized with at its first\\nappearance. But though they endured the\\nshock of such a guest when all together in a\\nhody, none cared to he left alone with it. It\\nheing the custom, therefore, for one of the\\nsoldiers to lock the gates of the castle at a cer-\\ntain hour, and carry the keys to the captain,\\nto whose apartment the way led through\\nthe church, they agreed among themselves,\\nthat whoever was to succeed the ensuing night\\nhis fellow in this errand, should accompany\\nhim that went first, and hy this means no\\nman would he exposed singly to the danger.\\nOne night a fellow, heing drunk, laughed at\\nthe simplicity of his companions and though\\nit was not his turn to go with the keys, would\\nneeds take that office upon him, to testify his\\ncourage. All the soldiers endeavored to dis-\\nsuade him hut the more they said, the more\\nresolute he seemed, and swore that he desired\\nnothing more than that the Mauthe Doog would\\nfollow him as it had done the others for he\\nwould try if it were dog or devil. After having\\ntalked in a very reprobate manner for some\\ntime, he snatched up the keys, and went out of\\nthe guard-room. In some time after his de-\\nparture, a great noise was heard, hut nobody\\nhad the boldness to see what occasioned it, till,\\nthe adventurer returning, they demanded the\\nknowledge of him but as loud and noisy as he\\nhad been at leaving them, he was now become\\nsober and silent enough for he was never\\nheard to speak more and though all the time\\nhe lived, which was three days, he was en-\\ntreated by all who came near him, either to\\nspeak, or, if he could not do that, to make\\nsome signs, by which they might understand\\nwhat had happened to him, yet nothing intelli-\\ngible could be got from him, only that, by the\\ndistortion of his limbs and features, it might\\nbe guessed that he died in agonies more than\\nis common in a natural death.\\nPage 80, line 469. Did to Saint Bride of\\nDouglas make.\\nThis was a favorite saint of the house of\\nDouglas, and of the Earl of Angus in particu-\\nlar, as we learn from Godscroft, who says:\\nThe Queen-Regent had proposed to raise a\\nrival noble to the ducal dignity and discours-\\ning of her purpose with Angus, he answered,\\nWhy not, madam we are happy that have\\nsuch a princess, that can know and will ac-\\nknowledge men s services, and is willing to\\nrecompense _ it but, by the might of God\\n(this was his oath when he was serious and in\\nanger at other times, it was by St. Bryde\\nof Douglas), if he be a Duke, I will be a\\nDrake So she desisted from prosecuting\\nof that purpose.\\nMarmiok: A Tale of Flodden Field.\\nPage 89, line 72. Who victor died on Gadite\\nwave.\\nNelson.\\nLine 130. For talents mourn, untimely lost.\\n[The Introductory Note has a reference to\\nthe first form which the twelve lines beginning\\nthus, took. The lines as originally written by\\nScott before revision at the suggestion of Lord\\nAbereorn were as follows\\nIf genius high, and judgment sound,\\nAnd wit that loved to play, not wound,\\nAnd all the reasoning powers divine,\\nTo penetrate, resolve, combine,\\nCould save one mortal of the herd\\nFrom error Fox had never erred.\\nPage 91, line 258. As when the champion of\\nthe lake.\\n[Launcelot du Lac. When Scott wrote, the\\nromances of King Arthur were not so familiar\\nto readers as they have since become, both\\nthrough the frequent issues of Sir Thomas Ma-\\nlory s Morte d J Arthur, and through the popular-\\nization effected by Tennyson. He illustrated\\nthis and other passages in the Introduction to\\nCanto First, by copious extracts from Malory.]\\nLine 275. And Dry den in immortal strain.\\nDryden s melancholy account of his projected\\nEpic Poem, blasted by the selfish and sordid\\nparsimony of his patrons, is contained in an\\nEssay on Satire, addressed to the Earl of Dor-\\nset, and prefaced to the Translation of Juvenal.\\nAfter mentioning a plan of supplying machinery\\nfrom the guardian angels of kingdoms, men-\\ntioned in the Book of Daniel, he adds Thus,\\nmy Lord, I have, as briefly as I could, given\\nyour lordship, and by you the world, a rude\\ndraft of what I have been long laboring in my\\nimagination, and what I had intended to have\\nput in practice (though far unable for the at-\\ntempt of such a poem) and to have left the\\nstage, to which my genius never much inclined\\nme, for a work which would have taken up my\\nlife in the performance of it. This, too, I had\\nintended chiefly for the honor of my native\\ncountry, to which a poet is particularly obliged.\\nOf two subjects, both relating to it, I was\\ndoubtful whether I should choose that of King\\nArthur conquering the Saxons, which, being\\nfurther distant in time, gives the greater scope\\nto my invention or that of Edward the Black\\nPrince, in subduing Spain, and restoring it to\\nthe lawful prince, though a great tyrant, Don\\nPedro the Cruel; which, for the compass of\\ntime, including only the expedition of one year,\\nfor the greatness of the action, and its answer-\\nable event, for the magnanimity of the English\\nhero, opposed to the ingratitude of the person\\nwhom he restored, and for the many beautiful\\nepisodes which I had interwoven with the prin-\\ncipal design, together with the characters of\\nthe chiefest English persons (wherein, after\\nVirgil and Spenser, I would have taken occa-\\nsion to represent my living friends and patrons\\nof the noblest families, and also shadowed the\\nevents of future ages in the succession of our\\nimperial line), with these helps, and those of\\nthe machines which I have mentioned, I might\\nperhaps have done as well as some of my pre-\\ndecessors, or at least chalked out a way for\\nothers to amend my errors in a like design\\nbut being encouraged only with fair words by\\nKing Charles II., my little salary ill paid, and", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0556.jp2"}, "555": {"fulltext": "Pages 91, 92\\nNOTES MARMION\\n525\\nno prospect of a future subsistence, I was then\\ndiscouraged in the beginning of my attempt\\nand now age has overtaken me and want, a\\nmore insufferable evil, through the change of\\nthe times, has wholly disabled me.\\nLine 312. Ytene s oaks beneath whose shade.\\nThe New Forest in Hampshire, anciently so\\ncalled.\\nLine 314. Of Ascapart, and Bevis bold.\\n[Aseapart, or Ascabart, was a giant who fig-\\nures in the History of Bevis of Hampton, by\\nwhom he was conquered. The images of the\\ntwo are still to be seen on either side of an old\\ngate at Southampton.]\\nLine 325. Partenopex s mystic love.\\n[Mr. Rose published in 1808 a poem entitled\\nPartenopex de Blois.]\\nLine 1. _ Day set on Norham s castled steep.\\nThe ruinous castle of Norham (anciently\\ncalled Ubbanf ord) is situated on the southern\\nbank of the Tweed, about six miles above Ber-\\nwick, and where that river is still the boundary\\nbetween England and Scotland. The extent of\\nits ruins, as well as its historical importance,\\nshow it to have been a place of magnificence,\\nas well as strength. Edward I. resided there\\nwhen he was created umpire of the dispute con-\\ncerning the Scottish succession. It was re-\\npeatedly taken and retaken during the wars\\nbetween England and Scotland and, indeed,\\nscarce any happened in which it had not a prin-\\ncipal share. Norham Castle is situated on a\\nsteep bank which overhangs the river. The\\nrepeated sieges which the castle had sustained\\nrendered frequent repairs necessary. In 1164\\nit was almost rebuilded by Hugh Pudsey,\\nBishop of Durham, who added a huge keep or\\ndonjon notwithstanding which, King Henry\\nII. in 1174, took the castle from the bishop,\\nand committed the keeping of it to William de\\nNeville. After this period it seems to have\\nbeen chiefly garrisoned by the king, and con-\\nsidered as a royal fortress. The Greys of Chill-\\ninghame Castle were frequently the castellans\\nor captains of the garrison. Yet, as the castle\\nwas situated in the patrimony of Saint Cuth-\\nbert, the property was in the see of Durham till\\nthe Reformation.\\nThe ruins of the castle consist of a large shat-\\ntered tower, with many vaults, and fragments\\nof other edifices, enclosed within an outward\\nwall of great circuit.\\nLine 4. The battled towers, the donjon^ keep.\\nIt is perhaps unnecessary to remind my\\nreaders that donjon, in its proper signification,\\nmeans the strongest part of a feudal castle a\\nhigh square tower, with walls of tremendous\\nthickness, situated in the centre of the other\\nbuildings, from which, however, it was usually\\ndetached. Here, in case of the outward de-\\nfences being gained, the garrison retreated to\\nmake their last stand. The donjon contained\\nthe great hall, and principal rooms of state for\\nsolemn occasions, and also the prison of the\\nfortress from which last circumstance we de-\\nrive the modern and restricted use of the word\\ndungeon.\\nPage 92, line 29. O er Horncliff-hill, aplump\\nof spears.\\nThis word properly applies to a flight of\\nwater-fowl; but is applied, by analogy, to a\\nbody of horse.\\nThere is a knight of the North Country\\nWhich leads a lusty plump of spears.\\nFlodden Field.\\nLine 79. In mail and plate of Milan steel.\\nThe artists of Milan were famous in the mid-\\ndle ages for their skill in armory, as appears\\nfrom the following passage, in which Froissart\\ngives an account of the preparations made by\\nHenry, Earl of Hereford, afterwards Henry\\nIV., and Thomas, Duke of Norfolk, Earl Mar-\\nischal, for their proposed combat in the lists at\\nCoventry These two lords made ample pro-\\nvision of all things necessary for the combat\\nand the Earl of Derby sent off messengers to\\nLombardy, to have armor from Sir Galeas,\\nDuke of Milan. The duke complied with joy,\\nand gave the knight, called Sir Francis, who\\nhad brought the message, the choice of all his\\narmor for the Earl of Derby. When he had\\nselected what he wished for in plated and mail\\narmor, the Lord of Milan, out of his abundant\\nlove for the earl, ordered four of the best\\narmorers in Milan to accompany the knight\\nto England, that the Earl of Derby might be\\nmore completely armed.\\nLine 88. Who checks at me, to death is dight.\\nThe crest and motto of Marmion are bor-\\nrowed from the following story Sir David de\\nLindesay, first Earl of Cranford, was, among\\nother gentlemen of quality, attended, during a\\nvisit to London, in 1390, by Sir William Dalzell,\\nwho was, according to my authority, Bower, not\\nonly excelling in wisdom, but also of a lively\\nwit. _ Chancing to be at the court, he there saw\\nSir Piers Courtenay, an English knight, famous\\nfor skill in tilting, and for the beauty of his\\nperson, parading the palace, arrayed in a new\\nmantle, bearing for device an embroidered fal-\\ncon, with this rhyme,\\nI bear a falcon, fairest of flight,\\nWhoso pinches at her, his death is dight,\\nIn graith.\\nThe Scottish knight, being a wag, appeared\\nnext day in a dress exactly similar to that of\\nCourtenay, but bearing a magpie instead of\\na falcon, with a motto ingeniously contrived\\nto rhyme to the vaunting inscription of Sir\\nPiers\\nI bear a pie picking at a peice,\\nWhoso picks at her, I shall pick at his nese,\\nIn faith.\\nThis affront could only be expiated by a joust\\nwith sharp lances. In the course, Dalzell left\\nhis helmet unlaced, so that it gave way at the\\ntouch of his antagonist s lance, and he thus\\navoided the shock of the encounter. This hap-\\npened twice in the third encounter, the hand-\\nsome Courtenay lost two of his front teeth. As\\nthe Englishman complained bitterly of Dalzell s", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0557.jp2"}, "556": {"fulltext": "526\\nAPPENDIX\\nPages 93, 94\\nfraud in not fastening his helmet, the Scottish-\\nman agreed to run six courses more, each\\nchampion staking in the hand of the king two\\nhundred pounds, to he forfeited if, on entering\\nthe lists, any unequal advantage should he de-\\ntected. This heing agreed to, the wily Scot\\ndemanded that Sir Piers, in addition to the loss\\nof his teeth, should consent to the extinction\\nof one of his eyes, he himself having lost an\\neye in the fight of Otterhurn. As Courtenay\\ndemurred to this equalization of optical pow-\\ners, Dalzell demanded the forfeit, which, after\\nmuch altercation, the king appointed to be paid\\nto him, saying he surpassed the English both in\\nwit and valor.\\nPage 93, line 156. They hailed Lord Mar-\\nmion.\\nLord Marmion, the principal character of the\\npresent romance, is entirely a fictitious per-\\nsonage. In earlier times, indeed, the family\\nof Marmion, Lords of Fontenay, in Normandy,\\nwas highly distinguished. Robert de Marmion,\\nLord of Fontenay, a distinguished follower of\\nthe Conqueror, obtained a grant of the castle\\nand town of Tamworth, and also of the manor\\nof Scrivelby, in Lincolnshire. One or both of\\nthese noble possessions was held by the honora-\\nble service of being the royal champion, as the\\nancestors of Marmion had formerly been to the\\nDukes of Normandy. But after the castle and\\ndemesne of Tamworth had passed through four\\nsuccessive barons from Robert, the family be-\\ncame extinct in the person of Philip de Mar-\\nmion, who died m 20th Edward I. without\\nissue male. He was succeeded in his castle\\nof Tamworth by Alexander de Freville, who\\nmarried Mazera, his granddaughter. Baldwin\\nde Freville, Alexander s descendant, in the\\nreign of Richard I., by the supposed tenure of\\nhis castle of Tamworth, claimed the office of\\nroyal champion, and to do the service apper-\\ntaining namely, on the day of coronation to\\nride, completely armed, upon a barbed horse,\\ninto Westminster Hall, and there to challenge\\nthe combat against any who would gainsay\\nthe king s title. But this office was adjudged\\nto Sir John Dymoke, to whom the manor of\\nScrivelby had descended by another of the co-\\nheiresses of Robert de Marmion and it re-\\nmains in that family, whose representative is\\nHereditary Champion of England at the pre-\\nsent day. The family and possessions of Fre-\\nville have merged in the Earls of Ferrars. I\\nhave not, therefore, created a new family, but\\nonly revived the titles of an old one in an im-\\naginary personage.\\nLine 163. Now, largesse, largesse, Lord Mar-\\nmion.\\nThis was the cry with which heralds and\\npursuivants were wont to acknowledge the\\nbounty received from the knights. The her-\\nalds, like the minstrels, were a race allowed\\nto have great claims upon the liberality of the\\nknights, of whose feats they kept a record, and\\nproclaimed them aloud, as in the text, upon\\nsuitable occasions. At Berwick, Norham, and\\nother Border fortresses of importance, pur-\\nsuivants usually resided, whose inviolable char-\\nacter rendered them the only persons that\\ncould, with perfect assurance of safety, be\\nsent on necessary embassies into Scotland.\\nThis is alluded to in stanza xxi. below.\\nLine 194. And Captain of the Hold.\\nWere accuracy of any consequence in a ficti-\\ntious narrative, this castellan s name ought to\\nhave been William for William Heron of Ford\\nwas husband to the famous Lady Ford, whose\\nsiren charms are said to have cost our James\\nIV. so dear. Moreover, the said William\\nHeron was, at the time supposed, a prisoner in\\nScotland, being surrendered by Henry VIII.\\non account of his share in the slaughter of Sir\\nRobert Kerr of Cessford. His wife, represented\\nin the text as residing at the Court of Scot-\\nland, was, in fact, living in her own castle at\\nFord.\\nPage 94, line 264. I left him sick in Lin-\\ndisfarne.\\nLindisfarne, an isle on the coast of Northum-\\nberland, was called Holy Island, from the\\nsanctity of its ancient monastery, and from its\\nhaving been the Episcopal seat of the see of\\nDurham during the early ages of British Chris-\\ntianity. A succession of holy men held that\\noffice but their merits were swallowed up in\\nthe superior fame of Saint Cuthbert, who was\\nsixth bishop of Durham, and who bestowed the\\nname of his patrimony upon the extensive\\nproperty of the see. The ruins of the monas-\\ntery upon Holy Island betoken great antiquity.\\nThe arches are, in general, strictly Saxon and\\nthe pillars which support them, short, strong,\\nand massy. In some places, however, there\\nare pointed windows, which indicate that the\\nbuilding has been repaired at a period long\\nsubsequent to the original foundation. The\\nexterior ornaments of the building, being of a\\nlight sandy stone, have been wasted, as de-\\nscribed in the text. Lindisfarne is not pro-\\nperly an island, but rather, as the Venerable\\nBede has termed it, a semi-isle for, although\\nsurrounded by the sea at full tide, the ebb\\nleaves the sands dry between it and the oppo-\\nsite coast of Northumberland, from which it is\\nabout three miles distant.\\nLine 298. Warbeck, that Flemish counterfeit.\\nThe story of Perkin Warbeck, or Richard,\\nDuke of York, is well known. In 1496 he was\\nreceived honorably in Scotland and James IV.,\\nafter conferring upon him in marriage his own\\nrelation, the Lady Catherine Gordon, made\\nwar on England in behalf of his pretensions.\\nTo retaliate an invasion of England, Surrey ad-\\nvanced into Berwickshire at the head of con-\\nsiderable forces, but retreated after taking the\\ninconsiderable fortress of Ayton.\\nLine 304. For here be some have pricked as\\nfar.\\nThe garrisons of the English castles of Wark,\\nNorham, and Berwick were, as may be easily\\nsupposed, very troublesome neighbors to Scot-\\nland. Sir Richard Maitland of Ledington\\nwrote a poem, called The Blind Baron s Com-\\nfort, when his barony of Blythe, in Lauder-", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0558.jp2"}, "557": {"fulltext": "Pages 95 to 97\\nNOTES MARMION\\n527\\ndale, was harried by Rowland Foster, the Eng-\\nlish captain of Wark, with his company, to the\\nnumber of 300 men. They spoiled the poetical\\nknight of 5,000 sheep, 200 nolt, 30 horses and\\nmares the whole furniture of his house of\\nBlythe, worth 100 pounds Scots, and everything\\nelse that was portable. This spoil was com-\\nmitted the 16th day of May, 1570 (and the said\\nSir Richard was threescore and fourteen years\\nof age, and grown blind), in time of peace\\nwhen nane of that country lippened [expected]\\nsuch a thing.\\nPage 95, line 309. And given them light to\\nset their hoods.\\nThe line contains a phrase by which the Bor-\\nderers jocularly intimated the burning of a\\nhouse. When the Maxwells, in 1685, burned\\nthe castle of Lockwood, they said they did so\\nto give the Lady Johnstone light to set her\\nhood. Nor was the phrase inapplicable for,\\nin a letter to which I have mislaid the refer-\\nence, the Earl of Northumberland writes to\\nthe king and council, that he dressed himself,\\nat midnight, at Warwick, by the blaze of the\\nneighboring villages burned by the Scottish\\nmarauders.\\nLine 342. The priest of Shoreswood he could\\nrein.\\nThis churchman seems to have been akin to\\nWelsh, the vicar of St. Thomas of Exeter, a\\nleader among the Cornish insurgents in 1549.\\nThis man, says Holinshed, had many good\\nthings in him. He was of no great stature, but\\nwell set, and mightilie compact he was a very\\ngood wrestler shot well, both in the long-bow,\\nand also in the cross-bow he handled his hand-\\ngun and peece very well he was a very good\\nwoodman, and a hardie, and such a one as\\nwould not give his head for the poling, or his\\nbeard for the washing. He was a companion\\nin any exercise of activitie, and of a courte-\\nous and gentle behaviour. He descended of a\\ngood, honest parentage, being borne at Pene-\\nverin, in Cornwall and yet, in this rebellion,\\nan arch-captain, and a principal doer. This\\nmodel of clerical talents had the misfortune to\\nbe hanged upon the steeple of his own church.\\nPage 96, line 407. Saint Rosalie retired to\\nGod. g\\nSaint Rosalie was of Palermo, and born of a\\nvery noble family, and, when very young, ab-\\nhorred so much the vanities of this world, and\\navoided the converse of mankind, resolving to\\ndedicate herself wholly to God Almighty, that\\nshe, by divine inspiration, forsook her father s\\nhouse, and never was more heard of, till her\\nbody was found in that cleft of a rock, on that\\nalmost inaccessible mountain, where now the\\nchapel is built and they affirm she was carried\\nup there by the hands of angels for that place\\nwas not formerly so accessible (as now it is) in\\nthe days of the Saint and even now it is a\\nvery bad, and steepy, and breakneck way. In\\nthis frightful place, tbis holy woman lived a\\ngreat many years feeding only on what she\\nfound growing on that barren mountain, and\\ncreeping into a narrow and dreadful cleft in a\\nrock, which was always dropping wet, and was\\nher place of retirement, as well as prayer\\nhaving worn out even the rock with her knees,\\nin a certain place, which is now opened on pur-\\npose to show it to those who come here. Voy-\\nage to Sicily and Malba, by Mr. John Dryden\\n(son to the poet).\\nLine 459\u00e2\u0080\u009e This Palmer to the castle-hall.\\nA Palmer, opposed to a Pilgrim, was one\\nwho made it his sole business to visit different\\nholy shrines, travelling incessantly, and subsist-\\ning by charity whereas the Pilgrim retired to\\nhis usual home and occupations, when he had\\npaid his devotions at the particular spot which\\nwas the object of his pilgrimage.\\nPage 97, line 506. Where good Saint Rule\\nhis holy lay.\\nSt. Regulus (Scottice, St. Rule) a monk\\nof _ Patrae, in Achaia, warned by a vision, is\\nsaid, A. d. 370, to have sailed westward, until\\nhe landed at St. Andrew s, in Scotland, where\\nhe founded a chapel and tower. The latter is\\nstill standing and, though we may doubt the\\nprecise date of its foundation, is certainly one\\nof the most ancient edifices in Scotland. A\\ncave, nearly fronting the ruinous castle of the\\nArchbishops of St. Andrew s, bears the name\\nof this religious person. It is difficult of ac-\\ncess, and the rock in which it is hewed is\\nwashed by the German ocean. It is nearly\\nround, about ten feet in diameter, and the\\nsame in height. On one side is a sort of stone\\naltar on the other an aperture into an inner\\nden, where the miserable ascetic, who inhabited\\nthis dwelling, probably slept. At full tide,\\negress and regress is hardly practicable.\\nLine 509. Thence to Saint Fillan s blessed\\nwell.\\nSt. Fillan was a Scottish saint of some re-\\nputation. There are in Perthshire several\\nwells and springs dedicated to St. Fillan, which\\nare still places of pilgrimage and offerings, even\\namong the Protestants. They are held pow-\\nerful in cases of madness and, in some of\\nvery late occurrence, lunatics have been left\\nall night bound to the holy stone, in confidence\\nthat the saint would cure and unloose them\\nbefore morning. [See also note to page 14,\\nfine 218].\\nLine 1. The scenes are desert now and bare.\\nEttrick Forest, now a range of mountainous\\nsheep-walks, was anciently reserved for the\\npleasure of the royal chase. Since it was dis-\\nparked, the wood has been, by degrees, almost\\ntotally destroyed, although, wherever protected\\nfrom the sheep, copses soon arise without any\\nplanting. When the king hunted there, he\\noften summoned the array of the country to\\nmeet and assist his sport. Thus, in 1528, James\\nV. made proclamation to all lords, barons,\\ngentlemen, landwardmen, and freeholders, that\\nthey should compear at Edinburgh, with a\\nmonth s victuals, to pass with the king where\\nhe pleased, to danton the thieves of Tiviotdale,\\nAnnandale, Liddisdale, and other parts of that\\ncountry and also warned all gentlemen that\\nhad good dogs, to bring them, that he might", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0559.jp2"}, "558": {"fulltext": "528\\nAPPENDIX\\nPages 97 to 102\\nhunt in the said country as he pleased: The\\nwhilk the Earl of Argyle, the Earl of Huntley,\\nthe Earl of Athole, and so all the rest of the\\ngentlemen of the Highland, did, and brought\\ntheir hounds with them in like manner, to hunt\\nwith the king, as he pleased.\\nThe second day of June the king passed out\\nof Edinburgh to the hunting, with many of the\\nnobles and gentlemen of Scotland with him, to\\nthe number of twelve thousand men and then\\npast to Meggitland, and hounded and hawked\\nall the country and bounds that is to say, Cram-\\nmat, Pappert-law, St. Mary-laws, Carlavirick,\\nChapel, Ewindoores, and Longhope. I heard\\nsay, he slew, in these bounds, eighteen score of\\nharts (Pitscottie s History of Scotland, f oho ed.\\np. 143).\\nThese huntings had, of course, a military\\ncharacter, and attendance upon them was a\\npart of the duty of a vassal. The act for abol-\\nishing ward or military tenures in Scotland\\nenumerates the services of hunting, hosting,\\nwatching, and warding, as those which were in\\nfuture to be illegal.\\nLine 32. Then oft from Newark s riven tower.\\nThe tale of the Outlaw Murray, who held out\\nNewark Castle and Ettrick Forest against the\\nking, may be found in the Border Minstrelsy,\\nvol. i. In the Macfarlane MS., among other\\ncauses of James the Fifth s charter to the\\nburgh, is mentioned that the citizens assisted\\nhim to suppress this dangerous outlaw. [See\\nalso note to page 46, line 27.]\\nPage 98, line 73. Thy bowers, untenanted Bow-\\nhill\\nA seat of the Duke of Buccleuch on the Yar-\\nrow, in Ettrick Forest.\\nLine 115. I called his ramparts holy ground.\\nThere is, on a high mountainous ridge above\\nthe farm of Ashestiel, a fosse called Wallace s\\nTrench.\\nPage 99, line 147. By lone Saint Mary s silent\\nlake.\\nThis beautiful sheet of water forms the reser-\\nvoir from which the Yarrow takes its source.\\nIt is connected with a smaller lake, called the\\nLoch of the Lowes, and surrounded by moun-\\ntains. In the winter it is still frequented by\\nflights of wild swans hence my friend Mr.\\nWordsworth s lines\\nThe swans on sweet Saint Mary s lake\\nFloat double, swan and shadow.\\nNear the lower extremity of the lake are the\\nruins of Dryhope Tower, the birthplace of Mary\\nScott, daughter of Philip Scott of Dryhope, and.\\nfamous by the traditional name of the Flower\\nof Yarrow. She was married to Walter Scott\\nof Harden, no less renowned for his depreda-\\ntions than his bride for her beauty. Her ro-\\nmantic appellation was, in latter days, with\\nequal justice, conferred on Miss Mary Lilias\\nScott, the last of the elder branch of the Harden\\nfamily.\\nLine 177. Hath laid Our Lady s chapel low.\\nThe Chapel of Saint Mary of the Lowes (de\\nlacubus) was situated on the eastern side of the\\nlake, to which it gives name. It was injured\\nby the clan of Scott, in a feud with the Cran-\\nstouns, but continued to be a place of worship\\nduring the seventeenth century. The vestiges\\nof the building can now scarcely be traced but\\nthe burial-ground is still used as a cemetery. A\\nfuneral, in a spot so very retired, has an un-\\ncommonly striking effect. The vestiges of the\\nchaplain s house are yet visible. Being in a\\nhigh situation, it commanded a full view of the\\nlake, with the opposite mountain of Bourhope,\\nbelonging, with the lake itself, to Lord Napier.\\nOn the left hand is the tower of Dryhope, men-\\ntioned in the preceding note.\\nLine 202. To sit upon the Wizard s grave.\\nAt one corner of the burial-ground of the de-\\nmolished chapel, but without its precincts, is a\\nsmall mound, called Binram s corse, where tra-\\ndition deposits the remains of a necromantic\\npriest, the former tenant of the chaplainry.\\nLine 239. Like that which frowns round dark\\nLoch-skene.\\nA mountain lake of considerable size, at the\\nhead of the Moffat-water. The character of\\nthe scenery is uncommonly savage, and the\\nearn, or Scottish eagle, has for many ages built\\nits nest yearly upon an islet in the lake. Loch-\\nskene discharges itself into a brook, which,\\nafter a short and precipitate course, falls from\\na cataract of immense height and gloomy gran-\\ndeur, called, from its appearance, the Gray\\nMare s Tail. The Giant s Grave, afterwards\\nmentioned, is a sort of trench which bears that\\nname, a little way from the foot of the cataract.\\nIt has the appearance of a battery, designed to\\ncommand the pass.\\nPage 100, line 264. Marriott, thy harp, on Isis\\nstrung.\\n[Mr. Marriott himself was the author of sev-\\neral ballads which may be found in Scott s col-\\nlection, The Border Minstrelsy.]\\nLine 9. Where, from high Whitby s cloistered\\npile.\\nThe Abbey of Whitby, on the coast of York-\\nshire, was founded A. r 657, in consequence of\\na vow of Oswy, King of Northumberland. It\\ncontained both monks and nuns of the Benedic-\\ntine order but, contrary to what was usual in\\nsuch establishments, the abbess was superior to\\nthe abbot. The monastery was afterwards\\nruined by the Danes, and rebuilded by William\\nPercy, in the reign of the Conqueror.\\nLine 10. Bound to Saint Cuthbert s Holy Isle.\\n[See note to page 94, line 264.]\\nPage 102, lines 233, 234.\\nHow to their house three barons bold\\nMust menial service do.\\nThe popular account of this curious service,\\nwhich was probably considerably exaggerated,\\nis thus given in A True Account, printed and\\ncirculated at Whitby In the fifth year of the\\nreign of Henry TL., after the conquest of Eng-\\nland by William, Duke of Normandy, the Lord\\nof Uglebarnby, then called William de Bruce,\\nthe Lord of Smeaton, called Ralph de Percy,\\nwith a gentleman and freeholder called Allat-\\nson, did, on the 16th of October, 1159, appoint to", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0560.jp2"}, "559": {"fulltext": "Page 102\\nNOTES MARMION\\n5 2 9\\nmeet and hunt the wild boar, in a certain wood,\\nor desert place, belonging to the Abbot of Whit-\\nby the place s name was Eskdale-side and\\nthe abbot s name was Sedman. Then, these\\nyoung gentlemen being met, with their hounds\\nand boar-staves, in the place before mentioned,\\nand there having found a great wild boar, the\\nhounds ran him well near about the chapel and\\nhermitage of Eskdale-side, where was a monk\\nof Whitby, who was an hermit. The boar, be-\\ning very sorely pursued, and dead-run, took in\\nat the chapel door, there laid him down, and\\npresently died. The hermit shut the hounds\\nout of the chapel, and kept himself within at\\nhis meditations and prayers, the hounds stand-\\ning at bay without. The gentlemen, in the\\nthick of the wood, being put behind their game,\\nfollowed the cry of their hounds, and so came\\nto the hermitage, calling on the hermit, who\\nopened the door, and came forth and within\\nthey found the boar lying dead for which the\\ngentlemen, in a very great fury, because the\\nhounds were put from their game, did most vio-\\nlently and cruelly run at the hermit with their\\nboar-staves, whereby he soon after died. There-\\nupon the gentlemen perceiving and knowing that\\nthey were in peril of death, took sanctuary at\\nScarborough but at that time the abbot being\\nin very great favor with the king, removed them\\nout of the sanctuary whereby they came in\\ndanger of the law, and not to be privileged, but\\nlikely to have the severity of the law, which\\nwas death for death. But the hermit being a\\nholy and devout man, and at the point of death,\\nsent for the abbot, and desired him to send for\\nthe gentlemen who had wounded him. The ab-\\nbot so doing, the gentlemen came and the her-\\nmit being very sick and weak, said unto them,\\nI am sure to die of those wounds you have given\\nme. The abbot answered, They shall as\\nsurely die for the same. But the hermit an-\\nswered, Not so, for I will freely forgive them\\nmy death, if they will be content to be enjoined\\nthe penance I shall lay on them for the safe-\\nguard of their souls. The gentlemen being\\npresent, bade him save their lives. Then said\\nthe hermit: You and yours shall hold your\\nlands of the Abbot of Whitby, and his success-\\nors, in this manner That, upon Ascension-day,\\nyou, or some of you, shall come to the wood of\\nthe Strayheads, which is in Eskdale-side, the\\nsame day at sun-rising, and there shall the ab-\\nbot s officer blow his horn, to the intent that\\nyou may know where to find him and he shall\\ndeliver unto you, William de Bruce, ten stakes,\\neleven strout stowers, and eleven yethers, to be\\ncut by you, or some for you, with a knife of\\none penny price and you, Ralph de Percy, shall\\ntake twenty-one of each sort, to be cut in the\\nsame manner and you, Allatson, shall take\\nnine of each sort, to be cut as aforesaid and to\\nbe taken on your backs, and carried to the town\\nof Whitby, and to be there before nine of the\\nclock the same day before mentioned. At the\\nsame hour of nine of the clock, if it be full sea,\\nyour labor and service shall cease and, if low\\nwater, each of you shall set your stakes to the\\nbrim, each stake one yard from the other, and\\nso yether them on each side with your yethers\\nand so stake on each side with your strout\\nstowers, that they may stand three tides, with-\\nout removing by the force thereof. Each of\\nyou shall do, make, and execute the said ser-\\nvice, at that very hour, every year, except it be\\nfull sea at that hour but when it shall so fall\\nout, this service shall cease. You shall faith-\\nfully do this, in remembrance that you did\\nmost cruelly slay me and that you may the\\nbetter call to God for mercy, repent unf eignedly\\nof your sins, and do good works. The officer\\nof Eskdale-side shall blow Out on you Out on\\nyou Out on you for this heinous crime. If you\\nor your successors shall efuse this service, so\\nlong as it shall not be full sea at the aforesaid\\nhour, you or yours shall forfeit your lands to the\\nAbbot of Whitby, or his successors. This I in-\\ntreat, and earnestly beg, that you may have\\nlives and goods preserved for this service and\\nI request of you to promise, by your parts in\\nHeaven, that it shall be done by you and your\\nsuccessors, as is aforesaid requested and I will\\nconfirm it by the faith of an honest man.\\nThen the hermit said: My soul longeth for\\nthe Lord and I do as freely forgive these men\\nmy death, as Christ forgave the thieves on the\\ncross. And, in the presence of the abbot and\\nthe rest, he said moreover these words In\\nmanus tuos, Domine, commendo spiritum\\nmeum, a vinculis enim mortis redemisti me,\\nDomine veritatis. Amen. So he yielded up\\nthe ghost the eighth day of December, anno\\nDomini 1159, whose soul God have mercy upon.\\nAmen.\\nLine 244. The lovely Edelfled.\\nShe was the daughter of King Oswy, who, in\\ngratitude to Heaven for the great victory which\\nhe won in 655, against Penda, the pagan King of\\nMercia, dedicated Edelfleda, then but a year\\nold, to the service of God, in the monastery of\\nWhitby, of which Saint Hilda was then abbess.\\nShe afterwards adorned the place of her educa-\\ntion with great magnificence.\\nLine 245. And how, of thousand snakes, each\\none.\\nThese two miracles are much insisted upon\\nby all ancient writers, who have occasion to\\nmention either Whitby or St. Hilda. The re-\\nliques of the snakes which infested the pre-\\ncincts of the convent, and were, at the abbess s\\nprayer, not only beheaded, but petrified, are\\nstill found about the rocks, and are termed by\\nProtestant fossilists Ammonitoz.\\nThe other miracle is thus mentioned by Cam-\\nden It is also ascribed to the power of her\\nsanctity, that these wild geese, which, in the\\nwinter, fly in great flocks to the lakes and rivers\\nunfrozen in the southern parts, to the great\\namazement of every one, fall down suddenly\\nupon the ground, when they are in their flight\\nover certain neighboring fields hereabouts a\\nrelation I should not have made, if I had not re-\\nceived it from several credible men. But those\\nwho are less inclined to heed superstition, at-\\ntribute it to some occult quality in the ground,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0561.jp2"}, "560": {"fulltext": "53\u00c2\u00b0\\nAPPENDIX\\nPage 103\\nand to somewhat of antipathy between it and\\nthe geese, such as they say is between wolves\\nand scylla-roots. For that such hidden ten-\\ndencies and aversions, as we call sympathies and\\nantipathies, are implanted in many things by\\nprovident nature for the preservation of them,\\nis a thing so evident that everybody grants it.\\nLine 256. His body s resting-place, of old.\\nSt. Cuthbert was, in the choice of his sepul-\\nchre, one of the most mutable and unreason-\\nable saints in the Calendar. He died A. d. 688,\\nin a hermitage upon the Fame Islands, having\\nresigned the bishopric of Lindisf arne, or Holy\\nIsland, about two years before. His body was\\nbrought to Lindisf arne, where it remained un-\\ntil a descent of the Danes, about 793, when the\\nmonastery was nearly destroyed. The monks\\nfled to Scotland, with what they deemed their\\nchief treasure, the relics of St. Cuthbert. The\\nsaint was, however, a most capricious fellow-\\ntraveller which was the more intolerable, as,\\nlike Sinbad s Old Man of the Sea, he jour-\\nneyed upon the shoulders of his companions.\\nThey paraded him through Scotland for several\\nyears, and came as far west as Whithern, in\\nGalloway, whence they attempted to sail for\\nIreland, but were driven back by tempests.\\nHe at length made a halt at Norham from\\nthence he went to Melrose, where he remained\\nstationary for a short time, and then caused\\nhimself to be launched upon the Tweed in a\\nstone coffin, which landed him at Tilmouth, in\\nNorthumberland. This boat is finely shaped,\\nten feet long, three feet and a half in diameter,\\nand only four inches thick so that, with very\\nlittle assistance, it might certainly have swam.\\nIt still lies, or at least did so a few years ago,\\nin two pieces, beside the ruined chapel of Til-\\nmouth. From Tilmouth, Cuthbert wandered\\ninto Yorkshire and at length made a long stay\\nat Chester-le-Street, to which the bishop s see\\nwas transferred. At length, the Danes con-\\ntinuing to infest the country, the monks re-\\nmoved to Ripon for a season and it was in\\nreturning from thence to Chester-le-Street, that,\\npassing through a forest called Dunholme, the\\nsaint and his carriage became immovable at\\na place named Wardlaw, or Wardilaw. Here\\nthe saint chose his place of residence and all\\nwho have seen Durham must admit that, if\\ndifficult in his choice, he evinced taste in at\\nlength fixing it. [The editor of a later edition\\nnotes that in 1827 the discovery of the remains\\nwas made under a blue stone in the middle\\nof the shrine of St. Cuthbert at the eastern\\nextremity of the choir of Durham Cathedral.\\nThe bones were restored to the grave in a new\\ncoffin, and the various insignia of gold and sil-\\nver were deposited in the library of the Dean\\nand chapter.]\\nPage 103, line 287. Even Scotland s daunt-\\nless king and heir.\\nEvery one has heard that when David I., with\\nhis son Henry, invaded Northumberland in\\n1136, the English host marched against them\\nunder the holy banner of St. Cuthbert to the\\nefficacy of which was imputed the great vic-\\ntory which they obtained in the bloody battle\\nof Northallerton, or Cuton-moor.\\nLine 293. Twas he, to vindicate his reign.\\nCuthbert, we have seen, had no great reason\\nto spare the Danes, when opportunity offered.\\nAccordingly, I find in Simeon of Durham, that\\nthe saint appeared in a vision to Alfred, when\\nlurking in the marshes of Glastonbury, and\\npromised him assistance and victory over his\\nheathen enemies a consolation which, as was\\nreasonable, Alfred, after the victory of Ash-\\nendown, rewarded by a royal offering at the\\nshrine of the saint. As to William the Con-\\nqueror, the terror spread before his army, when\\nhe marched to punish the revolt of the North-\\numbrians, in 1096, had forced the monks to\\nfly once more to Holy Island with the body of\\nthe saint. It was, however, replaced before\\nWilliam left the North and, to balance ac-\\ncounts, the Conqueror having intimated an in-\\ndiscreet curiosity to view the saint s body, he\\nwas, while in the act of commanding the shrine\\nto be opened, seized with heat and sickness,\\naccompanied with such a panic terror that, not-\\nwithstanding there was a sumptuous dinner\\nprepared for him, he fled without eating a mor-\\nsel (which the monkish historian seems to have\\nthought no small part both of the miracle and\\nthe penance), and never drew his bridle till he\\ngot to the river Tees.\\nLine 300. Saint Cuthbert sits, and toils to\\nframe.\\nAlthough we do not learn that Cuthbert was,\\nduring his life, such an artificer as Dunstan, his\\nbrother in sanctity, yet since his death he has\\nacquired the reputation of forging those Entro-\\nchi which are found among the rocks of Holy\\nIsland, and pass there by the name of St.\\nCuthbert s Beads. While at this task, he is\\nsupposed to sit during the night upon a certain\\nrock, and use another as his anvil.\\nLine 316. Old Colwulf built it, for his fault.\\nCeolwulf, or Colwulf, King of Northumber-\\nland, flourished in the eighth century. He was\\na man of some learning; for the Venerable\\nBede dedicates to him his Ecclesiastical His-\\ntory. He abdicated the throne about 738, and\\nretired to Holy Island, where he died in the\\nodor of sanctity. Saint as Colwulf was, how-\\never, I fear the foundation of the penance-vault\\ndoes not correspond with his character for it\\nis recorded among his memorabilia, that, find-\\ning the air of the island raw and cold, he in-\\ndulged the monks, whose rule had hitherto\\nconfined them to milk or water, with the com-\\nfortable privilege of using wine or ale. If any\\nrigid antiquary insists on this objection, he is\\nwelcome to suppose the penance-vault was in-\\ntended, by the founder, for the more genial\\npurposes of a cellar. These penitential vaults\\nwere the Geissel-gewolbe of German convents.\\nIn the earlier and more rigid times of monastic\\ndiscipline, they were sometimes used as a ceme-\\ntery for the lay benefactors of the convent\\nwhose unsanetified corpses were then seldom\\npermitted to pollute the choir. They also\\nserved as places of meeting for the chapter, when", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0562.jp2"}, "561": {"fulltext": "Pages 104 to 113\\nNOTES MARMION\\n53i\\nmeasures of uncommon severity were to be\\nadopted. But their most frequent use, as im-\\nplied by the name, was as places for performing\\npenances, or undergoing punishment.\\nPage 104, line 371. Is Tynemouth s haughty\\nPrioress.\\nThat there was an ancient priory at Tyne-\\nmouth is certain. Its ruins are situated on a\\nhigh rocky point and, doubtless, many a vow\\nwas made at the shrine by the distressed mari-\\nners, who drove towards the iron-bound coast\\nof Northumberland in stormy weather. It was\\nanciently a nunnery for Virca, Abbess of\\nTynemouth, presented St. Cuthbert (yet alive)\\nwith a rare winding-sheet, in emulation of a\\nholy lady called Tuda, who had sent him a\\ncoffin. But, as in the case of Whitby, and of\\nHoly Island, the introduction of nuns at Tyne-\\nmouth, in the reign of Henry VIII., is an an-\\nachronism. The nunnery at Holy Island is al-\\ntogether fictitious. Indeed, St. Cuthbert was\\nunlikely to permit such an establishment for,\\nnotwithstanding his accepting the mortuary\\ngifts above mentioned, and his carrying on a\\nvisiting acquaintance with the Abbess of Cold-\\ningham, he certainly hated the whole female\\nsex and, in revenge of a slippery trick played\\nto him by an Irish princess, he, after death,\\ninflicted severe penances on such as presumed\\nto approach within a certain distance of his\\nshrine.\\nPage 105, line 468. Alive within the tomb.\\nIt is well known that the religious who broke\\ntheir vows of chastity were subjected to the\\nsame penalty as the Roman vestals in a similar\\ncase. A small niche, sufficient to enclose their\\nbodies, was made in the massive wall of the\\nconvent a slender pittance of food and water\\nwas deposited in it, and the awful words, Vade\\nin pacem, were the signal for immuring the\\ncriminal. It is not likely that, in latter times,\\nthis punishment was often resorted to but,\\namong the ruins of the abbey of Coldingham,\\nwere some years ago discovered the remains of\\na female skeleton, which, from the shape of the\\nniche and position of the figure, seemed to be\\nthat of an immured nun.\\nPage 107, line 81. Or of the Bed-Cross hero\\nteach.\\n[Sir Sidney Smith]\\nLine 95. Who snatched on Alexandria s\\nsand.\\n[Sir Ralph Abercromby]\\nLine 103. When she, the bold Enchantress,\\ncame.\\n[Joanna Baillie.]\\nPage 108, line 178. And still I thought that\\nshattered tower.\\n[See note to page 14, line 1. _ These lines in\\nthe Introduction to Canto Third connect the\\nauthor s thought with his ballad The Eve of\\nSt. Johns.\\nPage 109, lines 216, 217.\\nWhose doom discording neighbors sought\\nContent with equity unbought.\\nUpon revising the poem, it seems proper to\\nmention that these lines have been uncon-\\nsciously borrowed from a passage in Dryden s\\nbeautiful epistle to John Driden of Chesterton.\\nLine 218. To him the venerable priest.\\n[Mr. John Martin, minister of Mertoun, the\\nparish containing Smailholm Tower.]\\nLine 33. The village inn seemed large, though\\nrude.\\nThe accommodations of a Scottish hostelrie,\\nor inn, in the sixteenth century, may be col-\\nlected from Dunbar s admirable tale of The\\nFriars of Berwick. Simon Lawder, the gay\\nostlier, seems to have lived very comfortably\\nand his wife decorated her person with a scarlet\\nkirtle, and a belt of silk and silver, and rings\\nupon her fingers and feasted her paramour\\nwith rabbits, capons, partridges, and Bourdeaux\\nwine. At least, if the Scottish inns were not\\ngood, it was not for want of encouragement\\nfrom the Legislature who, so early as the\\nreign of James I., not only enacted that in all\\nboroughs and fairs there be hostellaries, having\\nstables and chambers, and provision for man\\nand horse, but by another statute, ordained\\nthat no man, travelling on horse or foot, should\\npresume to lodge anywhere except in these hos-\\ntellaries and that no person, save innkeepers,\\nshould receive such travellers, under the pen-\\nalty of forty shillings, for exercising such hos-\\npitality.\\nPage 111, line 211. Seemed in mine ear a\\ndeath peal rung.\\nAmong other omens to which faithful credit\\nis given among the Scottish peasantry, is what\\nis called the dead-bell, explained by my friend\\nJames Hogg to be that tinkling in the ear which\\nthe country people regard as the secret intelli-\\ngence of some friend s decease.\\nPage 112, fine 333. The founder of the Gob-\\nlin-Hall.\\nA vaulted hall under the ancient castle of\\nGifford, or Yester (for it bears either name in-\\ndifferently), the construction of which has, from\\na very remote period, been ascribed to magic.\\nPage 113, line 354. There floated Haco s ban-\\nner trim.\\nIn 1263, Haeo, King of Norway, came into\\nthe Firth of Clyde with a powerful armament,\\nand made a descent at Largs, in Ayrshire.\\nHere he was encountered and defeated, on the\\n2d October, by Alexander III. He retreated\\nto Orkney, where he died soon after this dis-\\ngrace to his arms. There are still existing,\\nnear the place of battle, many barrows, some\\nof which, having been opened, were found, as\\nusual, to contain bones and urns.\\nLine 362. But, in his wizard habit strange.\\nMagicians, as is well known, were very curi-\\nous in the choice and form of their vestments.\\nTheir caps are oval, or like pyramids, with lap-\\npets on each side, and fur within. Their gowns\\nare long, and furred with fox-skins, under which\\nthey have a linen garment reaching to the knee.\\nTheir girdles are three inches broad, and have\\nmany cabalistical names, with crosses, trines,\\nand circles inscribed on them. Their shoes\\nshould be of new russet leather, with a cross\\ncut upon them. Their knives are dagger-", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0563.jp2"}, "562": {"fulltext": "53-\\nAPPENDIX\\nPages 113 to 119\\nfashion and their swords have neither guard\\nnor scabbard. Reginald Scot s Discovery of\\nWitchcraft.\\nLine 369. Upon his breast a pentacle.\\nScott again cites Reginald Scot A pentacle\\nis a piece of fine linen, folded with five corners,\\naccording to the five senses, and suitably in-\\nscribed with characters. This the magician\\nextends towards the spirits which he invokes,\\nwhen they are stubborn and rebellious, and re-\\nfuse to be conformable unto the ceremonies and\\nrites of magic\\nLine 407. As born upon that blessed night.\\nIt is a popular article of faith, that those who\\nare born on Christmas or Good-Friday have the\\npower of seeing spirits, and even of command-\\ning them. The Spaniards imputed the haggard\\nand downcast looks of their Philip II. to the\\ndisagreeable visions to which this privilege sub-\\njected him.\\nPage 114, line 484. A royal city, tower and\\nspire.\\n[The reference is to the expedition to Copen-\\nhagen in 1801.]\\nLine 502. The Elfin Warrior doth wield.\\nGervase of Tilbury relates the following popu-\\nlar story concerning a fairy knight Osbert, a\\nbold and powerful baron, visited a noble family\\nin the vicinity of Wandlebury, in the bishopric\\nof Ely. Among other stories related in the\\nsocial circle of his friends, who, according to\\ncustom, amused each other by repeating ancient\\ntales and traditions, he was informed that if any\\nknight, unattended, entered an adjacent plain\\nby moonlight, and challenged an adversary to\\nappear, he would be immediately encountered\\nby a spirit in the form of a knight. Osbert\\nresolved to make the experiment, and set out,\\nattended by a single squire, whom he ordered\\nto remain without the limits of the plain, which\\nwas surrounded by an ancient entrenchment.\\nOn repeating the challenge he was instantly\\nassailed by an adversary, whom he quickly un-\\nhorsed, and seized the reins of his steed. Dur-\\ning this operation his ghostly opponent sprung\\nup, and, darting his spear, like a javelin, at\\nOsbert, wounded him in the thigh. Osbert re-\\nturned in triumph with the horse, which he\\ncommitted to the care of his servants. The\\nhorse was of a sable color, as well as his whole\\naccoutrements, and apparently of great beauty\\nand vigor. He remained with his keeper till\\neoekcrowing, when, with eyes flashing fire, he\\nreared, spurned the ground, and vanished. On\\ndisarming himself, Osbert perceived that he\\nwas wounded, and that one of his top-boots\\nwas full of blood. Gervase adds that, as long\\nas he lived, the sear of his wound opened afresh\\non the anniversary of the eve on which he en-\\ncountered the spirit.\\nPage 116, line 91. The morn may find the\\nstiffened swain.\\nI cannot help here mentioning, that, on the\\nnight in which these lines were written, sug-\\ngested, as they were, by a sudden fall of snow,\\nbeginning after sunset, an unfortunate man\\nperished exactly in the manner here described,\\nand his body was next morning found close to\\nhis own house. The accident happened within\\nfive miles of the farm of Ashestiel.\\nLine 132. Scarce had lamented Forbes paid.\\nSir William Forbes of Pitsligo, Baronet un-\\nequalled, perhaps, in the degree of individual\\naffection entertained for him by his friends, as\\nwell as in the general respect and esteem of\\nScotland at large. His Life of Beattie, whom\\nhe befriended and patronized in fife, as well\\nas celebrated after his decease, was not long\\npublished, before the benevolent and affection-\\nate biographer was called to follow the subject\\nof his narrative. This melancholy event very\\nshortly succeeded the marriage of the friend to\\nwhom this introduction is addressed, with one\\nof Sir William s daughters.\\nPage 117, line 174. Pandour and Camp, with\\neyes of fire.\\n[Raeburn introduced Scott s bull terrier,\\nCamp, into his portrait of the poet.]\\nLine 191. Then he, whose absence we deplore.\\n[Colin Mackenzie, of Portmore.]\\nLine 195. And one whose name I may not say.\\n[The son of Sir William Forbes, mentioned\\nabove. He also was a member of the volunteer\\ncorps and club which included Scott, Sir Wil-\\nliam Rae of St. Catharine s, Mr. Skene and Mr.\\nMackenzie with others.]\\nPage 118, line 31. Been lantern-led by Friar\\nBush.\\nAlias, Will o the wisp. This personage is\\na strolling demon, or esprit follet, who, once\\nupon a time, got admittance into a monastery\\nas a scullion, and played the monks many\\npranks. He was a sort of Robin Goodfellow,\\nand Jack o Lantern.\\nPage 119, line 153. Sir David Lindesay of the\\nMount.\\nI am uncertain if I abuse poetical license by\\nintroducing Sir David Lindesay in the character\\nof Lion-Herald sixteen years before he obtained\\nthat office. At any rate, I am not the first who\\nhas been guilty of the anachronism for the\\nauthor of Flodden Field despatches Dallamount,\\nwhich can mean nobody but Sir David de la\\nMont, to France, on the message of defiance\\nfrom James IV. to Henry VIII. It was often\\nan office imposed on the Lion King-at-arms, to\\nreceive foreign embassadors and Lindesay him-\\nself did this honor to Sir Ralph Sadler in 1539-\\n40. Indeed, the oath of the Lion, in its first\\narticle, bears reference to his frequent employ-\\nment upon royal messages and embassies.\\nLine 194. Where Crichtoun Castle crowns the\\nbank.\\nA large ruinous castle on the banks of the\\nTyne, about seven miles from Edinburgh. As\\nindicated in the text, it was built at different\\ntimes and with a very differing regard to splen-\\ndor and accommodation. The oldest part of\\nthe building is a narrow keep, or tower, such as\\nformed the mansion of a lesser Scottish baron\\nbut so many additions have been made to it\\nthat there is now a large court-yard, surrounded\\nby buildings of different ages. The eastern\\nfront of the court is raised above a portico, and", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0564.jp2"}, "563": {"fulltext": "Page 1 20\\nNOTES MARMION\\n533\\ndecorated with entablatures bearing anchors.\\nAll the stones of this front are cut into diamond\\nfacets, the angular projections of which have an\\nuncommonly rich appearance. The inside of\\nthis part of the building appears to have con-\\ntained a gallery of great length, and uncommon\\nelegance. Access was given to it by a magnifi-\\ncent staircase, now quite destroyed.\\nPage 120, line 232. The darkness of thy Massy\\nMore.\\nThe Castle of Crichtoun has a dungeon vault,\\ncalled the Massy More. The epithet, which is\\nnot uncommonly applied to the prisons of other\\nold castles in Scotland, is of Saracenic origin.\\nIt occurs twice in the Epistoloz Itinerarioz of\\nTollius, career subterraneus, sive, ut Mauri ap-\\npellant, Mazmorra. 1 The same word applies to\\nthe dungeons of the ancient Moorish castles in\\nSpain, and serves to show from what nation the\\nGothic style of castle-building was originally\\nderived.\\nLine 248. Earl Adam Hepburn, he who died.\\nHe was the second Earl of Bothwell and fell\\nin the field of Floddenj where, according to an\\nancient English poet, he distinguished himself\\nby a furious attempt to retrieve the day.\\nLines 254, 255.\\nBefore the name\\nOf hated Bothwell stained their fame.\\nAdam was grandfather to James, Earl of\\nBothwell, too well known in the history of\\nQueen Mary.\\nLine 278. For that a messenger from heaven.\\nThis story is told by Pitseottie with character-\\nistic simplicity The king, seeing that France\\ncould get no support of him for that time, made\\na proclamation, full hastily, through all the\\nrealm of Scotland, both east and west, south\\nand north, as well in the Isles as in the firm\\nland, to all manner of man betwixt sixty and\\nsixteen years, that they should be ready, within\\ntwenty days, to pass with him, with forty days\\nvictual, and to meet at the Burrow-muir of\\nEdinburgh, and there to pass forward where\\nhe pleased. His proclamations were hastily\\nobeyed, contrary the Council of Scotland s will\\nbut every man loved his prince so well, that\\nthey would on no ways disobey him but every\\nman caused make his proclamation so hastily,\\nconform to the charge of the king s proclama-\\ntion.\\nThe king came to Lithgow, where he hap-\\npened to be for the time at the council, very sad\\nand dolorous, making his devotion to God, to\\nsend him good chance and fortune in his voy-\\nage. In this mean time, there came a man clad\\nin a blue gown in at the kirk-door, and belted\\nabout him in a roll of linen cloth a pair of bro-\\ntikings on his feet, to the great of his legs with\\nall other hose and clothes conform thereto but\\nhe had nothing on his head, but syde red yellow\\nhair behind, and on his haffets, which wan down\\nto his shoulders but his forehead was bald\\nand bare. He seemed to be a man of two-and-\\nfifty years, with a great pike-staff in his hand,\\nand came first forward among the lords, crying\\nand speiring for the king, saying, he desired to\\nspeak with him. While, at the last, he came\\nwhere the king was sitting in the desk at his\\nprayers but when he saw the king, he made\\nhim little reverence or salutation, but leaned\\ndown grofling on the desk before him, and said\\nto him in this manner, as after follows: Sir\\nking, my mother hath sent me to you, desiring\\nyou not to pass, at this time, where thou art\\npurposed for if thou does, thou wilt not fare\\nwell in thy journey, nor none that passeth with\\nthee. Further, she bade thee mell with no\\nwoman, nor use their counsel, nor let them\\ntouch thy body, nor thou theirs for, if thou\\ndo it, thou wilt be confounded and brought to\\nshame.\\nBy this man had spoken thir words unto\\nthe king s grace, the evening song was near\\ndone, and the king paused on thir words, study-\\ning to give him an answer but, in the mean\\ntime, before the king s eyes, and in the presence\\nof all the lords that were about him for the\\ntime, this man vanished away, and could no\\nways be seen nor comprehended, but vanished\\naway as he had been a blink of the sun, or a\\nwhip of the whirlwind, and could no more be\\nseen. I heard say, Sir David Lindesay, lyon-\\nherauld, and Johnlnglis the marshal, who were,\\nat that time, young men, and special servants\\nto the king s grace, were standing presently be-\\nside the king, who thought to have laid hands\\non this man, that they might have speired fur-\\nther tidings at him. But all for nought they\\ncould not touch him for he vanished away\\nbetwixt them, and was no more seen.\\nLine 287. Linlithgow is excelling.\\nThe situation of Linlithgow Palace is emi-\\nnently beautiful. It stands on a promontory of\\nsome elevation, which advances almost into the\\nmidst of the lake. The form is that of a square\\ncourt, composed of buildings of four stories\\nhigh, with towers at the angles. The fronts\\nwithin the square, and the windows, are highly\\nornamented, and the size of the rooms, as well\\nas the width and character of the staircases, are\\nupon a magnificent scale. One banquet-room\\nis ninety-four feet long, thirty feet wide, and\\nthirty-three feet high, with a gallery for music.\\nThe king s wardrobe, or dressing-room, looking\\nto the west, projects over the walls, so as to have\\na delicious prospect on three sides, and is one of\\nthe most enviable boudoirs we have ever seen.\\nLine 291 The wild buck bells from ferny brake\\nI am glad of an opportunity to describe the\\ncry of the deer by another word than braying,\\nalthough the latter has been sanctified by the\\nuse of the Scottish metrical translation of the\\nPsalms. Bell seems to be an abbreviation of\\nbellow. This sylvan sound conveyed great de-\\nlight to our ancestors, chiefly, I suppose, from\\nassociation. A gentle knight in the reign of\\nHenry VIII., Sir Thomas Wortley, built Want-\\nley Lodge, in Wancliffe Forest, for the pleasure\\n(as an ancient inscription testifies) of listening\\nto the hart s bell.\\nLine 298. June saw his father s overthrow.\\nThe rebellion against James III. was signal-\\nized by the cruel circumstance of his son s pre-", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0565.jp2"}, "564": {"fulltext": "534\\nAPPENDIX\\nPages 123 to i\\nsence in the hostile army. When the king saw\\nhis own banner displayed against him, and his\\nson in the faction of his enemies, he lost the\\nlittle courage he ever possessed, fled out of the\\nfield, fell from his horse, as it started at a wo-\\nman and water-pitcher, and was slain, it is not\\nwell understood by whom. James IV., after\\nthe battle, passed to Stirling, and hearing the\\nmonks of the chapel royal deploring the death\\nof his father, their founder, he was seized with\\ndeep remorse, which manifested itself in severe\\npenances. The battle of Sauchie-burn, in which\\nJames III. fell, was fought 18th June, 1488.\\nPage 123, line 521. Spread all the Borough-\\nmoor below.\\nThe Borough, or common Moor of Edinburgh,\\nwas of very great extent, reaching from the\\nsouthern walls of the city to the bottom of\\nBraid Hills. It was anciently a forest and, in\\nthat state, was so great a nuisance, that the in-\\nhabitants of Edinburgh had permission granted\\nto them of building wooden galleries, projecting\\nover the street, in order to encourage them to\\nconsume the timber which they seem to have\\ndone very effectually. When James IV. mus-\\ntered the array of the kingdom there, in 1513,\\nthe Borough-moor was, according to Hawthorn-\\nden, a field spacious, and delightful by the\\nshade of many stately and aged oaks. Upon\\nthat, and similar occasions, the royal standard\\nis traditionally said to have been displayed from\\nthe Hare Stone, a high stone, now built into the\\nwall, on the left hand of the highway leading\\ntowards Braid, not far from the head of Brunts-\\nfield-links. The Hare Stone probably derives\\nits name from the British word Har, signifying\\nan army.\\nLine 557. And there were Borthwick s Sisters\\nSeven.\\nSeven culverins, so called, cast by one Borth-\\nwick.\\nLine 566. Scroll, pennon, pencil, bandrol,\\nthere.\\nEach of these feudal ensigns intimated the\\ndifferent rank of those entitled to display them.\\nLine 578. The ruddy lion ramped in gold.\\nThe well-known arms of Scotland. If you\\nwill believe Boethius and Buchanan, the double\\ntressure round the shield was first assumed by\\nAchaius, King of Scotland, contemporary of\\nCharlemagne, and founder of the celebrated\\nLeague with France but later antiquaries\\nmake poor Eochy, or Achy, little better than a\\nsort of King of Brentford, whom old Grig (who\\nalso has swelled into Gregorius Magnus) asso-\\nciated with himself in the important duty of\\ngoverning some part of the northeastern coast\\nof Scotland.\\nPage 125, fine 37. True, Caledonia s Queen is\\nchanged.\\nThe Old Town of Edinburgh was secured on\\nthe north side by a lake, now drained, and on\\nthe south by a wall, which there was some at-\\ntempt to make defensible even so late as 1745.\\nThe gates, and the greater part of the wall, have\\nbeen pulled down, in the course of the late ex-\\ntensive and beautiful enlargement of the city.\\nPage 126, line 118. To Henry meek she gave\\nrepose.\\nHenry VI., with his queen, his heir, and the\\nchiefs of his family, fled to Scotland after the\\nfatal battle of Towton.\\nLine 120. Great Bourbon s relics sad she saw.\\n[In January, 1796, the exiled Count d Artois,\\nafterwards Charles X. of France, took up his\\nresidence in Holyrood, where he remained until\\nAugust, 1799. When again driven from his\\ncountry by the Revolution of July, 1830, the\\nsame unfortunate prince, with all the immedi-\\nate members of his family, sought refuge once\\nmore in the ancient palace of the Stuarts, and\\nremained there until 18th September, 1832.]\\nLine 180. Till Windsor s oaks and Ascot\\nplain.\\n[Scott wrote part of the first two cantos of\\nthis poem at Ellis s seat, Sunning-hill, near\\nWindsor.]\\nPage 127, line 18. The cloth-yard arrows Jlew\\nlike hail.\\nThis is no poetical exaggeration. In some of\\nthe counties of England, distinguished for arch-\\nery, shafts of this extraordinary length were\\nactually used. Thus, at the battle of Black-\\nheath, between the troops of Henry VII. and\\nthe Cornish insurgents, in 1496, the bridge of\\nDartford was defended, by a picked band of\\narchers from the rebel army, whose arrows,\\nsays Holinshed, were in length a full cloth\\nyard. The Scottish, according to Ascham,\\nhad a proverb, that every English archer car-\\nried under his belt twenty-four Scots, in allu-\\nsion to his bundle of unerring shafts.\\nLine 36. He saw the hardy burghers there.\\nThe Scottish burgesses were, like yeomen,\\nappointed to be armed with bows and sheaves,\\nsword, buckler, knife, spear, or a good axe\\ninstead of a bow, if worth \u00c2\u00a3100 their armor\\nto be of white or bright harness. They wore\\nwhite hats that is, bright steel caps, without\\ncrest or visor. By an act of James IV., their\\nweapon-schawings are appointed to be held four\\ntimes a year, under the aldermen or bailiffs.\\nLine 53. His arms were halbert, axe, or spear.\\nBows and quivers were in vain recommended\\nto the peasantry of Scotland, by repeated stat-\\nutes spears and axes seem universally to have\\nbeen used instead of them. Their defensive\\narmor was the plate-jack, hauberk, or brigan-\\ntine and their missile weapons cross-bows and\\nculverins. All wore swords of excellent tem-\\nper, according to Patten and a voluminous\\nhandkerchief round their neck, not for cold,\\nbut for cutting. The mace also was much\\nused in the Scottish army. When the feudal\\narray of the kingdom was called forth, each\\nman was obliged to appear with forty days\\nprovision. When this was expended, which\\ntook place before the battle of Flodden, the\\narmy melted away of course. Almost all the\\nScottish forces, except a few knights, men-at-\\narms, and the Border-prickers, who formed\\nexcellent light cavalry, acted upon foot.\\nPage 128, line 165. A banquet rich and costly", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0566.jp2"}, "565": {"fulltext": "Pages 129 to 131\\nNOTES MARMION\\n535\\nIn all transactions of great or petty impor-\\ntance, and among whomsoever taking place, it\\nwould seem that a present of wine was a uni-\\nform and indispensable preliminary. It was\\nnot to Sir John Falstaff alone that such an\\nintroductory preface was necessary, however\\nwell judged and acceptable on the part of Mr.\\nBrook for Sir Ralph Sadler, while on an em-\\nbassy to Scotland in 1539-40, mentions, with\\ncomplacency, the same night came Rothesay\\n(the herald so called) to me again, and brought\\nme wine from the King, both white and red.\\nPage 129, line 247. The pressure of his iron\\nbelt.\\nFew readers need to be reminded of this\\nbelt, to the weight of which James added cer-\\ntain ounces every year that he lived. Pits-\\ncottie founds his belief that James was not\\nslain in the battle of Flodden, because the Eng-\\nlish never had this token of the iron belt to\\nshow to any Scottishman. The person and\\ncharacter of James are delineated according to\\nour best historians. His romantic disposition,\\nwhich led him highly to relish gayety approach-\\ning to license, was, at the same time, tinged\\nwith enthusiastic devotion. The propensities\\nsometimes formed a strange contrast. He was\\nwont, during his fits of devotion, to assume the\\ndress, and conform to the rules, of the order of\\nFranciscans and when he had thus done pen-\\nance for some time in Stirling, to plunge again\\ninto the tide of pleasure. Probably, too, with\\nno unusual inconsistency, he sometimes laughed\\nat the superstitious observances to which he at\\nother times subjected himself.\\nLine 260. O er James s heart the courtiers\\nsay.\\nIt has been already noticed that King James s\\nacquaintance with Lady Heron of Ford did not\\ncommence until he marched into England.\\nOur historians impute to the king s infatuated\\npassion the delays which led to the fatal defeat\\nof Flodden. The author of The Genealogy of\\nthe Heron Family endeavors, with laudable anx-\\niety, to clear the Lady Ford from this scandal\\nthat she came and went, however, between the\\narmies of James and Surrey, is certain. Heron\\nof Ford had been, in 1511, in some sort acces-\\nsory to the slaughter of Sir Robert Kerr of\\nCessford, Warden of the Middle Marches. It\\nwas committed by his brother the bastard,\\nLilburn and Starked, three Borderers. Lil-\\nburn and Heron of Ford were delivered up by\\nHenry to James, and were imprisoned in the\\nfortress of Fastcastle, where the former died.\\nPart of the pretence of Lady Ford s negotia-\\ntions with James was the liberty of her hus-\\nband.\\nLine 269. For the fair Queen of France.\\nAlso the Queen of France wrote a love-let-\\nter to the King of Scotland, calling him her\\nlove, showing him that she had suffered much\\nrebuke in France for the defending of his\\nhonor. She believed surely that he would\\nrecompense her again with some of his kingly\\nsupport in her necessity that is to say, that he\\nwould raise her an army, and come three foot\\nof ground on English ground, for her sake. To\\nthat effect she sent him a ring off her finger,\\nwith fourteen thousand French crowns to pay\\nhis expenses. Pitscottie, p. 110.\\nPage 130. Lochinvar.\\nThis ballad is in a very slight degree founded\\non a ballad called Katharine Ianfarie.\\nLine 332. Love swells like the Solway, but\\nebbs like its tide.\\n[An editor of Scott reminds the reader of the\\ndetailed picture of some of the extraordinary\\nphenomena of the spring-tides in the Solway\\nFirth which Scott drew in Redgauntlet.]\\nPage 131, line 398. Of Archibald Bell-the-\\nCat.\\nArchibald Douglas, Earl of Angus, a man\\nremarkable for strength of body and mind,\\nacquired the popular name of Bell-the-Cat upon\\nthe following remarkable occasion James the\\nThird, of whom Pitscottie complains that he\\ndelighted more in music and policies of build-\\ning, than in hunting, hawking, and other noble\\nexercises, was so ill advised as to make favorites\\nof his architects and musicians, whom the same\\nhistorian irreverently terms masons and fid-\\ndlers. His nobility, who did not sympathize\\nin the king s respect for the fine arts, were ex-\\ntremely incensed at the honors conferred on\\nthose persons, particularly on Cochran, a ma-\\nson, who had been created Earl of Mar and\\nseizing the opportunity, when, in 1482, the king\\nhad convoked the whole array of the country\\nto march against the English, they held a mid-\\nnight council in the church of Lauder, for the\\npurpose of forcibly removing these minions\\nfrom the king s person. When all had agreed\\non the propriety of this measure, Lord Gray\\ntold the assembly the apologue of the Mice,\\nwho had formed a resolution that it would be\\nhighly advantageous to their community to tie\\na bell round the cat s neck, that they might\\nhear her approach at a distance but which\\npublic measure unfortunately miscarried, from\\nno mouse being willing to undertake the task\\nof fastening the bell. I understand the moral,\\nsaid Angus, and, that what we propose may\\nnot lack execution, I will bell the cat.\\nLine 414. And chafed his royal lord.\\nAngus was an old man when the war against\\nEngland was resolved upon. He earnestly\\nspoke against that measure from its commence-\\nment, and, on the eve of the battle of Flodden,\\nremonstrated so freely upon the impolicy of\\nfighting, that the king said to him, with scorn\\nand indignation, if he was afraid, he might go\\nhome. The earl burst into tears at this insup-\\nportable insult, and retired accordingly, leav-\\ning his sons, George, Master of Angus, and Sir\\nWilliam of Glenbervie, to command his follow-\\ners. They were both slain in the battle, with\\ntwo hundred gentlemen of the name of Doug-\\nlas. The aged earl, broken-hearted at the ca-\\nlamities of his house and his country, retired\\ninto a religious house, where he died about a\\nyear after the field of Flodden.\\nLine 429. Then rest you in Tantallon hold.\\nThe ruins of Tantallon Castle occupy a high", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0567.jp2"}, "566": {"fulltext": "536\\nAPPENDIX\\nPages 131 to 138\\nrock projecting into the German Ocean, about\\ntwo miles east of North Berwick. The build-\\ning is not seen till a close approach, as there is\\nrising ground betwixt it and the land. The\\ncircuit is of large extent, fenced upon three\\nsides by the precipice which overhangs the sea,\\nand on the fourth by a double ditch and very\\nstrong outworks. Tantallon was a principal\\ncastle of the Douglas family, and when the\\nEarl of Angus was banished, in 1527, it con-\\ntinued to hold out against James V. The king\\nwas forced to raise the siege, and only after-\\nwards obtained possession of Tantallon by\\ntreaty with the governor, Simeon Panango.\\nWhen the Earl of Angus returned from ban-\\nishment, upon the death of James, he again\\nobtained possession of Tantallon, and it actu-\\nally afforded refuge to an English ambassador,\\nunder circumstances similar to those described\\nin the text. This was no other than the cele-\\nbrated Sir Ralph Sadler, who resided there for\\nsome time under Angus s protection, after the\\nfailure of his negotiation for matching the in-\\nfant Mary with Edward VI.\\nLine 432. He wears their motto on his blade.\\nA very ancient sword, in possession of Lord\\nDouglas, bears, among a great deal of flourish-\\ning, two hands pointing to a heart, which is\\nplaced betwixt them, and the date 1329, being\\nthe year in which Bruce charged the Good Lord\\nDouglas to carry his heart to the Holy Land.\\nThis curious and valuable relic was lost during\\nthe Civil War of 1745-46, being carried away\\nfrom Douglas Castle by some of those in arms\\nfor Prince Charles. But great interest having\\nbeen made by the Duke of Douglas among the\\nchief partisans of the Stuart, it was at length\\nrestored. It resembles a Highland claymore,\\nof the usual size, is of an excellent temper, and\\nadmirably poised.\\nPage 132, line 501. Lords, to the dance,\\na hall! a hall!\\nThe ancient cry to make room for a dance,\\nor pageant.\\nPage 133, line 587. And had made league\\nwith Martin Swart.\\nA German general who commanded the aux-\\niliaries sent by the Duchess of Burgundy with\\nLambert Simnel. He was defeated and killed\\nat Stokefield. His name is preserved by that\\nof the field of battle, which is called, after him,\\nSwart-moor.\\nPage 134, line 709. Dun-Edin^s Cross, a pil-\\nlared stone.\\nThe Cross of Edinburgh was an ancient and\\ncurious structure. The lower part was an oc-\\ntagonal tower, sixteen feet in diameter, and\\nabout fifteen feet high. At each angle there\\nwas a pillar, and between them an arch, of the\\nGrecian shape. Above these was a projecting\\nbattlement, with a turret at each corner, and\\nmedallions, of rude but curious workmanship,\\nbetween them. Above this rose the proper\\nCross, a column of one stone, upwards of\\ntwenty feet high, surmounted with an unicorn.\\nThis pillar is preserved at the House of Drum,\\nnear Edinburgh. The Magistrates of Edin-\\nI burgh, in 1756, with consent of the Lords of\\nSession (proh pudor!), destroyed this curious\\nmonument, under a wanton pretext that it en-\\ncumbered the street. [Since the above was\\nwritten the shaft of the old Cross has been set\\nup within the railings of St. Giles s Church,\\nvery near its original site. W. J. R.] From\\nthe tower of the Cross, so long as it remained,\\nthe heralds published the acts of Parliament\\nand its site, marked by radii, diverging from a\\nstone centre, in the High Street, is still the\\nplace where proclamations are made.\\nLine 735. This awful summons came.\\nThis supernatural citation is mentioned by\\nall our Scottish historians. It was, probably,\\nlike the apparition at Linlithgow, an attempt,\\nby those averse to the war, to impose upon the\\nsuperstitious temper of James IV.\\nPage 135, Hne 838. Before a venerable pile.\\nThe convent alluded to is a foundation of\\nCistercian nuns near North Berwick, of which\\nthere are still some remains. It was founded\\nby Duncan, Earl of Fife, in 1216.\\nPage 136, hne 914. Drove the monks forth of\\nCoventry.\\nThis relates to the catastrophe of a real\\nRobert de Marmion, in the reign of King\\nStephen, whom William of Newbury describes\\nwith some attributes of my fictitious hero.\\nHomo bellicosus, ferocia et astucia fere nullo\\nsuo tempore imparl This baron, having ex-\\npelled the monks from the church of Coventry,\\nwas not long of experiencing the divine judg-\\nment, as the same monks, no doubt, termed his\\ndisaster. Having waged a feudal war with the\\nEarl of Chester, Marmion s horse fell, as he\\ncharged in the van of his troop, against a body\\nof the earl s followers the rider s thigh being\\nbroken by the fall, his head was cut off by a\\ncommon foot-soldier, ere he could receive any\\nsuccor.\\nPage 137, line 6. Even, heathen yet, the savage\\nDane.\\nThe Iol of the heathen Danes (a word still\\napplied to Christmas in Scotland) was solem-\\nnized with great festivity. The humor of the\\nDanes at table displayed itself in pelting each\\nother with bones and Torf seus tells a long and\\ncurious story, in the history of Hrolfe Kraka,\\nof one Hottus, an inmate of the Court of Den-\\nmark, who was so generally assailed with these\\nmissiles that he constructed, out of the bones\\nwith which he was overwhelmed, a very respect-\\nable entrenchment against those who continued\\nthe raillery. The dances of the Northern war-\\nriors round the great fires of pine-trees are com-\\nmemorated by Olaus Magnus, who says they\\ndanced with such fury, holding each other by\\nthe hands, that if the grasp of any failed, he\\nwas pitched into the fire with the velocity of a\\nsling. The sufferer on such occasions was in-\\nstantly plucked out, and obliged to quaff off a\\ncertain measure of ale, as a penalty for spoil-\\ning the king s fire.\\nPage 138, hne 74. Who lists may in their mum-\\nming see.\\nIt seems certain that the Mummers of Eng-", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0568.jp2"}, "567": {"fulltext": "Pages 138 to 143\\nNOTES: MARMION\\n537\\nland who (in Northumberland at least) used to\\ngo about in disguise to the neighboring houses,\\nbearing the then useless ploughshare and the\\nGuisards of Scotland, not yet in total disuse,\\npresent, in some indistinct degree, a shadow of\\nthe old mysteries, which were the origin of the\\nEnglish drama. In Scotland (me ipso teste), we\\nwere wont, during my boyhood, to take the\\ncharacters of the apostles, at least of Peter,\\nPaul, and Judas Iscariot, which last carried the\\nbag, in which the dole of our neighbor s plum-\\ncake was deposited. One played a Champion,\\nand recited some traditional rhymes another\\nAlexander, king of Macedon,\\nWho conquered all the world but Scotland alone;\\nWhen he came to Scotland his courage grew cold,\\nTo see a little nation courageous and bold.\\nThese, and many such verses, were repeated,\\nbut by rote, and unconnectedly. There was\\nalso occasionally, I believe, a Saint George. In\\nall there was a confused resemblance of the\\nancient mysteries, in which the characters of\\nScripture, the Nine Worthies, and other popu-\\nlar personages were usually exhibited.\\nLine 95, 96.\\nWhere my great-grand sire came of old\\nWith amber beard and flaxen hair.\\nMr. Scott of Harden, my kind and affection-\\nate friend, and distant relation, has the origi-\\nnal of a poetical invitation, addressed from his\\ngrandfather to my relative, from which a few\\nlines in the text are imitated. They are dated,\\nas the epistle in the text, from Mertoun-house,\\nthe seat of the Harden family.\\nWith amber beard, and flaxen hair,\\nAnd reverend apostolic air,\\nFree of anxiety and care,\\nCome hither, Christmas-day, and dine;\\nWe 11 mix sobriety with wine,\\nAnd easy mirth with thoughts divine.\\nWe Christians think it holiday.\\nOn it no sin to feast or play\\nOthers, in spite, may fast and pray.\\nNo superstition in the use\\nOur ancestors made of a goose\\nWhy may not we, as well as they,\\nBe innocently blithe that day,\\nOn goose or pie, on wine or ale,\\nAnd scorn enthusiastic zeal\\nPray come, and welcome, or plague rott\\nTour friend and landlord, Walter Scott.\\nPage J.39, line 160. The Highlander, whose\\nred claymore.\\nThe Daoine shV or Men of Peace, of the\\nScottish Highlanders, rather resemble the Scan-\\ndinavian Duergar than the English Fairies.\\nNotwithstanding their name, they are, if not\\nabsolutely malevolent, at least peevish, discon-\\ntented, and apt to do mischief on slight provo-\\ncation. The belief of their existence is deeply\\nimpressed on the Highlanders, who think they\\nare particularly offended with mortals who talk\\nof them, who wear their favorite color green,\\nor in any respect interfere with their affairs.\\nThis is particularly to be avoided on Friday,\\nwhen, whether as dedicated to Venus, with\\nwhom, in Germany, this subterraneous people\\nare held nearly connected, or for a more solemn\\nreason, they are more active, and possessed of\\ngreater power.\\nLine 169. Beneath the towers of Franchemont.\\nThe journal of the friend to whom the Fourth\\nCanto of the Poem is inscribed, furnished me\\nwith the following account of a striking super-\\nstition\\nPassed the pretty little village of Franche-\\nmont (near Spaw), with the romantic ruins of\\nthe old castle of the Counts of that name. The\\nroad leads through many delightful vales, on a\\nrising ground at the extremity of one of them\\nstands the ancient castle, now the subject of\\nmany superstitious legends. It is firmly be-\\nlieved by the neighboring peasantry, that the\\nlast Baron of Franchemont deposited, in one of\\nthe vaults of the castle, a ponderous chest, con-\\ntaining an immense treasure in gold and silver,\\nwhich, by some magic spell, was intrusted to\\nthe care of the Devil, who is constantly found\\nsitting on the chest in the shape of a huntsman.\\nAny one adventurous enough to touch the chest\\nis instantly seized with the palsy. Upon one\\noccasion a priest of noted piety was brought to\\nthe vault he used all the arts of exorcism to\\npersuade his infernal majesty to vacate his seat,\\nbut in vain the huntsman remained immov-\\nable. _ At last, moved by the earnestness of\\nthe priest, he told him that he would agree to\\nresign the chest if the exoreisor would sign his\\nname with blood. But the priest understood\\nhis meaning and refused, as by that act he\\nwould have delivered over his soul to the Devil.\\nYet if anybody can discover the mystic words\\nused by the person who deposited the treasure,\\nand pronounce them, the fiend must instantly\\ndecamp. I had many stories of a similar nature\\nfrom a peasant, who had himself seen the Devil,\\nin the shape of a great cat.\\nLine 207. My song the messenger from heaven.\\n[See page 120, line 278, and the note thereto.]\\nPage 142, line 280. The rest were all in Twisel\\nglen.\\nWhere James encamped before taking post on\\nFlodden.\\nPage 143, line 327. A bishop by the altar stood.\\nThe well-known Gawain Douglas, Bishop of\\nDunkeld, son of Archibald Bell-the-cat, Earl of\\nAngus. He was author of a Scottish metrical\\nversion of the iEneid, and of many other poeti-\\ncal pieces of great merit. He had not at this\\nperiod attained the mitre.\\nLine 341. Upon the huge and sweeping brand.\\nAngus had strength and personal activity cor-\\nresponding to his courage. Spens of Kilspindie,\\na favorite of James IV., having spoken of him\\nlightly, the earl met him while hawking, and\\ncompelling him to single combat, at one blow\\ncut asunder his thigh-bone and killed him on\\nthe spot. But ere he could obtain James s par-\\ndon for this slaughter, Angus was obliged to\\nyield his castle of Hermitage, in exchange for\\nthat of Both well, which was some diminution\\nto the family greatness. The sword with which\\nhe struck so remarkable a blow was presented", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0569.jp2"}, "568": {"fulltext": "538\\nAPPENDIX\\nPages 144 to 146\\nby his descendant, James, Earl of Morton, after-\\nwards Regent of Scotland, to Lord Lindesay of\\nthe Byres, when he defied Both well to single\\ncombat on Carberry-hill.\\nPage 144, line 431. Fierce he broke forth,\\nAnd darest thou then\\nThis ebullition of violence in the potent Earl\\nof Angus is not without its examples in the real\\nhistory of the house of Douglas, whose chief-\\ntains possessed the ferocity with the heroic vir-\\ntues of a savage state. The most curious in-\\nstance occurred in the case of Maclellan, tutor\\nof Bomby, who, having refused to acknowledge\\nthe preeminence claimed by Douglas over the\\ngentlemen and Barons of Galloway, was seized\\nand imprisoned by the earl, in his castle of the\\nThrieve, on the borders of Kirkcudbright-shire.\\nSir Patrick Gray, commander of King James\\nthe Second s guard, was uncle to the tutor of\\nBomby, and obtained from the king a sweet\\nletter of supplication, praying the earl to de-\\nliver his prisoner into Gray s hand. When Sir\\nPatrick arrived at the castle, he was received\\nwith all the honor due to a favorite servant of\\nthe king s household but while he was at din-\\nner, the earl, who suspected his errand, caused\\nhis prisoner to be led forth and beheaded.\\nAfter dinner, Sir Patrick presented the king s\\nletter to the earl, who received it with great\\naffectation of reverence and took him by the\\nhand, and led him forth to the green, where\\nthe gentleman was lying dead, and showed him\\nthe manner, and said, Sir Patrick, you are\\ncome a little too late yonder is your sister s son\\nlying, but he wants the head take his body,\\nand do with it what you will. Sir Patrick an-\\nswered again with a sore heart, and said, My\\nlord, if ye have taken from him his head, dis-\\npone upon the body as ye please and with\\nthat called for his horse, and leaped thereon\\nand when he was on horseback, he said to the\\nearl on this manner: My lord, if I live, you\\nshall be rewarded for your labors, that you have\\nused at this time, according to your demerits.\\nAt this saying the earl was highly offended, and\\ncried for horse. Sir Patrick, seeing the earl s\\nfury, spurred his horse, but he was chased near\\nEdinburgh ere they left him and had it not\\nbeen his lead horse was so tried and good, he\\nhad been taken. Pitscottie s History.\\nLine 457. Did ever knight so foul a deed\\nLest the reader should partake of the Earl s\\nastonishment, and consider the crime as incon-\\nsistent with the manners of the period, I have\\nto remind him of the numerous forgeries (partly\\nexecuted by a female assistant) devised by\\nRobert of Artois, to forward his suit against the\\nCountess Matilda which, being detected, occa-\\nsioned his flight into England, and proved the\\nremote cause of Edward the Third s memorable\\nwars in France. John Harding, also, was ex-\\npressly hired by Edward IV. to forge such docu-\\nments as might appear to establish the claim of\\nfealty asserted over Scotland by the English\\nmonarchs.\\nPage 145, line 500. The earl did much the\\nMaster pray.\\nHis eldest son, the Master of Angus.\\nLine 540. Where Lennel s convent closed their\\nmarch.\\nThis was a Cistercian house of religion, now\\nalmost entirely demolished. It is situated near\\nColdstream, almost opposite to Cornhill, and\\nconsequently very near to Flodden Field.\\nLine 573. The Till by Twisel Bridge.\\nOn the evening previous to the memorable\\nbattle of Flodden, Surrey s head-quarters were\\nat Barmore-wood, and King James held an in-\\naccessible position on the ridge of Flodden-hill,\\none of the last and lowest eminences detached\\nfrom the ridge of Cheviot. The Till, a deep\\nand slow river, winded between the armies.\\nOn the morning of the 9th September, 1513,\\nSurrey marched in a northwesterly direction,\\nand crossed the Till, with his van and artillery,\\nat Twisel-bridge, nigh where that river joins the\\nTweed, his rear-guard column passing about a\\nmile higher, by a ford. This movement had\\nthe double effect of placing his army between\\nKing James and his supplies from Scotland,\\nand of striking the Scottish monarch with sur-\\nprise, as he seems to have relied on the depth\\nof the river in his front. But as the passage,\\nboth over the bridge and through the ford, was\\ndifficult and slow, it seems possible that the\\nEnglish might have been attacked to great ad-\\nvantage, while struggling with these natural\\nobstacles.\\nPage 146, line 681. Hence might they see the\\nfull array.\\nThe reader cannot here expect a full account\\nof the Battle of Flodden but, so far as is neces-\\nsary to understand the romance, I beg to re-\\nmind him, that, when the English army, by\\ntheir skilful countermarch, were fairly placed\\nbetween King James and his own country, the\\nScottish monarch resolved to fight and, setting\\nfire to his tents, descended from the ridge of\\nFlodden to secure the neighboring eminence\\nof Brankstone, on which that village is built.\\nThus the two armies met, almost without see-\\ning each other, when, according to the old poem\\nof Flodden Field\\nThe English line stretched east and west,\\nAnd southward were their faces set\\nThe Scottish northward proudly prest,\\nAnd manfully their foes they met.\\nThe English army advanced in four divisions.\\nOn the right, when first engaged, were the sons\\nof Earl Surrey, namely, Thomas Howard, the\\nAdmiral of England, and Sir Edmund, the\\nKnight Marshal of the army. Their divisions\\nwere separated from each other but, at the\\nrequest of Sir Edmund, his brother s battalion\\nwas drawn very near to his own. The centre\\nwas commanded by Surrey in person the left\\nwing by Sir Edward Stanley, with the men of\\nLancashire, and of the palatinate of Chester.\\nLord Dacres, with a large body of horse,\\nformed a reserve. When the smoke^ which\\nthe wind had driven between the armies, was\\nsomewhat dispersed, they perceived the Scots,\\nwho had moved down the hill in a similar order", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0570.jp2"}, "569": {"fulltext": "Pages 147 to 157 NOTES THE LADY OF THE LAKE\\n539\\nof battle, and in deep silence. The Earls of\\nHuntly and of Home commanded their left\\nwing, and charged Sir Edmund Howard with\\nsuch success, as entirely to defeat his part of\\nthe English right wing. Sir Edmund s banner\\nwas beaten down, and he himself escaped with\\ndifficulty to his brother s division. The Ad-\\nmiral, however, stood firm and Dacre advan-\\ncing to his support with the reserve of cavalry,\\nprobably between the interval of the divisions\\ncommanded by the brothers Howard, appears\\nto have kept the victors in effectual check.\\nHome s men, chiefly Borderers, began to pil-\\nlage the baggage of both armies and their\\nleader is branded, by the Scottish historians,\\nwith negligence or treachery. On the other\\nhand, Huntly, on whom they bestow many\\nencomiums, is said, by the English historians,\\nto have left the field after the first charge.\\nMeanwhile the Admiral, whose flank these\\nchief sought to have attacked, availed himself\\nof their inactivity, and pushed forward against\\nanother large division of the Scottish army in\\nhis front, headed by the Earls of Crawford\\nand Montrose, both of whom were slain, and\\ntheir forces routed. On the left, the success of\\nthe English was yet more decisive for the\\nScottish right wing, consisting of undisciplined\\nHighlanders, commanded by Lennox and Ar-\\ngyle, was unable to sustain the charge of Sir\\nEdward Stanley, and especially the severe exe-\\ncution of the Lancashire archers. The king\\nand Surrey, who commanded the respective\\ncentres of their armies, were meanwhile en-\\ngaged in close and dubious conflict. James,\\nsurrounded by the flower of his kingdom, and\\nimpatient of the galling discharge of arrows,\\nsupported also by his reserve under Bothwell,\\ncharged with such fury, that the standard of\\nSurrey was in danger. At that critical mo-\\nment, Stanley, who had routed the left wing\\nof the Scottish, pursued his career of victory,\\nand arrived on the right flank, and in the rear\\nof James s division, which, throwing itself into\\na circle, disputed the battle till night came on.\\nSurrey then drew back his forces for the Scot-\\ntish centre not having been broken, and their\\nleft wing being victorious, he yet doubted the\\nevent of the field. The Scottish army, how-\\never, felt their loss, and abandoned the field\\nof battle in disorder, before dawn. They lost,\\nperhaps, from eight to ten thousand men but\\nthat included the very prime of their nobility,\\ngentry, and even clergy. Scarce a family of\\neminence but has an ancestor killed at Flod-\\nden and there is no province in Scotland, even\\nat this day, where the battle is mentioned with-\\nout a sensation of terror and sorrow. The Eng-\\nlish lost also a great number of men, perhaps\\nwithin one third of the vanquished, but they\\nwere of inferior note. See the only distinct\\ndetail of the field of Flodden in Pinkerton s\\nHistory, Book xi., all former accounts being\\nfull of blunders and inconsistency.\\nThe spot from which Clara views the battle\\nmust be supposed to have been on a hillock\\ncommanding the rear of the English right wing,\\nwhich was defeated, and in which conflict Mar-\\nmion is supposed to have fallen.\\nPage 147, line 717. With Brian Tunstall,\\nstainless knight.\\nSir Brian Tunstall, called, in the romantic\\nlanguage of the time, Tunstall the Undefiled,\\nwas one of the few Englishmen of rank slain\\nat Flodden. He figures in the ancient English\\npoem, to which I may safely refer my reader\\nas an edition, with full explanatory notes, has\\nbeen published by my friend Mr. Henry Weber.\\nTunstall perhaps derived his epithet of unde-\\nfiled from his white armor and banner, the\\nlatter bearing a white cock about to crow, as\\nwell as from his unstained loyalty and knightly\\nfaith.\\nPage 150, line 1081. And fell on Flodden\\nplain.\\nThere can be no doubt that King James fell\\nin the battle of Flodden. He was killed, says\\nthe curious French Gazette, within a lance s\\nlength of the Earl of Surrey and the same ac-\\ncount adds, that none of his division were made\\nprisoners, though many were killed, a circum-\\nstance that testifies the desperation of their re-\\nsistance. The Scottish historians record many\\nof the idle reports which passed among the vul-\\ngar of their day. Home was accused, by the\\npopular voice, not only of failing to support\\nthe king but even of having carried him out\\nof the field, and murdered mm. Other reports\\ngave a still more romantic turn to the king s\\nfate, and averred that James, weary of great-\\nness after the carnage among his nobles, had\\ngone on a pilgrimage, to merit absolution for\\nthe death of his father and the breach of his\\noath of amity to Henry. Stowe has recorded\\na degrading story of the disgrace with which\\nthe remains of the unfortunate monarch were\\ntreated in his time. An unhewn column marks\\nthe spot where James fell, still called the King s\\nStone.\\nLine 1095. y T was levelled when fanatic Brook.\\nThis storm of Lichfield Cathedral, which had\\nbeen garrisoned on the part of the king, took\\nplace in the great civil war. Lord Brook, who,\\nwith Sir John Gill, commanded the assailants,\\nwas shot with a musket-ball through the visor\\nof his helmet. The royalists remarked that he\\nwas killed by a shot fired from Saint Chad s\\nCathedral, and upon Saint Chad s Day, and re-\\nceived his death-wound in the very eye with\\nwhich he had said he hoped to see the ruin of\\nall the cathedrals in England. The magnifi-\\ncent church in question suffered cruelly upon\\nthis and other occasions the principal spire\\nbeing ruined by the fire of the besiegers.\\nThe Lady of the Lake.\\nPage 157, fine 53. Sought the wild heaths of\\nUam-Var.\\nUa-Var, as the name is pronounced, or more\\nproperly Uaigh-mor, is a mountain to the north-\\neast of the village of Callander, in Menteith,\\nderiving its name, which signifies the great\\nden, or cavern, from a sort of retreat among\\nthe rocks on the south side, said, by tradition.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0571.jp2"}, "570": {"fulltext": "54-0\\nAPPENDIX\\nPages 157 to 162\\nto have been the abode of a giant. In latter\\ntimes it was the refuge of robbers and banditti,\\nwho have been only extirpated within these\\nforty or fifty years. Strictly speaking, this\\nstronghold is not a cave, as the name would\\nimply, but a sort of small enclosure, or recess,\\nsurrounded with large rocks and open above\\nhead.\\nLine 120. Two dogs of black Saint Hubert s\\nScott quotes Tubervile here The hounds\\nwhich we call St. Hubert s hounds are com-\\nmonly all blacke, yet neuerthelesse, the race is\\nso mingled at these days, that we find them\\nof all colours. These are the hounds which\\nthe abbots of St. Hubert haue always kept\\nsome of their race or kind, in honour or re-\\nmembrance of the saint, which was a hunter\\nwith St. Eustace. Whereupon we may conceiue\\nthat (by the grace of God) all good huntsmen\\nshall follow them into paradise.\\nLine 137. For the death-wound, and death-hal-\\nloo.\\nWhen the stag turned to bay, the ancient\\nhunter had the perilous task of going in upon,\\nand killing, or disabling, the desperate animal.\\nAt certain times of the year this was held par-\\nticularly dangerous, a wound received from a\\nstag s horn being then deemed poisonous, and\\nmore dangerous than one from the tusks of a\\nboar, as the old rhyme testifies\\nIf thou be hurt with hart, it brings thee to thy bier,\\nBut barber s hand will boar s hurt heal, therefore thou\\nneed st not fear.\\nAt all times, however, the task was dangerous,\\nand to be adventured upon wisely and warily,\\neither by getting behind the stag while he was\\ngazing on the hounds, or by watching an oppor-\\ntunity to gallop roundly in upon him and kill\\nhim with the sword.\\nPage 159, line 254. And now, to issue from the\\nglen.\\nUntil the present road was made through the\\nromantic pass which I have presumptuously at-\\ntempted to describe in the preceding stanzas,\\nthere was no mode of issuing out of the defile\\ncalled the Trosachs, excepting by a sort of lad-\\nder, composed of the branches and roots of\\ntrees.\\nLine 313. To meet with Highland plunderers\\nhere.\\nThe clans who inhabited the romantic regions\\nin the neighborhood of Loch Katrine were, even\\nuntil a late period, much addicted to predatory\\nexcursions upon their Lowland neighbors.\\nPage 161, line 459. A gray-haired sire, whose\\neye intent.\\n_ If force of evidence could authorize us to be-\\nlieve facts inconsistent with the general laws of\\nnature, enough might be produced in favor of\\nthe existence of the second-sight. It is called\\nin Gaelic Taishitaraugh, from Taish, an unreal\\nor shadowy appearance and those possessed of\\nthe faculty are called Taishatrin, which may be\\naptly translated visionaries. Martin, a steady\\nbeliever in the second-sight, gives the following\\naccount of it\\nThe second-sight is a singular faculty of see-\\ning an otherwise invisible object without any\\nprevious means used by the person that uses it\\nfor that end the vision makes such a lively\\nimpression upon the seers, that they neither see\\nnor think of anything else, except the vision, as\\nlong as it continues and then they appear pen-\\nsive or jovial, according to the object that was\\nrepresented to them.\\nAt the sight of a vision, the eyelids of the\\nperson are erected, and the eyes continue star-\\ning until the object vanish. This is obvious to\\nothers who are by when the persons happen to\\nsee a vision, and occurred more than once to my\\nown observation, and to others that were with\\nme.\\nIf a woman is seen standing at a man s left\\nhand, it is a presage that she will be his wife,\\nwhether they be married to others, or unmar-\\nried at the time of the apparition.\\nTo see a spark of fire fall upon one s arm or\\nbreast is a forerunner of a dead child to be seen\\nin the arms of those persons of which there\\nare several fresh instances.\\nTo see a seat empty at the time of one s sit-\\nting in it is a presage of that person s death\\nsoon after. Martin s Description of the West-\\nern Islands, 1716, 8vo, p. 300 et seq.\\nTo these particulars innumerable examples\\nmight be added, all attested by grave and credi-\\nble authors. But, in despite of evidence which\\nneither Bacon, Boyle, nor Johnson was able to\\nresist, the Taish, with all its visionary proper-\\nties, seems to be now universally abandoned to\\nthe use of poetry. The exquisitely beautiful\\npoem of Lochiel will at once occur to the recol-\\nlection of every reader.\\nLine 504. Here for retreat in dangerous hour.\\nThe Celtic chieftains, whose lives were con-\\ntinually exposed to peril, had usually, in the\\nmost retired spot of their domains, some place\\nof retreat for the hour of necessity, which, as\\ncircumstances would admit, was a tower, a cav-\\nern, or a rustic hut, in a strong and secluded\\nsituation. One of these last gave refuge to the\\nunfortunate Charles Edward, in his perilous\\nwanderings after the battle of Culloden.\\nPage 162, line 573. Of Ferragus or Ascabart.\\n_ These two sons of Anak flourished in roman-\\ntic fable. The first is well known to the ad-\\nmirers of Ariosto by the name of Ferrau. He\\nwas an antagonist of Orlando, and was at length\\nslain by him in single combat. Ascapart,\\nor Ascabart, makes a very material figure in\\nthe History of Bevis of Hampton, by whom he\\nwas conquered. His effigies may be seen guard-\\ning one side of the gate at Southampton, while\\nthe other is occupied by Bevis himself.\\nLine 585. Though all unasked his birth and\\nname.\\nThe Highlanders, who carried hospitality to\\na punctilious excess, are said to have considered\\nit as churlish to ask a stranger his name or line-\\nage before he had taken refreshment. Feuds\\nwere so frequent among them, that a contrary", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0572.jp2"}, "571": {"fulltext": "Pages 164 to 168 NOTES: THE LADY OF THE LAKE\\n54i\\nrule would in many cases have produced the\\ndiscovery of some circumstance which might\\nhave excluded the guest from the benefit of the\\nassistance he stood in need of.\\nPage 164, line 7. Morn s genial influence\\nroused a minstrel gray.\\nHighland chieftains, to a late period, retained\\nin their service the bard, as a family officer.\\nPage 165, line 109. Pour forth the glory of the\\nGrmme.\\nThe ancient and powerful family of Graham\\n(which, for metrical reasons, is here spelled\\nafter the Scottish pronunciation) held extensive\\npossessions in the counties of Dumbarton and\\nStirling. Few families can boast of more his-\\ntorical renown, having claim to three of the\\nmost remarkable characters in the Scottish an-\\nnals. Sir John the Graeme, the faithful and\\nundaunted partaker of the labors and patriotic\\nwarfare of Wallace, fell in the unfortunate\\nfield of Falkirk, in 1298. The celebrated Mar-\\nquis of Montrose, in whom De Retz saw realized\\nhis abstract idea of the heroes of antiquity, was\\nthe second of these worthies. And, notwith-\\nstanding the severity of his temper, and the\\nrigor with which he executed the oppressive\\nmandates of the princes whom he served, I do\\nnot hesitate to name as the third, John Graeme,\\nof Claverhouse, Viscount of Dundee, whose\\nheroic death, in the arms of victory, may be\\nallowed to cancel the memory of his cruelty\\nto the nonconformists, during the reigns of\\nCharles II. and James II.\\nLine 131. This harp, which erst Saint Modan\\nswayed.\\nI am not prepared to show that St. Modan\\nwas a performer on the harp. It was, how-\\never, no unsaintly accomplishment for St. Dun-\\nstan certainly did play upon that instrument,\\nwhich retaining, as was natural, a portion of\\nthe sanctity attached to its master s character,\\nannounced future events by its spontaneous\\nsound.\\nLine 142. Ere Douglases, to ruin driven.\\nThe downfall of the Douglases of the house\\nof Angus, during the reign of James V., is the\\nevent alluded to in the text. The Earl of An-\\ngus, it will be remembered, had married the\\nqueen-dowager, and availed himself of the right\\nwhich he thus acquired, as well as of his exten-\\nsive power, to retain the king in a sort of tute-\\nlage, which approached very near to captivity.\\nSeveral open attempts were made to rescue\\nJames from this thraldom, with which he was\\nwell known to be deeply disgusted but the\\nvalor of the Douglases, and their allies, gave\\nthem the victory in every conflict. At length,\\nthe king, while residing at Falkland, contrived\\nto escape by night out of his own court and\\npalace, and rode full speed to Stirling Castle,\\nwhere the governor, who was of the opposite\\nfaction, joyfully received him.\\nPage 166, line 221. In Holy-Rood a knight he\\nslew.\\nThis was by no means an uncommon oc-\\ncurrence in the Court of Scotland nay, the\\npresence of the sovereign himself scarcely\\nrestrained the ferocious and inveterate feuds\\nwhich were the perpetual source of bloodshed\\namong the Scottish nobility.\\nLine 229. The Douglas, like a stricken deer.\\nThe exiled state of this powerful race is not\\nexaggerated in this and subsequent passages.\\nThe hatred of James against the race of Doug-\\nlas was so inveterate, that numerous as their\\nallies were, and disregarded as the regal au-\\nthority had usually been in similar cases, their\\nnearest friends, even in the most remote part\\nof Scotland, durst not entertain them, unless\\nunder the strictest and closest disguise.\\nPage 167, line 260. A votaress in Maronnan^s\\ncell.\\nThe parish of Kilmaronock, at the eastern ex-\\ntremity of Loch Lomond, derives its name from\\na cell, or chapel, dedicated to Saint Maronock,\\nor Marnock, or Maronnan, about whose sanctity\\nvery little is now remembered.\\nLine 270. But wild as Bracklinn s thunder-\\ning wave.\\nThis beautiful cascade is on the Keltie, a mile\\nfrom Callander. The height of the fall is\\nabout fifty feet.\\nLine 306. For Tine-man forged by fairy-\\nlore.\\nArchibald, the third Earl of Douglas, was so\\nunfortunate in all his enterprises, that he ac-\\nquired the epithet of tine-man, because he\\ntined, or lost, his followers in every battle which\\nhe fought. He was vanquished, as every reader\\nmust remember, in the bloody battle of Homil-\\ndon-hill, near Wooler, where he himself lost an\\neye, and was made prisoner by Hotspur. He\\nwas no less unfortunate when allied with Percy,\\nbeing wounded and taken at the battle of\\nShrewsbury. He was so unsuccessful in an at-\\ntempt to besiege Roxburgh Castle, that it was\\ncalled the Foul Raid, or disgraceful expedi-\\ntion. His ill fortune left him indeed at the\\nbattle of P eauge\\\\ in France but it was only to\\nreturn with double emphasis at the subsequent\\naction of Vernoil, the last and most unlucky of\\nhis encounters, in which he fell, with the flower\\nof the Scottish chivalry, then serving as auxil-\\niaries in France, and about two thousand com-\\nmon soldiers, a. d. 1424.\\nLine 309. Did, self-unscabbarded, foreshow.\\nThe ancient warriors, whose hope and confi-\\ndence rested chiefly in their blades, were accus-\\ntomed to deduce omens from them, especially\\nfrom such as were supposed to have been fab-\\nricated by enchanted skill, of which we have\\nvarious instances in the romances and legends\\nof the time.\\nLord Lovat is said, by the author of the\\nLetters from Scotland, to have affirmed that a\\nnumber of swords that hung in the hall of the\\nmansion-house, leaped of themselves out of the\\nscabbard at the instant he was born.\\nPage 168, line 363. Those thrilling sounds,\\nthat call the might.\\nThe connoisseurs in pipe-music affect to dis-\\ncover in a well-composed pibroch the imitative\\nsounds of march, conflict, flight, pursuit, and\\nall the current of a heady fight.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0573.jp2"}, "572": {"fulltext": "542\\nAPPENDIX\\nPages 1 68 to 173\\nLine 408. Boderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho\\nieroe\\nBesides Ms ordinary name and surname,\\nwhich were chiefly used in the intercourse with\\nthe Lowlands, every Highland chief had an epi-\\nthet expressive of his patriarchal dignity as\\nhead of the clan, and which was common to all\\nhis predecessors and successors, as Pharaoh to\\nthe kings of Egypt, or Arsaces to those of Par-\\nthia. This name was usually a patronymic,\\nexpressive of his descent from the founder of\\nthe family. Thus the Duke of Argyll is called\\nMacCallum More, or the son of Colin the Great.\\nSometimes, however, it is derived from armo-\\nrial distinctions, or the memory of some great\\nfeat thus Lord Seaf orth, as chief of the Mac-\\nkenzies, or Clan-Kennet, hears the epithet of\\nCaber-fae, or Buck s Head, as representative\\nof Colin Fitzgerald, founder of the family, who\\nsaved the Scottish king when endangered by a\\nstag. But besides this title, which belonged\\nto his office and dignity, the chieftain had usu-\\nally another peculiar to himself, which distin-\\nguished him from the chieftains of the same\\nrace. This was sometimes derived from com-\\nplexion, as dhu or roy sometimes from size, as\\nbeg or more at other times, from some peculiar\\nexploit, or from some peculiarity of habit or\\nappearance. The line of the text therefore\\nsignifies,\\nBlack Roderick, the descendant of Alpine.\\nThe song itself is intended as an imitation of\\nthe jorrams, or boat songs of the Highlanders,\\nwhich were usually composed in honor of a\\nfavorite chief. They are so adapted as to keep\\ntime with the sweep of the oars, and it is easy\\nto distinguish between those intended to be\\nsung to the oars of a galley, where the stroke\\nis lengthened and doubled, as it were, and those\\nwhich were timed to the rowers of an ordinary\\nboat.\\nLine 422. And the best of Loch Lomond lie\\ndead on her side.\\nThe Lennox, as the district is called which\\nencircles the lower extremity of Loch Lomond,\\nwas peculiarly exposed to the incursions of the\\nmountaineers, who inhabited the inaccessible\\nfastnesses at the upper end of the lake, and the\\nneighboring district of Loch Katrine. These\\nwere often marked by circumstances of great\\nferocity.\\nPage 170, line 616. Boasts to have tamed the\\nBorder-side.\\nIn 1529, James V. made a convention at Edin-\\nburgh for the purpose of considering the best\\nmode of quelling the Border robbers, who, dur-\\ning the license of his minority, and the troubles\\nwhich followed, had committed many exorbi-\\ntances. Accordingly, he assembled a flying\\narmy of ten thousand men, consisting of his\\nprincipal nobility and their followers, who were\\ndirected to bring their hawks and dogs with\\nthem, that the monarch might refresh himself\\nwith sport during the intervals of military exe-\\ncution. With this array he swept through Et-\\ntrick Forest, where he hanged over the gate of\\nhis own castle Piers Cockburn of Henderland,\\nwho had prepared, according to tradition, a feast\\nfor his reception. He caused Adam Scott of\\nTushielaw also to be executed, who was dis-\\ntinguished by the title of King of the Border.\\nBut the most noted victim of justice, during\\nthat expedition, was John Armstrong of Gil-\\nnockie, famous in Scottish song, who, confiding\\nin his own supposed innocence, met the king\\nwith a retinue of thirty-six persons, all of whom\\nwere hanged at Carlenrig, near the source of\\nthe Teviot.\\nPage 172, lines 801, 802.\\nPity H were\\nSuch cheek should feel the midnight air.\\nHardihood was in every respect so essential\\nto the character of a Highlander, that the re-\\nproach of effeminacy was the most bitter which\\ncould be thrown upon him. Yet it was some-\\ntimes hazarded on what we might presume to\\nthink slight grounds. It is reported of old Sir\\nEwen Cameron, of Lochiel, when upwards of\\nseventy, that he was surprised by night on a\\nhunting or military expedition. He wrapped\\nhim in hie plaid, and lay contentedly down\\nupon the snow, with which the ground happened\\nto be covered. Among his attendants, who\\nwere preparing to take their rest in the same\\nmanner, he observed that one of his grandsons,\\nfor his better accommodation, had rolled a large\\nsnow-ball, and placed it below his head. The\\nwrath of the ancient chief was awakened by a\\nsymptom of what he conceived to be degenerate\\nluxury. Out upon thee, said he, kicking the\\nfrozen bolster from the head which it sup-\\nported art thou so effeminate as to need a\\npillow\\nPage 173, line 18. And while the Fiery Cross\\nglanced, like a meteor, round.\\nWhen a chieftain designed to summon his\\nclan upon any sudden or important emergency,\\nhe slew a goat, and making a cross of any\\nlight wood, seared its extremities in the fire,\\nand extinguished them in the blood of the an-\\nimal. This was called the Fiery Cross, also\\nCrean Tarigh, or the Cross of Shame, because\\ndisobedience to what the symbol implied, in-\\nferred infamy. It was delivered to a swift and\\ntrusty messenger, who ran full speed with it\\nto the next hamlet, where he presented it to\\nthe principal person, with a single word, im-\\nplying the place of rendezvous. He who re-\\nceived the symbol was bound to send it for-\\nward, with equal despatch, to the next village\\nand thus it passed with incredible celerity\\nthrough all the district which owed allegiance\\nto the chief, and also among his allies and\\nneighbors, if the danger was common to them.\\nAt sight of the Fiery Cross, every man, from\\nsixteen years old to sixty, capable of bearing\\narms, was obliged instantly to repair, in his\\nbest arms and accoutrements, to the place of\\nrendezvous. He who failed to appear suffered\\nthe extremities of fire and sword, which were\\nemblematically denounced to the disobedient\\nby the bloody and burnt marks upon this war-\\nlike signal. During the civil war of 1745-46,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0574.jp2"}, "573": {"fulltext": "Pages i 74 to i77 NOTES: THE LADY OF THE LAKE\\n543\\nthe Fiery Cross often made its circuit and\\nupon one occasion it passed through the whole\\ndistrict of Breadalbane, a tract of thirty-two\\nmiles, in three hours. The late Alexander\\nStewart, Esq., of Invernahyle, described to\\nme his having sent round the Fiery Cross\\nthrough the district of Appine, during the\\nsame commotion. The coast was threatened\\nby a descent from two English frigates, and the\\nflower of the young men were with the army\\nof Prince Charles Edward, then in England\\nyet the summons was so effectual that even old\\nage and childhood obeyed it and a force was\\ncollected in a few hours so numerous and so\\nenthusiastic that all attempt at the intended\\ndiversion upon the country of the absent war-\\nriors was in prudence abandoned as desperate.\\nPage 174, line 71. That monk, of savage form\\nand face.\\nThe state of religion in the middle ages af-\\nforded considerable facilities for those whose\\nmode of lif e excluded them from regular wor-\\nship, to secure, nevertheless, the ghostly assist-\\nance of confessors, perfectly willing to adapt\\nthe nature of their doctrine to the necessi-\\nties and peculiar circumstances of their flock.\\nRobin Hood, it is well known, had his cele-\\nbrated domestic chaplain Friar Tuck.\\nLine 91. Of Brian s birth strange tales were\\ntold.\\n[Scott says that the legend which follows is\\nnot of his invention, and goes on to show that\\nit is taken with slight variation from the geo-\\ngraphical collections made by the Laird of\\nMacfarlane.\\nLine 114. No hunter s hand her snood untied.\\nThe snood, or riband, with which a Scottish\\nlass braided her hair, had an emblematical sig-\\nnification, and applied to her maiden character.\\nIt was exchanged for the curch, toy, or coif,\\nwhen she passed, by marriage, into the matron\\nstate. But if the damsel was so unfortunate\\nas to lose pretensions to the name of maiden\\nwithout gaining a right to that of matron, she\\nwas neither permitted to use the snood, nor\\nadvanced to the graver dignity of the curch.\\nLine 149. The desert gave him visions wild.\\nIn adopting the legend concerning the birth\\nof the Founder of the Church of Kilmallie,\\nthe author has endeavored to trace the effects\\nwhich such a belief was likely to produce in a\\nbarbarous age on the person to whom it related.\\nIt seems likely that he must have become a\\nfanatic or an impostor, or that mixture of\\nboth which forms a more frequent character\\nthan either of them, as existing separately. It\\nwas a natural attribute of such a character as\\nthe supposed hermit, that he should credit the\\nnumerous superstitions with which the minds\\nof ordinary Highlanders are almost always im-\\nbued. A few of these are slightly alluded to\\nin this stanza. The River Demon, or River-\\nhorse, for it is that form which he commonly\\nassumes, is the Kelpy of the Lowlands, an evil\\nand malicious spirit, delighting to forebode and\\nto witness calamity. He frequents most High-\\nland lakes and rivers and one of his most\\nmemorable exploits was performed upon the\\nbanks of Loch Vennachar, in the very district\\nwhich forms the scene of our action it con-\\nsisted in the destruction of a funeral procession\\nwith all its attendants. The noontide hag,\\ncalled in Gaelic Glas-lich, a tall, emaciated,\\ngigantic female figure, is supposed in particular\\nto haunt the district of Knoidart. A goblin\\ndressed in antique armor, and having one hand\\ncovered with blood, called from that circum-\\nstance Lhamdeerg, or Red-hand, is a tenant of\\nthe forests of Glenmore and Rothiemurcus.\\nPage 175, line 168. The fatal Ben-Shie s\\nboding scream.\\nMost great families in the Highlands were\\nsupposed to have a tutelar, or rather a domes-\\ntic, spirit, attached to them, who took an in-\\nterest in their prosperity, and intimated, by\\nits wailings, any approaching disaster. That\\nof Grant of Grant was called May Moullach,\\nand appeared in the form of a girl, who had\\nher arm covered with hair. Grant of Rothie-\\nmurcus had an attendant called Bodach-an-dun,\\nor the Ghost of the Hill and many other ex-\\namples might be mentioned. The Ben-Shie\\nimplies the female fairy whose lamentations\\nwere often supposed to precede the death of a\\nchieftain of particular families. When she is\\nvisible, it is in the form of an old woman, with\\na blue mantle and streaming hair. A super-\\nstition of the same kind is, I believe, univer-\\nsally received by the inferior ranks of the na-\\ntive Irish.\\nLine 169. Sounds, too, had come in midnight\\nblast.\\nA presage of the kind alluded to in the text,\\nis still believed to announce death to the an-\\ncient Highland family of M Lean of Lochbuy.\\nThe spirit of an ancestor slain in battle is\\nheard to gallop along a stony bank, and then to\\nride thrice around the family residence, ring-\\ning his fairy bridle, and thus intimating the\\napproaching calamity.\\nLine 191. Whose parents in Inch-Cailliach\\nwave.\\nThe Isle of Nuns, or of Old Women, is a\\nmost beautiful island at the lower extremity of\\nLoch Lomond. The church belonging to the\\nformer nunnery was long used as the place of\\nworship for the parish of Buchanan, but scarce\\nany vestiges of it now remain. The burial-\\nground continues to be used, and contains the\\nfamily places of sepulture of several neighbor-\\ning clans.\\nPage 176, line 300. Speed, Malise, speed!\\nthe dun deer s hide.\\nThe present brogue of the Highlanders is\\nmade of half -dried leather, with holes to admit\\nand let out the water for walking the moors\\ndry-shod is a matter altogether out of question.\\nThe ancient buskin was still ruder, being made\\nof undressed deer s hide, with the hair out-\\nwards, a circumstance which procured the\\nHighlanders the well-known epithet of Bed-\\nshanks.\\nPage 177, line 369. The dismal coronach re-\\nsound.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0575.jp2"}, "574": {"fulltext": "544\\nAPPENDIX\\nPages 178 to 1 2\\nThe Coronach of the Highlanders, like the\\nUlulatus of the Romans, and the TJluloo of the\\nIrish, was a wild expression of lamentation,\\npoured forth by the mourners over the body of\\na departed friend. When the words of it were\\narticulate, they expressed the praises of the de-\\nceased, and the loss the clan would sustain by\\nhis death.\\nPage 178, line 452. Benledi saw the cross of\\nfire.\\nThe first stage of the Fiery Cross is to Dun-\\ncraggan, a place near the Brigg of Turk, where\\na short stream divides Loch Achray from Loch\\nVennachar. From thence it passes towards\\nCallander, and then, turning to the left up the\\npass of Leny, is consigned to Norman at the\\nChapel of Saint Bride, which stood on a small\\nand romantic knoll in the middle of the valley,\\ncalled Strath-Ire. Tombea and Amanda ve,\\nor Ardmandave, are names of places in the\\nvicinity. The alarm is then supposed to pass\\nalong the Lake of Lubnaig, and through the\\nvarious glens in the district of Balquidder, in-\\ncluding the neighboring tracts of Glenfinlas and\\nStrath-Gartney.\\nPage 179, line 570. Balquidder, speeds the\\nmidnight blaze.\\nIt may be necessary to inform the Southern\\nreader that the heath on the Scottish moorlands\\nis often set fire to, that the sheep may have the\\nadvantage of the young herbage produced, in\\nroom of the tough old heather plants. This\\ncustom (execrated by sportsmen) produces oc-\\ncasionally the most beautiful nocturnal appear-\\nances, similar almost to the discharge of a vol-\\ncano. This simile is not new to poetry. The\\ncharge of a warrior, in the fine ballad of Hardy-\\nknute, is said to be like fire to heather set.\\nLine 622. Has Coir-nan-Uriskin been sung.\\nThis is a very steep and most romantic hollow\\nin the mountain of Ben venue, overhanging the\\nsoutheastern extremity of Loch Katrine. It is\\nsurrounded with_ stupendous rocks, and over-\\nshadowed with birch-trees, mingled with oaks,\\nthe spontaneous production of the mountain,\\neven where its cliffs appear denuded of soil. A\\ndale in so wild a situation, and amid a people\\nwhose genius bordered on the romantic, did not\\nremain without appropriate deibies. The name\\nliterally implies the Corri, or Den, of the Wild\\nor Shaggy Men. Tradition has ascribed to the\\nUrisk, who gives name to the cavern, a figure\\nbetween a goat and a man in short, however\\nmuch the classical reader may be startled, pre-\\ncisely that of the Grecian Satyr. The Urisk\\nseems not to have inherited, with the form, the\\npetulance of the sylvan deity of the classics\\nhis occupation, on the contrary, resembled those\\nof Milton s Lubbar Fiend, or of the Scottish\\nBrownie, though he differed from both in name\\nand appearance.\\nPage 180, line 673. Alone attended on his\\nlord.\\nA Highland chief, being as absolute in his\\npatriarchal authority as any prince, had a cor-\\nresponding number of officers attached to his\\nperson. 1. The Henchman. 2. The Bard. 3.\\nBladier, or spokesman. 4. Gillie more, or\\nsword bearer. 5. Gillie-casflue, who carried\\nthe chief, if on foot, over the fords. 6. Gillie-\\ncomstraine, who leads the chief s horse. 7.\\nGillie- Trushanarinsh, the baggageman. 8. The\\npiper. 9. The piper s gillie, or attendant who\\ncarries the bagpipe.\\nPage 182, line 63. The Taghairm called; by\\nwhich, afar.\\nThe Highlanders, like all rude people, had\\nvarious superstitious modes of inquiring into\\nfuturity. One of the most noted was the Tag-\\nhairm, mentioned in the text. A person was\\nwrapped up in the skin of a newly slain bullock,\\nand deposited beside a waterfall, or at the bot-\\ntom of a precipice, or in some other strange,\\nwild, and unusual situation, where the scen-\\nery around him suggested nothing but objects\\nof horror. In this situation he revolved in his\\nmind the question proposed; and whatever was\\nimpressed upon him by his exalted imagina-\\ntion, passed for the inspiration of the disem-\\nbodied spirits who haunt these desolate re-\\nLine 84. Tradition calls the Hero s Targe.\\nThere is a rock so named in the Forest of\\nGlenfinlas, by which a tumultuary cataract\\ntakes its course. This wild place is said in\\nformer times to have afforded refuge to an out-\\nlaw, who was supplied with provisions by a\\nwoman, who lowered them down from the\\nbrink of the precipice above. His water he\\nprocured for himself, by letting down a flagon\\ntied to a string into the black pool beneath the\\nfall.\\nLine 98. That, watching while the deer is\\nEverything belonging to the chase was mat-\\nter of solemnity among our ancestors but no-\\nthing was more so than the mode of cutting\\nup, or, as it was technically called, breaking,\\nthe slaughtered stag. The forester had his\\nallotted portion the hounds had a certain\\nallowance and, to make the division as gen-\\neral as possible, the very birds had their share\\nalso.\\nLine 132. Which spills the foremost foeman s\\nlife.\\nThough this be in the text described as a\\nresponse of the Taghairm, or Oracle of the\\nHide, it was of itself an augury frequently\\nattended to. The fate of the battle was often\\nanticipated, in the imagination of the combat-\\nants, by observing which party first shed blood.\\nIt is said that the Highlanders under Montrose\\nwere so deeply imbued with this notion, that\\non the morning of the battle of Tippermoor\\nthey murdered a defenceless herdsman, whom\\nthey found in the fields, merely to secure an\\nadvantage of so much consequence to their\\nparty.\\nPage 184, line 306. The fairies fatal green.\\nAs the Daoine Shi\\\\ or Men of Peace, wore\\ngreen habits, they were supposed to take offence\\nwhen any mortals ventured to assume their fa-\\nvorite color. Indeed, from some reason, which\\nhas been perhaps originally a general supersti-", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0576.jp2"}, "575": {"fulltext": "Pages x8 4 to 192 NOTES: THE LADY OF THE LAKE\\n545\\ntion, green is held in Scotland to be unlucky to\\nparticular tribes and counties. The Caithness\\nmen, who hold this belief, allege as a reason\\nthat their bands wore that color when they\\nwere cut off at the battle of Flodden and for\\nthe same reason they avoid crossing the Ord on\\na Monday, being the day of the week on which\\ntheir ill-omened array set forth. Green is also\\ndisliked by those of the name of Ogilvy but\\nmore especially it is held fatal to the whole\\nclan of Grahame. It is remembered of an\\naged gentleman of that name that when his\\nhorse fell in a fox-chase, he accounted for it\\nat once by observing that the whipcord attached\\nto his lash was of this unlucky color.\\nLine 308. For thou wert christened man.\\nThe Elves were supposed gi-eatly to envy the\\nprivileges acquired by Christian initiation, and\\nthey gave to those mortals who had fallen into\\ntheir power a certain precedence, founded upon\\nthis advantageous distinction.\\nPage 185, line 356. To the joyless Elfin bower.\\nThe subjects of Fairy-land were recruited\\nfrom the regions of humanity by a sort of crimp-\\ning system, which extended to adults as well as\\nto infants.\\nPage 188, line 594. It was a stag, a stag of\\nten.\\nHaving ten branches on his antlers.\\nPage 189, line 747. Who ever recked, where,\\nhotv, or when.\\nSt. John actually used this illustration when\\nengaged in confuting the plea of law proposed\\nfor the unfortunate Earl of Strafford It was\\ntrue, we gave laws to hares and deer, because\\nthey are beasts of chase but it was never ac-\\ncounted either cruelty or foul play to knock\\nfoxes or wolves on the head as they can be\\nfound, because they are beasts of prey. In a\\nword, the law and humanity were alike: the\\none being more fallacious, and the other more\\nbarbarous, than in any age had been vented in\\nsuch an authority. Clarendon s History of the\\nRebellion.\\nLine 762. The hardened flesh of mountain\\ndeer.\\nThe Scottish Highlanders, in former times,\\nhad a concise mode of cooking their venison, or\\nrather of dispensing with cooking it, which\\nappears greatly to have surprised the French\\nwhom chance made acquainted with it. The\\nVidame of Chartres, when a hostage in Eng-\\nland, during the reign of Edward VI., was per-\\nmitted to travel into Scotland, and penetrated\\nas far as the remote Highlands. After a great\\nhunting party, at which a most wonderful quan-\\ntity of game was destroyed, he saw these Scot-\\ntish savages devour a part of their venison raw,\\nwithout any further preparation than compress-\\ning it between two batons of wood, so as to force\\nout the blood, and render it extremely hard.\\nThis they reckoned a great delicacy and when\\nthe Vidame partook of it, his compliance with\\ntheir taste rendered him extremely popular.\\nPage 191, line 124. While Albany with feeble\\nhand.\\nThere is scarcely a more disorderly period of\\nScottish history than that which succeeded the\\nbattle of Flodden, and occupied the minority of\\nJames V. Feuds of ancient standing broke out\\nlike old wounds, and every quarrel among the\\nindependent nobility, which occurred daily, and\\nalmost hourly, gave rise to fresh bloodshed.\\nLine 164. The Gael, of plain and river heir.\\nSo far indeed was a Creagh, or foray, from\\nbeing held disgraceful, that a young chief was\\nalways expected to show his talents for com-\\nmand so soon as he assumed it, by leading his\\nclan on a successful enterprise of this nature,\\neither against a neighboring sept, for which\\nconstant feuds usually furnished an apology, or\\nagainst the Sassenach, Saxons, or Lowlanders,\\nfor which no apology was necessary. The Gael,\\ngreat traditional historians, never forgot that\\nthe Lowlands had, at some remote period, been\\nthe property of their Celtic forefathers, which\\nfurnished an ample vindication of all the rav-\\nages that they could make on the unfortunate\\ndistricts which lay within their reach.\\nPage 192, lines 270, 271.\\nI only meant\\nTo show the reed on which you leant.\\nThis incident, like some other passages in the\\npoem, illustrative of the character of the an-\\ncient Gael, is not imaginary, but borrowed from\\nfact. The Highlanders, with the inconsistency of\\nmost nations in the same state, were alternately\\ncapable of great exertions of generosity and of\\ncruel revenge and perfidy. Early in the last\\ncentury, John Gunn, a noted Highland robber,\\ninfested Inverness-shire, and levied black-mail\\nup to the walls of the provincial capital. A gar-\\nrison was then maintained in the castle of that\\ntown, and their pay (country banks being un-\\nknown) was usually transmitted in specie un-\\nder the guard of a small escort._ It chanced that\\nthe officer who commanded this little party was\\nunexpectedly obliged to halt, about thirty miles\\nfrom Inverness, at a miserable inn. About night-\\nfall, a stranger in the Highland dress, and of\\nvery prepossessing appearance, entered the same\\nhouse. Separate accommodation being impos-\\nsible, the Englishman offered the newly arrived\\nguest a part of his supper, which was accepted\\nwith reluctance. By the conversation he found\\nhis new acquaintance knew well all the passes\\nof the country, which induced him eagerly to\\nrequest his company on the ensuing morning.\\nHe neither disguised his business and charge,\\nnor his apprehensions of that celebrated free-\\nbooter, John Gunn. The Highlander hesitated\\na moment, and then frankly consented to be his\\nguide. Forth they set in the morning and in\\ntravelling through a solitary and dreary glen, the\\ndiscourse again turned on John Gunn. Would\\nyou like to see him said the guide and with-\\nout waiting an answer to this alarming question\\nhe whistled, and the English officer, with his\\nsmall party, were surrounded by a body of\\nHighlanders, whose numbers put resistance out\\nof question, and who were all well armed.\\nStranger, resumed the guide, I am that very\\nJohn Gunn by whom you feared to be inter-\\ncepted, and not without cause for I came to", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0577.jp2"}, "576": {"fulltext": "546\\nAPPENDIX\\nPages 193 to 196\\nthe inn last night with the express purpose\\nof learning your route, that I and my followers\\nmight ease you of your charge hy the road. But I\\nam incapable of betraying the trust you reposed\\nin me, and having convinced you that you were\\nin my power, I can only dismiss you unplundered\\nand uninjured. He then gave the officer di-\\nrections for his journey, and disappeared with\\nhis party as suddenly as they had presented\\nthemselves.\\nPage 193, line 298. Which, daughter of three\\nmighty lakes.\\nThe torrent which discharges itself from Loch\\nVennachar, the lowest and eastmost of the three\\nlakes which form the scenery adjoining to the\\nTrosachs, sweeps through a flat and extensive\\nmoor, called Bochastle. Upon a small eminence\\ncalled the Dun of Bochastle, and indeed on the\\nplain itself, are some intrenchments which have\\nbeen thought Roman.\\nLine 315. See, here all vantageless I stand.\\nThe duellists of former times did not always\\nstand upon those punctilios respecting equality\\nof arms, which are now judged essential to fair\\ncombat. It is true, that in formal combats in\\nthe lists, the parties were, by the judges of the\\nfield, put as nearly as possible in the same cir-\\ncumstances. But in private duel it was often\\notherwise. In that desperate combat which\\nwas fought between Luelus, a minion of Henry\\nIII. of France, and Antraguet, with two seconds\\non each side, from which only two persons es-\\ncaped alive, Luelus complained that his antag-\\nonist had over him the advantage of a poinard,\\nwhich he used in parrying, while his left hand,\\nwhich he was forced to employ for the same pur-\\npose, was cruelly mangled. When he charged\\nAntraguet with this odds, Thou hast done\\nwrong, answered he, to forget thy dagger at\\nhome. We are here to fight, and not to settle\\npunctilios of arms. In a similar duel, however,\\na younger brother of the house of Aubanye, in\\nAngoulesme, behaved more generously on the\\nlike occasion, and at once threw away his dagger\\nwhen his enemy challenged it as an undue ad-\\nvantage. But at this time hardly anything can\\nbe conceived more horridly brutal and savage\\nthan the mode in which private quarrels were\\nconducted in France. Those who were most\\njealous of the point of honor, and acquired the\\ntitle of Rufflnes, did not scruple to take every\\nadvantage of strength, numbers, surprise, and\\narms, to accomplish their revenge.\\nPage 194, line 380. That on the field his targe\\nhe threw.\\nA round target of light-wood, covered with\\nstrong leather and studded with brass or iron,\\nwas a necessary part of a Highlander s equip-\\nment. In charging regular troops they received\\nthe thrust of the bayonet in this buckler,\\ntwisted it aside, and used the broadsword\\nagainst the encumbered soldier. In the civil\\nwar of 1745 most of the front rank of the clans\\nwere thus armed and Captain Grose (Military\\nAntiquities, vol. i. p. 164) informs us that in 1747\\nthe privates of the 42d regiment, then in Flan-\\nders, were for the most part permitted to carry\\ntargets. A person thus armed had a consider-\\nable advantage in private fray.\\nLine 384. Fitz-James s blade was sword and\\nshield.\\nThe use of defensive armor, and particularly\\nof the buckler or target, was general in Queen\\nElizabeth s time, although that of the single\\nrapier seems to have been occasionally practised\\nmuch earlier. Rowland Yorke, however, who\\nbetrayed the fort of Zutphen to the Spaniards,\\nfor which good service he was afterward poi-\\nsoned by them, is said to have been the first who\\nbrought the rapier-fight into general use.\\nPage 195, line 551. And thou, O sad and fatal\\nmound\\nAn eminence on the northeast of the Castle,\\nwhere state criminals were executed. Stirling\\nwas often polluted with noble blood. This head-\\ning-hill, as it was sometimes termed, bears com-\\nmonly the less terrible name of Hurly-haeket,\\nfrom its having been the scene of a courtly\\namusement alluded to by Sir David Lindesay,\\nwho says of the pastimes in which the young\\nking was engaged\\nSome harled him to the Hurly-hacket\\nwhich consisted in sliding, in some sort of chair,\\nit may be supposed, from top to bottom of a\\nsmooth bank.\\nPage 195, line 564. The burghers hold their\\nsports to-day.\\nEvery burgh of Scotland of the least note, but\\nmore especially the considerable towns, had\\ntheir solemn play, or festival, when feats of\\narchery were exhibited, and prizes distributed\\nto those who excelled in wrestling, hurling the\\nbar, and the other gymnastic exercises of the\\nperiod. Stirling, a usual place of royal resi-\\ndence, was not likely to be deficient in pomp\\nupon such occasions, especially since James V.\\nwas very partial to them. His ready partici-\\npation in these popular amusements was one\\ncause of his acquiring the title of the King of\\nthe Commons, or Rex Plebeiorum, as Lesley has\\nlatinized it. The usual prize to the best shooter\\nwas a silver arrow.\\nPage 196, line 614. Bold Robin Hood and all\\nhis band.\\nThe exhibition of this renowned outlaw and\\nhis band was a favorite frolic at such festivals\\nas wo are describing. This sporting, in which\\nkings did not disdain to be actors, was pro-\\nhibited in Scotland upon the Reformation, by\\na statute of the 6th parliament of Queen Mary,\\nc. 61, A. D. 1555, which ordered, under heavy\\npenalties, that na manner of person be chosen\\nRobert Hude, nor Little John, Abbot of Un-\\nreason, Queen of May, nor otherwise. But in\\n1561 the rascal multitude/ says John Knox,\\nwere stirred up to make a Robin Hude, whilk\\nenormity was of mony years left and damned\\nby statute and act of Parliament yet would\\nthey not be forbidden. Accordingly they\\nraised a very serious tumult, and at length made\\nprisoners the magistrates who endeavored to\\nsuppress it, and would not release them till they\\nextorted a formal promise that no one should", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0578.jp2"}, "577": {"fulltext": "Pages 198 to 207\\nNOTES: THE LADY OF THE LAKE\\n547\\nbe punished for his share of the disturbance.\\nIt would seem, from the complaints of the Gen-\\neral Assembly of the Kirk, that these profane\\nfestivities were continued down to 1592 (Book of\\nthe Universal Kirk, p. 414).\\nLine 631. The monarch gave the arrow bright.\\nThe Douglas of the poem is an imaginary per-\\nson, a supposed uncle of the Earl of Angus.\\nBut the king s behavior during an unexpected\\ninterview with the Laird of Kilspindie, one of\\nthe banished Douglasses, under circumstances\\nsimilar to those in the text, is imitated from a\\nreal story told by Home of Godscroft.\\nLine 641. To Douglas gave a golden ring.\\nThe usual prize of a wrestling was a ram and\\na ring, but the animal would have embarrassed\\nmy story.\\nPage 199, line 887. Where stout Earl William\\nwas of old.\\nStabbed by James II. in Stirling Castle.\\nLine 47. Adventurers they from far who roved\\nThe Scottish armies consisted chiefly of the\\nnobility and barons, with their vassals, who\\nheld lands under them for military service by\\nthemselves and their tenants. The patriarchal\\ninfluence exercised by the heads of clans in the\\nHighlands and Borders was of a different na-\\nture, and sometimes at variance with feudal\\nprinciples. It flowed from the Patria Potestas,\\nexercised by the chieftain as representing the\\noriginal father of the whole name, and was often\\nobeyed in contradiction to the feudal superior.\\nJames V. seems first to have introduced, in\\naddition to the militia furnished from these\\nsources, the service of a small number of mer-\\ncenaries, who formed a body-guard, called the\\nFoot-Band.\\nPage 200, line 131. The leader of a juggler\\nband.\\nThe jongleurs, or jugglers, as we learn from\\nthe elaborate work of the late Mr. Strutt, on\\nthe sports and pastimes of the people of Eng-\\nland, used to call in the aid of various assistants,\\nto render these performances as captivating as\\npossible. The glee-maiden was a necessary at-\\ntendant. Her duty was tumbling and dancing\\nand therefore the Anglo-Saxon version of St.\\nMark s Gospel states Herodias to have vaulted\\nor tumbled before King Herod. In Scotland,\\nthese poor creatures seem, even at a late period,\\nto have been bondswomen to their masters.\\nPage 203, line 348. Strike it and then,\\nfor well thou canst.\\nThere are several instances, at least in tradi-\\ntion, of persons so much attached to particular\\ntunes as to require to hear them on their death-\\nbed. Such an anecdote is mentioned by the\\nlate Mr. Riddel of Glenriddel, in his collection\\nof Border tunes, respecting an air called the\\nDandling of the Bairns, for which a certain Gal-\\nlovidian laird is said to have evinced this strong\\nmark of partiality. It is popularly told of a\\nfamous freebooter, that he composed the tune\\nknown by the name of Macpherson s Rant while\\nunder sentence of death, and played it at the\\ngallows-tree. Some spirited words have been\\nadapted to it by Burns. A similar story is re-\\ncounted of a Welsh bard, who composed and\\nplayed on his death-bed the air called Dafyddy\\nGar r egg Wen.\\nCanto xv. Battle of BeaH an Duine.\\nA skirmish actually took place at a pass thus\\ncalled in the Trosachs, and closed with the re-\\nmarkable incident mentioned in the text. It\\nwas greatly posterior in date to the reign of\\nJames V.\\nPage 204, line 452. As their Tinchel cows the\\ngame.\\nA circle of sportsmen, who, by surrounding a\\ngreat space, and gradually narrowing, brought\\nimmense quantities of deer together, which\\nusually made desperate efforts to break through\\nthe Tinchel.\\nPage 207, line 740. And Snowdoun s Knight\\nis Scotland s King.\\nThis discovery will probably remind the\\nreader of the beautiful Arabian tale of II Bon-\\ndocani. Yet the incident is not borrowed from\\nthat elegant story, but from Scottish tradition.\\nJames V., of whom we are treating, was a mon-\\narch whose good and benevolent intentions often\\nrendered his romantic freaks venial, if not re-\\nspectable, since, from his anxious attention to\\nthe interests of the lower and most oppressed\\nclass of his subjects, he was, as we have seen,\\npopularly termed the King of the Commons. For\\nthe purpose of seeing that justice was regularly\\nadministered, and frequently from the less jus-\\ntifiable motive of gallantry, he used to traverse\\nthe vicinage of his several palaces in various\\ndisguises. The two excellent comic songs en-\\ntitled The Gaberlunzie Man and We HI gae nae\\nmair a roving are said to have been founded\\nupon the success of his amorous adventures\\nwhen travelling in the disguise of a beggar. The\\nlatter is perhaps the best comic ballad in any\\nlanguage.\\nLine 789. Of yore the name of Snowdoun\\nclaims.\\nWilliam of Worcester, who wrote about the\\nmiddle of the fifteenth century, calls Stirling\\nCastle Snowdoun. Sir David Lindesay bestows\\nthe same epithet upon it in his Complaint of the\\nPapingo:\\nAdieu, fair Snawdoun, with thy towers high,\\nThy chaple-royal, park, and table round\\nMay, June, and July, would I dwell in thee,\\nWere I a man, to hear the birdis sound,\\nWhilk doth agane thy royal rock rebound.\\nMr. Chalmers, in his late excellent edition of\\nSir David Lindesay s works, has refuted the\\nchimerical derivation of Snawdoun from sned-\\nding, or cutting. It was probably derived from\\nthe romantic legend which connected Stirling\\nwith King Arthur, to which the mention of the\\nRound Table gives countenance. The ring\\nwithin which jousts were formerly practised, in\\nthe castle park, is still called the Round Table.\\nSnawdoun is the official title of one of the Scot-\\ntish heralds, whose epithets seem in all coun-\\ntries to have been fantastically adopted from\\nancient history or romance. It appears that the\\nreal name by which James was actually distin-\\nguished in his private excursions was the Good-", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0579.jp2"}, "578": {"fulltext": "548\\nAPPENDIX\\nPages 2ii to 219\\nman of Ballenquick, derived from a steep pass\\nleading up to the Castle of Stirling, so called.\\nThe Vision of Don Roderick.\\nPage 211, line 35. And CattreaiK s glens with\\nvoice of triumph rung.\\nThis locality may startle those readers who\\ndo not recollect that much of the ancient poetry\\npreserved in Wales refers less to the history of\\nthe Principality to which that name is now\\nlimited, than to events which happened in the\\nnorthwest of England, and southwest of Scot-\\nland, where the Britons for a long time made a\\nstand against the Saxons. The battle of Cat-\\ntreath, lamented by the celebrated Aneurin, is\\nsupposed, by the learned Dr. Leyden, to have\\nbeen fought on the skirts of Ettrick Forest. It\\nis known to the English reader by the para-\\nphrase of Gray, beginning,\\nHad I but the torrent s might,\\nWith headlong rage and wild affright, etc.\\nBut it is not so generally known that the cham-\\npions, mourned in this beautiful dirge, were\\nthe British inhabitants of Edinburgh, who were\\ncut off by the Saxons of Deiria, or Northum-\\nberland, about the latter part of the sixth\\ncentury.\\nLine 67. Or round the marge of Minchmore^ s\\nhaunted spring.\\nA belief in the existence and nocturnal revels\\nof the fairies still lingers among the vulgar\\nin Selkirkshire. A copious fountain upon the\\nridge of Minchmore, called the Cheesewell, is\\nsupposed to be sacred to these fanciful spirits,\\nand it was customary to propitiate them by\\nthrowing in something upon passing it. A pin\\nwas the usual oblation; and the ceremony is\\nstill sometimes practised, though rather in jest\\nthan earnest.\\nPage 212, line 76. In verse spontaneous chants\\nsome favored name.\\nThe flexibility of the Italian and Spanish\\nlanguages, and perhaps the liveliness of their\\ngenius, renders these countries distinguished for\\nthe talent of improvisations, which is found\\neven among the lowest of the people. It is\\nmentioned by Baretti and other travellers.\\nLine 79. Or whether, kindling at the deeds of\\nGrceme.\\nOver a name sacred for ages to heroic verse,\\na poet may be allowed to exercise some power.\\nI have used the freedom, here and elsewhere,\\nto alter the orthography of the name of my gal-\\nlant countryman, in order to apprise the South-\\nern reader of its legitimate sound Grahame\\nbeing, on the other side of the Tweed, usually\\npronounced as a dissyllable.\\nPage 213, line 31. What will Don Roderick\\nhere till morning stay.\\nAlmost all the Spanish historians, as well as\\nthe voice of tradition, ascribe the invasion of\\nthe Moors to the forcible violation committed\\nby Roderick upon Florinda, called by the\\nMoors, Caba or Cava. She was the daughter\\nof Count Julian, one of the Gothic monarch s\\nprincipal lieutenants, who, when the crime was\\nperpetrated, was engaged in the defence of\\nCeuta against the Moors. In his indignation at\\nthe ingratitude of his sovereign, and the dis-\\nhonor of his daughter, Count Julian forgot the\\nduties of a Christian and a patriot, and, form-\\ning an alliance with Musa, then the Caliph s\\nlieutenant in Africa, he countenanced the inva-\\nsion of Spain by a body of Saracens and Afri-\\ncans, commanded by the celebrated Tarik the\\nissue of which was the defeat and death of\\nRoderick, and the occupation of almost the\\nwhole peninsula by the Moors.\\nLine 59. Thus royal Witiza was slain, he\\nsaid.\\nThe predecessor of Roderick upon the Span-\\nish throne, and slain by his connivance, as is\\naffirmed by Rodriguez of Toledo, the father of\\nSpanish history.\\nPage 215, line 168. The Tecbir war-cry and\\nthe Lelie s yell.\\nThe Tecbir (derived from the words Alia\\nacbar, God is most mighty) was the original\\nwarcry of the Saracens. It is celebrated by\\nHughes in the Siege of Damascus\\nWe heard the Tecbir so these Arabs call\\nTheir shout of onset, when, with loud appeal,\\nThey challenge Heaven, as if demanding conquest.\\nThe Lelie, well known to the Christians dur-\\ning the crusades, is the shout of Alia ilia Alia,\\nthe Mahometan confession of faith. It is twice\\nused in poetry by my friend Mr. W. Stewart\\nRose, in the romance of Partenopex, and in the\\nCrusade of Saint Lewis.\\nLine 181. By Heaven, the Moors prevail the\\nChristians yield\\nCount Julian, the father of the injured Flo-\\nrinda, with the connivance and assistance of\\nOppas, Archbishop of Toledo, invited, in 713,\\nthe Saracens into Spain. A considerable army\\narrived under the command of Tarik, or Tarif\\nwho bequeathed the well-known name of Gib-\\nraltar (Gibel al Tarik, or the mountain of Ta-\\nrik) to the place of his landing. He was joined\\nby Count Julian, ravaged Andalusia, and took\\nSeville. In 714, they returned with a still\\ngreater force, and Roderick marched into An-\\ndalusia at the head of a great army, to give\\nthem battle.\\nOrelia, the courser of Don Roderick, was\\ncelebrated for her speed and form. She is\\nmentioned repeatedly in Spanish romance, and\\nalso by Cervantes.\\nPage 218, fine 293. When for the light bolero\\nready stand.\\nThe bolero is a very light and active dance,\\nmuch practised by the Spaniards, in which cas-\\ntanets are always used. Mozo and muchacha is\\nequivalent to our phrase of lad and lass.\\nPage 219, line 382. While trumpets rang, and\\nheralds cried Castile\\nThe heralds, at the coronation of a Spanish\\nmonarch, proclaim his name three times, and\\nrepeat three times the word Castilla, Castilla,\\nCastilla which, with all other ceremonies,\\nwas carefully copied in the mock inauguration\\nof Joseph Bonaparte.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0580.jp2"}, "579": {"fulltext": "Pages 223 to 231\\nNOTES ROKEBY\\n549\\nPage 223, line 563. Then, though, the Vault of\\nDestiny be gone.\\nBefore finally dismissing the enchanted cavern\\nof Don Roderick, it may be noticed that the\\nlegend occurs in one of Calderon s plays, en-\\ntitled La Virgin del Sagrario.\\nLine 15. While downward on the land his\\nlegions press.\\nI have ventured to apply to the movements\\nof the French army that sublime passage in the\\nprophecies of Joel (ii. 2-10) which seems appli-\\ncable to them in more respects than that I have\\nadopted in the text. One would think their\\nravages, their military appointments, the ter-\\nror which they spread among invaded nations,\\ntheir military discipline, their arts of political\\nintrigue and deceit, were distinctly pointed out.\\nPage 224, line 68. Vainglorious fugitive, yet\\nturn again I\\nThe French conducted this memorable re-\\ntreat with much of the fanfarronade proper to\\ntheir country, by which they attempt to im-\\npose upon others, and perhaps on themselves,\\na belief that they are triumphing in the very\\nmoment of their discomfiture. On the 30th\\nMarch, 1811, their rear-guard was overtaken\\nnear Pega by the British cavalry. Being well\\nposted, and conceiving themselves safe from in-\\nfantry (who were indeed many miles in the\\nrear) and from artillery, they indulged them-\\nselves in parading their bands of music, and\\nactually performed God save the King.\\nTheir minstrelsy was, however, deranged by\\nthe undesired accompaniment of the British\\nhorse-artillery, on whose part in the concert\\nthey had not calculated. The surprise was\\nsudden, and the rout complete for the artillery\\nand cavalry did execution upon them for about\\nfour miles, pursuing at the gallop as often as\\nthey got beyond the range of the guns.\\nLine 83. Vainly thy squadrons hide Assuava s\\nplain.\\nIn the severe action of Fuentes d Honoro\\nHonor s Fountain, 1. 70] upon 5th May, 1811,\\nthe grand mass of the French cavalry attacked\\nthe right of the British position, covered by\\ntwo guns of the horse-artillery, and two squad-\\nrons of cavalry. After suffering considerably\\nfrom the fire of the guns, which annoyed them\\nin every attempt at formation, the enemy\\nturned their wrath entirely towards them, dis-\\ntributed brandy among their troopers, and\\nadvanced to carry the fieldpieces with the de-\\nsperation of drunken fury. They were in no\\nwise checked by the heavy loss which they sus-\\ntained in this daring attempt, but closed, and\\nfairly mingled with the British cavalry, to\\nwhom they bore the proportion of ten to one.\\nCaptain Ramsay, who commanded the two\\nguns, dismissed them at the gallop, and, putting\\nhimself at the head of the mounted artillery-\\nmen, ordered them to fall upon the French,\\nsabre-in-hand. This very unexpected conver-\\nsion of artillerymen into dragoons contributed\\ngreatly to the defeat of the enemy already dis-\\nconcerted by the reception they had met from\\nthe two British squadrons and the appearance\\nof some small reinforcements, notwithstanding\\nthe immense disproportion of force, put them\\nto absolute rout.\\nLine 86. And what avails thee that, for Cam-\\neron slain.\\nThe gallant Colonel Cameron was wounded\\nmortally during the desperate contest in the\\nstreets of the village called Fuentes d Honoro.\\nHe fell at the head of his native Highlanders,\\nthe 71st and 79th, who raised a dreadful shriek\\nof grief and rage. They charged, with irresist-\\nible fury, the finest body of French grenadiers\\never seen, being a part of Bonaparte s selected\\nguard. The officer who led the French, a\\nman remarkable for stature and symmetry,\\nwas killed on the spot. The Frenchman who\\nstepped out of his rank to take aim at Colonel\\nCameron was also bayoneted, pierced with a\\nthousand wounds, and almost torn to pieces by\\nthe furious Highlanders, who, under the com-\\nmand of Colonel Cadogan, bore the enemy out\\nof the contested ground at the point of the\\nbayonet.\\nPage 225, line 118. O who shall grudge him\\nAlbuera s bays.\\nNothing during the war of Portugal seems,\\nto a distinct observer, more deserving of praise,\\nthan the self-devotion of Field-Marshal Ber-\\nesford, who was contented to undertake all\\nthe hazard of obloquy which might have been\\nfounded upon any miscarriage in the highly\\nimportant experiment of training the Portu-\\nguese troops to an improved state of discipline.\\nPage 226, line 153. Than when wild ~Ronda\\nlearned the conquering shout of Grozme I\\nThis stanza alludes to the various achieve-\\nments of the warlike family of Graeme, or\\nGrahame. They are said, by tradition, to have\\ndescended from the Scottish chief under whose\\ncommand his countrymen stormed the wall\\nbuilt by the Emperor Severus between the\\nFriths of Forth and Clyde, the fragments of\\nwhich are still popularly called Graeme s Dyke.\\nSir John the Graeme, the hardy, wight, and\\nwise, is well known as the friend of Sir Wil-\\nliam Wallace. Alderne, Kilsythe, and Tib-\\nbermuir were scenes of the victories of the\\nheroic Marquis of Montrose. The pass of\\nKillycrankie is famous for the action between\\nKing William s forces and the Highlanders in\\n1689.\\nWhere glad Dundee in faint huzzas expired.\\nIt is seldom that one line can number so many\\nheroes, and yet more rare when it can appeal\\nto the glory of a living descendant in support\\nof its ancient renown.\\nROKEBY.\\nPage 231, line 5. On Barnard s towers, and\\nTees s stream.\\nBarnard Castle, saith old Leland, stand-\\neth stately upon Tees. It is founded upon a\\nvery high bank, and its ruins impend over the\\nriver, including within the area a circuit of six\\nacres and upwards. This once magnificent\\nfortress derives its name from its founder,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0581.jp2"}, "580": {"fulltext": "55\u00c2\u00b0\\nAPPENDIX\\nPages 232 to 236\\nBarnard Baliol, the ancestor of the short and\\nunfortunate dynasty of that name, which suc-\\nceeded to the Scottish throne under the patron-\\nage of Edward I. and Edward III. Baliol s\\nTower, afterwards mentioned in the poem, is\\na round tower of great size, situated at the\\nwestern extremity of the building. It bears\\nmarks of great antiquity, and was remarkable\\nfor the curious construction of its vaulted roof,\\nwhich has been lately greatly injured by the\\noperations of some persons, to whom the tower\\nhas been leased for the purpose of making\\npatent shot The prospect from the top of\\nBaliol s Tower commands a rich and magnifi-\\ncent view of the wooded valley of the Tees.\\nPage 232, line 96. The morion s plumes his\\nvisage hide.\\nThe use of complete suits of armor was fallen\\ninto disuse during the Civil War, though they\\nwere still worn by leaders of rank and impor-\\ntance. In the reign of King James I., says\\nour military antiquary, no great alterations\\nwere made in the article of defensive armor,\\nexcept that the buff-coat, or jerkin, which was\\noriginally worn under the cuirass, now became\\nfrequently a substitute for it, it having been\\nfound that a good buff leather would of itself\\nresist the stroke of a sword this, however,\\nonly occasionally took place among the light-\\narmed cavalry and infantry, complete suits of\\narmor being still used among the heavy horse.\\nBuff-coats continued to be worn by the city\\ntrained-bands till within the memory of per-\\nsons now living, so that defensive armor may,\\nin some measure, be said to have terminated in\\nthe same materials with which it began, that\\nis, the skins of animals, or leather. Grose s\\nMilitary Antiquities, Lond. 1801, 4to, vol. ii.\\np. 323.\\nLine 111. Onhis dark face a scorching clime.\\nIn this character I have attempted to sketch\\none of those West Indian adventurers, who,\\nduring the course of the seventeenth century,\\nwere popularly known by the name of Bucca-\\nneers. The successes of the English in the\\npredatory incursions upon Spanish America\\nduring the reign of Elizabeth had never been\\nforgotten and, from that period downward,\\nthe exploits of Drake and Raleigh were imi-\\ntated, upon a smaller scale indeed, but with\\nequally desperate valor, by small bands of pi-\\nrates, gathered from all nations, but chiefly\\nFrench and English. The engrossing policy of\\nthe Spaniards tended greatly to increase the\\nnumber of these free-booters, from whom their\\ncommerce and colonies suffered, in the issue,\\ndreadful calamity.\\nPage 233, line 223. Would st hear the tale?\\nOn Marston heath.\\nThe well-known and desperate battle of\\nLong-Marston Moor, which terminated so un-\\nfortunately for the cause of Charles, com-\\nmenced under very different auspices. Prince\\nRupert had marched with an army of twenty\\nthousand men for the relief of York, then\\nbesieged by Sir Thomas Fairfax, at the head\\nof the Parliamentary army, and the Earl of\\nLeven, with the Scottish auxiliary forces. In\\nthis he so completely succeeded, that he com-\\npelled the besiegers to retreat to Marston\\nMoor, a large open plain, about eight miles\\ndistant from the city. Thither they were\\nfollowed by the Prince, who had now united\\nto his army the garrison of York, probably\\nnot less than ten thousand men strong, under\\nthe gallant Marquis (then Earl) of Newcastle.\\nLord Clarendon informs us that the King,\\nprevious to receiving the true account of the\\nbattle, had been informed, by an express from\\nOxford, that Prince Rupert had not only re-\\nlieved York, but totally defeated the Scots,\\nwith many particulars to confirm it, all which\\nwas so much believed there, that they had\\nmade public fires of joy for the victory.\\nPage 236, line 436. Monckton and Mitton\\ntold the news.\\nMonckton and Mitton are villages near the\\nriver Ouse, and not very distant from the field\\nof battle. The particulars of the action were\\nviolently disputed at the time.\\nLine 445. Stout Cromwell has redeemed the\\nday.\\nCromwell, with his regiment of cuirassiers,\\nhad a principal share in turning the fate of\\nthe day at Marston Moor which was equally\\nmatter of triumph to the Independents, and of\\ngrief and heart-burning to the Presbyterians\\nand to the Scottish.\\nLine 461. Of Percy Rede the tragic song.\\nIn a poem, entitled The Lay of the Beedwater\\nMinstrel, Newcastle, 1809, this tale, with many\\nothers peculiar to the valley of the Reed, is\\ncommemorated The particulars of the tra-\\nditional story of Parcy Reed of Troughend, and\\nthe Halls of Girsonfield, the author had from\\na descendant of the family of Reed. From his\\naccount, it appears that Percival Reed, Es-\\nquire, a keeper of Reedsdale, was betrayed by\\nthe Halls (hence denominated the false-hearted\\nHa s) to a band of moss-troopers of the name\\nof Crosier, who slew him at Batinghope, near\\nthe source of the Reed.\\nThe Halls were, after the murder of Parcy\\nReed, held in such universal abhorrence and\\ncontempt by the inhabitants of Reedsdale, for\\ntheir cowardly and treacherous behavior, that\\nthey were obliged to leave the country. In\\nanother passage we are informed that the\\nghost of the injured Borderer is supposed to\\nhaunt the banks of a brook called the Pringle.\\nThese Redes of Troughend were a very ancient\\nfamily, as may be conjectured from their de-\\nriving their surname from the river on which\\nthey had their mansion. An epitaph on one of\\ntheir tombs affirms that the family held their\\nlands of Troughend, which are situated on the\\nReed, nearly opposite to Otterburn, for the\\nincredible space of nine hundred years.\\nLine 466. And near the spot that gave me\\nname.\\nRisingham, upon the river Reed, near the\\nbeautiful hamlet of Woodburn, is an ancient\\nRoman station, formerly called Habitancum.\\nCamden says, that in his time the popular ac-", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0582.jp2"}, "581": {"fulltext": "Pages 236 to 242\\nNOTES ROKEBY\\n55i\\ncount bore that it had been the abode of a\\ndeity, or giant, called Magon and appeals, in\\nsupport of this tradition, as well as to the ety-\\nmology of Risingham, or Reisenham, which\\nsignifies, in German, the habitation of the\\ngiants, to two Roman altars taken out of the\\nriver, inscribed Deo Mogonti Cadenorum.\\nAbout half a mile distant from Risingham,\\nupon an eminence covered with scattered birch-\\ntrees and fragments of rock, there is cut upon\\na large rock, in alto relievo, a remarkable figure,\\ncalled Robin of Risingham, or Robin of Redes-\\ndale. It presents a hunter, with his bow\\nraised in one hand, and in the other what seems\\nto be a hare. There is a quiver at the back of\\nthe figure, and he is dressed in a long coat or\\nkirtle, coming down to the knees, and meeting\\nclose, with a girdle bound round him. Dr.\\nHorseley, who saw all monuments of antiquity\\nwith Roman eyes, inclines to think this figure\\na Roman archer and certainly the bow is\\nrather of the ancient size than of that which\\nwas so formidable in the hand of the English\\narchers of the middle ages. But the rudeness\\nof the whole figure prevents our founding\\nstrongly upon mere inaccuracy of proportion.\\nThe popular tradition is, that it represents a\\ngiant, whose brother resided at Woodburn, and\\nhe himself at Risingham. It adds, that they\\nsubsisted by hunting, and that one of them,\\nfinding the game become too scarce to support\\nthem, poisoned his companion, in whose mem-\\nory the monument was engraved.\\nLine 491. The statutes of the buccaneer.\\nThe statutes of the Buccaneers were, in\\nreality, more equitable than could have been\\nexpected from the state of society under which\\nthey had been formed. They chiefly related,\\nas may readily be conjectured, to the distribu-\\ntion and the inheritance of their plunder.\\nWhen the expedition was completed, the fund\\nof prize-money acquired was thrown together,\\neach party taking his oath that he had retained\\nor concealed no part of the common stock. If\\nany one transgressed in this important particu-\\nlar, the punishment was, his being set ashore\\non some desert key or island, to shift for him-\\nself as he could. The owners of the vessel had\\nthen their share assigned for the expenses of\\nthe outfit. These were generally old pirates,\\nsettled at Tobago, Jamaica, St. Domingo, or\\nsome other French or English settlement. The\\nsurgeon s and carpenter s salaries, with the\\nprice of provisions and ammunition, were also\\ndefrayed. Then followed the compensation\\ndue to the maimed and wounded, rated accord-\\ning to the damage they had sustained as six\\nhundred pieces of eight, or six slaves, for the\\nloss of an arm or leg, and so in proportion. The\\nremainder of the booty was divided into as\\nmany shares as there were Buccaneers. The\\ncommander could only lay claim to a single\\nshare, as the rest but they complimented him\\nwith two or three, in proportion as he had ac-\\nquitted himself to their satisfaction.\\nPage 239, line 22. Down his deep woods the\\ncourse of Tees.\\nThe view from Barnard Castle commands\\nthe rich and magnificent valley of Tees. Im-\\nmediately adjacent to the river, the banks are\\nvery thickly wooded at a little distance they\\nare more open and cultivated but, being inter-\\nspersed with hedgerows, and with isolated trees\\nof great size and age, they still retain the rich-\\nness of woodland scenery. The river itself flows\\nin a deep trench of solid rock, chiefly limestone\\nand marble.\\nPage 240, line 80. And Egliston s gray ruins\\nThe ruins of this abbey, or priory, are beau-\\ntifully situated upon the angle formed by a\\nlittle dell called Thorsgill at its junction with\\nthe Tees. Egliston was dedicated to St. Mary\\nand St. John the Baptist, and is supposed to\\nhave been founded by Ralph de Multon about\\nthe end of Henry the Second s reign.\\nLine 98. Raised by that Legion long renowned.\\nClose behind the George Inn at Greta Bridge,\\nthere is a well-preserved Roman encampment,\\nsurrounded with a triple ditch, lying between\\nthe river Greta and a brook called the Tutta.\\nThe four entrances are easily to be discerned.\\nVery many Roman altars and monuments have\\nbeen found in the vicinity.\\nLine 108. Awoke when Rokeby 1 s turrets high.\\nThis ancient manor long gave name to a\\nfamily by whom it is said to have been pos-\\nsessed from the Conquest downward, and who\\nare at different times distinguished in history.\\nIt was the Baron of Rokeby who finally de-\\nfeated the insurrection of the Earl of North-\\numberland, tempore Hen. IV. The Rokeby, or\\nRokesby family, continued to be distinguished\\nuntil the great Civil War, when, having em-\\nbraced the cause of Charles I., they suffered\\nseverely by fines and confiscations.\\nPage 241, line 135. A stern and lone yet lovely\\nroad.\\nWhat follows is an attempt to describe the\\nromantic glen, or rather ravine, through which\\nthe Greta finds a passage between Rokeby and\\nMortham the former situated upon the left\\nbank of Greta, the latter on the right bank,\\nabout half a mile nearer to its junction with\\nthe Tees. The river runs with very great\\nrapidity over a bed of solid rock, broken by\\nmany shelving descents, down which the stream\\ndashes with great noise and impetuosity.\\nPage 242, line 251. How whistle rash bids\\ntempests roar.\\nThat this is a general superstition, is well\\nknown to all who have been on shipboard, or\\nwho have conversed with seamen.\\nLine 253. Of Erich 1 s cap and Elmo s light.\\nThis Ericus, King of Sweden, in his time\\nwas held second to none in the magical art\\nand he was so familiar with the evil spirits,\\nwhich he exceedingly adored, that which way\\nsoever he turned his cap, the wind would pre-\\nsently blow that way. From this occasion he\\nwas called Windy Cap and many men believed\\nthat Regnerus, King of Denmark, by the con-\\nduct of this Ericus, who was his nephew, did\\nhappily extend his piracy into the most remote", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0583.jp2"}, "582": {"fulltext": "552\\nAPPENDIX\\nPages 242 to 247\\nparts of the earth, and conquered many coun-\\ntries and fenced cities by his cunning, and at\\nlast was his coadjutor that by the consent\\nof the nobles, he should be chosen King of\\nSweden, which continued a long time with him\\nvery happily, until he died of old age. Olaus\\nMagnus, p. 45.\\nLine 263. The Demon Frigate braves the gale.\\nThis is an allusion to a well-known nautical\\nsuperstition concerning a fantastic vessel, called\\nby sailors the Flying Dutchman, and supposed\\nto be seen about the latitude of the Cape of Good\\nHope. She is distinguished from earthly ves-\\nsels by bearing a press of sail when all others\\nare unable, from stress of weather, to show an\\ninch of canvas. The cause of her wandering\\nis not altogether certain but the general ac-\\ncount is, that she was originally a vessel loaded\\nwith great wealth, on board of which some\\nhorrid act of murder and piracy had been com-\\nmitted that the plague broke out among the\\nwicked crew who had perpetrated the crime,\\nand that they sailed in vain from port to port,\\noffering, as the price of shelter, the whole of\\ntheir ill-gotten wealth that they were excluded\\nfrom every harbor, for fear of the contagion\\nwhich was devouring them and that, as a\\npunishment of their crimes, the apparition of\\nthe ship still continues to haunt those seas in\\nwhich the catastrophe took place, and is con-\\nsidered by the mariners as the worst of all pos-\\nsible omens.\\nLine 268. How, by some desert isle or key.\\nWhat contributed much to the security of\\nthe Buccaneers about the Windward Islands\\nwas the great number of little islets, called in\\nthat country keys. _ These are small sandy\\npatches, appearing just above the surface of\\nthe ocean, covered only with a few bushes and\\nweeds, but sometimes affording springs of\\nwater, and, in general, much frequented by\\nturtle. Such little uninhabited spots afforded\\nthe pirates good harbors, either for refitting\\nor for the purpose of ambush they were occa-\\nsionally the hiding-place of their treasure, and\\noften afforded a shelter to themselves.\\nPage 243, line 363. Before the gate of Mort-\\nham stood.\\nThe castle of Mortham, which Leland terms\\nMr. Rokesby s Place, in ripa citer, scant a\\nquarter of a mile from Greta Bridge, and not\\na quarter of a mile beneath into Tees, is a\\npicturesque tower, surrounded by buildings\\nof different ages, now converted into a farm-\\nhouse and offices. The situation of Mortham\\nis eminently beautiful, occupying a high bank,\\nat the bottom of which the Greta winds out of\\nthe dark, narrow, and romantic dell, which the\\ntext has attempted to describe, and flows on-\\nward through a more open valley to meet the\\nTees about a quarter of a mile from the castle.\\nLine 424. There dig and tomb your precious\\nheap.\\nIf time did not permit the Buccaneers to\\nlavish away their plunder in their usual de-\\nbaucheries, they were wont to hide it, with\\nmany superstitious solemnities, in the desert\\nislands and keys which they frequented, and\\nwhere much treasure, whose lawless owners\\nperished without reclaiming it, is still supposed\\nto be concealed. They killed a Negro or Span-\\niard, and buried him with the treasure, believ-\\ning that his spirit would haunt the spot, and\\nterrify away all intruders. I cannot produce\\nany other authority on which this custom is\\nascribed to them than that of maritime tradi-\\ntion, which is, however, amply sufficient for\\nthe purposes of poetry.\\nPage 244, line 444. And force him as by magic\\nspell.\\nAll who are conversant with the administra-\\ntion of criminal justice must remember many\\noccasions in which malefactors appear to have\\nconducted themselves with a species of infatu-\\nation, either by making unnecessary confidences\\nrespecting their guilt, or by sudden and in-\\nvoluntary allusions to circumstances by which\\nit could not fail to be exposed. A remarka-\\nble instance occurred in the celebrated case\\nof Eugene Aram. It happened to the author\\nhimself, while conversing with a person ac-\\ncused of an atrocious crime, for the purpose\\nof rendering him professional assistance upon\\nhis trial, to hear the prisoner, after the most\\nsolemn and reiterated protestations that he was\\nguiltless, suddenly, and, as it were, involun-\\ntarily, in the course of his communications,\\nmake such an admission as was altogether in-\\ncompatible with innocence.\\nPage 246, line 632. Of Brackenbury s dismal\\ntower.\\nThis tower is situated near the northeastern\\nextremity of the wall which encloses Barnard\\nCastle, and is traditionally said to have been\\nthe prison.\\nLine 693. Bight heavy shall his ransom be.\\nAfter the battle of Marston Moor, the Earl of\\nNewcastle retired beyond sea in disgust, and\\nmany of his followers laid down their arms and\\nmade the best composition they could with the\\nCommittees of Parliament. Fines were imposed\\nupon them in proportion to their estates and de-\\ngrees of delinquency, and these fines were often\\nbestowed upon such persons as had deserved\\nwell of the Commons. In some circumstances\\nit happened that the oppressed cavaliers were\\nfain to form family alliances with some power-\\nful person among the triumphant party.\\nPage 247, line 27. Now covering with the\\nwithered leaves.\\nThe patience, abstinence, and ingenuity ex-\\nerted by the North American Indians, when in\\npursuit of plunder or vengeance, is the most dis-\\ntinguished feature in their character and the\\nactivity and address which they display in their\\nretreat is equally surprising.\\nLine 33. In Bedesdale his youth had heard.\\nThe inhabitants of the valleys of Tyne and\\nReed were, in ancient times, so inordinately\\naddicted to these depredations, that in 1564 the\\nIncorporated Merchant adventurers of New-\\ncastle made a law that none born in these dis-\\ntricts should be admitted apprentice. The in-\\nhabitants are stated to be so generally addicted", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0584.jp2"}, "583": {"fulltext": "Pages 247 to 255\\nNOTES ROKEBY\\n553\\nto rapine that no faith should be reposed in\\nthose proceeding from such lewde and wicked\\nprogenitors This regulation continued to stand\\nunrepealed until 1771. A beggar, in an old\\nplay, describes himself as born in Redesdale,\\nin Northumberland, and come of a wight-riding\\nsurname called the Robsons, good honest men\\nand true, saving a Little shifting for their living,\\nGod help them a description which would\\nhave applied to most Borderers on both sides.\\nLine 35. When Booken-edge and Bedswair\\nhigh.\\nBeidswair, famed for a skirmish to which it\\ngives name, is on the very edge of the Carter-\\nfell, which divides England from Scotland.\\nThe Booken is a place upon Reedwater.\\nLine 90. Hiding his face, lestfoemen spy.\\nAfter one of the recent battles, in which the\\nIrish rebels were defeated, one of their most\\nactive leaders was found in a bog, in which he\\nwas immersed up to the shoulders, while his\\nhead was concealed by an impending ledge of\\nturf. Being detected and seized, notwithstand-\\ning his precaution, he became solicitous to know\\nhow his retreat had been discovered. I\\ncaught, said the Sutherland Highlander by\\nwhom he was taken, the sparkle of your eye.\\nPage 248, line 181. And throatwort with its\\nazure bell.\\nThe Campanula Latifolia, grand throatwort,\\nor Canterbury bells, grows in profusion upon the\\nbeautiful banks of the River Greta, where it\\ndivides the manors of Brignall and Scargill,\\nabout three miles above Greta Bridge. [The\\nreader instinctively recalls Mr. Morritt s ac-\\ncount of Scott s notebook with memoranda jot-\\nted down for the local color of this poem.]\\nPage 249, line 274. Of my marauding on the\\nclowns.\\nThe troops of the king, when they first took\\nthe field, were as well disciplined as could be\\nexpected from circumstances. But as the cir-\\ncumstances of Charles became less favorable,\\nand his funds for regularly paying his forces\\ndecreased, habits of military license prevailed\\namong them in greater excess. Lacy the player,\\nwho served his master during the Civil War,\\nbrought out after the Restoration a piece\\ncalled The Old Troop, in which he seems to have\\ncommemorated some real incidents which oc-\\ncurred in his military career. The names of\\nthe officers of the Troop sufficiently express\\ntheir habits. We have Flea-flint Plunder-\\nMaster General, Captain Ferret farm, and\\nQuarter-Master Burndrop. The officers of the\\nTroop are in league with these worthies, and\\nconnive at their plundering the country for a\\nsuitable share in the booty. All this was un-\\ndoubtedly drawn from the life, which Lacy had\\nan opportunity to study.\\nPage 250, line 339. And BrignaWs woods\\nand ScargilVs wave.\\nThe banks of the Greta, below Rutherford\\nBridge, abound in seams of grayish slate, which\\nare wrought in some places to a very great\\ndepth under ground, thus forming artificial\\ncaverns, which, when the seam has been ex-\\nhausted, are gradually hidden by the under-\\nwood which grows in profusion upon the ro-\\nmantic banks of the river. In times of public\\nconfusion, they might be well adapted to the\\npurposes of banditti.\\nPage 252, line 504. When Spain waged war-\\nfare with our land.\\nThere was a short war with Spain in 1625-26,\\nwhich will be found to agree pretty well with\\nthe chronology of the poem. But probably\\nBertram held an opinion very common among\\nthe maritime heroes of the age, that there was\\nno peace beyond the Line. The Spanish\\nguarda-costas were constantly employed in ag-\\ngressions upon the trade and settlements of the\\nEnglish and French and, by their own severi-\\nties, gave room for the system of buccaneering,\\nat first adopted in self-defence and retaliation,\\nand afterwards persevered in from habit and\\nthirst of plunder.\\nLine 571. And once amid our comrade s strife.\\nThe laws of the Buccaneers, and their suc-\\ncessors the Pirates, however severe and equi-\\ntable, were, like other laws, often set aside by\\nthe stronger party. Their quarrels about the\\ndivision of the spoil fill their history, and they\\nas frequently arose out of mere frolic, or the\\ntyrannical humor of their chiefs.\\nPage 254, line 697. And adieu for evermore.\\nThe last verse of this song is taken from the\\nfragment of an old Scottish ballad which seems\\nto express the fortunes of some follower of the\\nStuart family.\\nLine 735. Who at Bere-cross on Stanmore\\nmeets Allen-a-Dale\\nThis is a fragment of an old cross, with its\\npediment, surrounded by an iutrenchment, upon\\nthe very summit of the waste ridge of Stan-\\nmore, near a small house of entertainment called\\nthe Spittal. The situation of the cross, and the\\npains taken to defend it, seem to indicate that\\nit was intended for a landmark of importance.\\nLine 756. Speak, Hamlin hast thou lodged\\nour deer\\nThe duty of the ranger, or pricker, was first\\nto lodge, or harbor the deer i. e., to discover\\nhis retreat, and then to make his report to his\\nprince, or master.\\nPage 255, line 1. When Denmark s raven soared\\non high.\\nAbout the year of God 866 the Danes, under\\ntheir celebrated leaders Inguar (more properly\\nAgnar) and Hubba, sons, it is said, of the\\nstill more celebrated Regnar Lodbrog, in-\\nvaded Northumberland, bringing with them\\nthe magical standard, so often mentioned in\\npoetry, called Beafen, or Rumf an, from its bear-\\ning the figure of a raven. The Danes renewed\\nand extended their incursions, and began to\\ncolonize, establishing a kind of capital at York,\\nfrom which they spread their conquests and in-\\ncursions in every direction. Stanmore, which\\ndivides the mountains of Westmoreland and\\nCumberland, was probably the boundary of\\nthe Danish kingdom in that direction. The\\ndistrict to the west, known in ancient British\\nhistory by the name of Reged, had never been", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0585.jp2"}, "584": {"fulltext": "554\\nAPPENDIX\\nPages 255 to 263\\nconquered by the Saxons, and continued to\\nmaintain a precarious independence until it was\\nceded to Malcolm, King of Scots, by William\\nthe Conqueror.\\nLine 9. Beneath the shade the Northmen came.\\nThe heathen Danes have left several traces of\\ntheir religion in the upper part of Teesdale.\\nBalder-garth, which derives its name from the\\nunfortunate son of Odin, is a tract of waste\\nland on the very ridge of Stanmore and a\\nbrook, which falls into the Tees near Barnard\\nCastle, is named after the same deity. A field\\nupon the banks of the Tees is also termed Wo-\\nden-Croft, from the supreme deity of the Edda.\\nThorsgill, of which a description is attempted\\nin stanza 2, is a beautiful little brook and dell,\\nrunning up behind the ruins of Egliston Abbey.\\nPage 256, line 131. Who has not heard how\\nbrave O Neale.\\nThe O Neale here meant, for more than one\\nsucceeded to the chieftainship during the reign\\nof Elizabeth, was Hugh, the grandson of Con\\nO Neale, called Con Bacco, or the Lame. His\\nfather, Matthew O Kelly, was illegitimate, and,\\nbeing the son of a blacksmith s wife, was usu-\\nally called Matthew the Blacksmith. His\\nfather, nevertheless, destined his succession to\\nhim and he was created, by Elizabeth, Baron\\nof Dungannon. Upon the death of Con Bacco,\\nthis Matthew was slain by his brother. Hugh\\nnarrowly escaped the same fate, and was pro-\\ntected by the English. Shane O Neale, his\\nuncle, called Shane-Dymas, was succeeded by\\nTurlough Lynogh O Neale after whose death\\nHugh, having assumed the chieftainship, be-\\ncame nearly as formidable to the English as any\\nby whom it had been possessed. Lord Mount-\\njoy succeeded in finally subjugating O Neale\\nbut it was not till the succession of James, to\\nwhom he made personal submission, and was\\nreceived with civility at court.\\nLine 145. The Tanist he to great O Neale.\\nIt is a custom amongst all the Irish, that\\npresently after the death of one of their chief e\\nlords or captaines, they doe presently assemble\\nthemselves to a place generally appointed and\\nknowne unto them, to choose another in his stead,\\nwhere they do nominate and elect, for the most\\npart not the eldest sonne, nor any of the chil-\\ndren of the lord deceased, but the next to him\\nin blood, that is, the eldest and _ worthiest, as\\ncommonly the next brother unto him, if he have\\nany, or the next cousin, or so forth, as any is\\nelder in that kindred or sept and then next to\\nthem doe they choose the next of the blood to\\nbe Tanist, who shall next succeed him in the\\nsaid captainry, if he live thereunto (Spenser s\\nIreland). The Tanist, therefore, of O Neale,\\nwas the heir-apparent of his power. This kind\\nof succession appears also to have regulated, in\\nvery remote times, the succession to the crown\\nof Scotland. It would have been imprudent, if\\nnot impossible, to have asserted a minor s right\\nof succession in those stormy days.\\nLine 177. His plaited hair in elf-locks spread.\\n_ There is here an attempt to describe the an-\\ncient Irish dress, which was (the bonnet excepted)\\nvery similar to that of the Scottish Highlanders.\\nThe want of a covering on the head was sup-\\nplied by the mode of plaiting and arranging the\\nhair, which was called the glibbe.\\nPage 257, line 244. His foster father was his\\nguide.\\nThere was no tie more sacred among the Irish\\nthan that which connected the foster-father, as\\nwell as the nurse herself, with the child they\\nbrought up.\\nPage 258, line 344. Great Nial of the Pledges\\nNine.\\nNeal Naighvallach, or Of the Nine Hostages,\\nis said to have been monarch of all Ireland\\nduring the end of the fourth or beginning of the\\nfifth century. He exercised a predatory war-\\nfare on the coast of England and of Bretagne,\\nor Armorica and from the latter country\\nbrought off the celebrated Saint Patrick, a\\nyouth of sixteen, among other captives, whom\\nhe transported to Ireland. Neal derived his\\nepithet from nine nations, or tribes, whom he\\nheld under his subjection, and from whom he\\ntook hostages.\\nLine 345. Shane-Dymas wild, and Geraldine.\\nThis Shane-Dymas, or John the Wanton, held\\nthe title and power of O Neale in the earlier\\npart of Elizabeth s reign, against whom he re-\\nbelled repeatedly. When reduced to extremity\\nby the English, and forsaken by his allies, this\\nShane-Dymas fled to Clandeboy, then occupied\\nby a colony of Scottish Highlanders of the fam-\\nily of MaeDonell. He was at first courteously\\nreceived but by degrees they began to quarrel\\nabout the slaughter of some of their friends\\nwhom Shane-Dymas had put to death, and ad-\\nvancing from words to deeds, fell upon him with\\ntheir broadswords, and cut him to pieces. Af-\\nter his death a law was made that none should\\npresume to take the name and title of O Neale.\\nThe O Neales were closely allied with the power-\\nful and warlike family of Geraldine for Henry\\nOwen O Neale married the daughter of Thomas,\\nEarl of Kildare, and their son Con More married\\nhis cousin-german, a daughter of Gerald, Earl\\nof Kildare. This Con More cursed any of his\\nposterity who should learn the English language,\\nsow corn, or build houses, so as to invite the\\nEnglish to settle in their country. Others as-\\ncribe this anathema to his son Con Bacco.\\nLine 379. And named his page, the next de-\\ngree. _\\nOriginally, the order of chivalry embraced\\nthree ranks 1. The Page 2. The Squire 3.\\nThe Knight, a gradation which seems to have\\nbeen imitated in the mystery of freemasonry.\\nBut, before the reign of Charles I., the custom\\nof serving as a squire had fallen into disuse,\\nthough the order of the page was still, to a cer-\\ntain degree, in observance. This state of servi-\\ntude was so far from inferring anything degrad-\\ning, that it was considered as the regular school\\nfor acquiring every quality necessary for future\\ndistinction.\\nPage 263, line 52. Seemed half-abandoned to\\ndecay.\\nThe ancient castle of Rokeby stood exactly", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0586.jp2"}, "585": {"fulltext": "Pages 265 to 295 NOTES: THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN\\n555\\nupon the site of the present mansion, by which\\na part of its walls is enclosed. It is surrounded\\nby a profusion of fine wood, and the park in\\nwhich it stands is adorned by the junction of\\nthe Greta and of the Tees.\\nPage 265, line 225. Naught Jcnowest thou of the\\nFelon Sow.\\nThe ancient minstrels had a comic as well as\\na serious strain of romance. The comic romance\\nwas a sort of parody upon the usual subjects of\\nminstrel poetry. One of the very best of these\\nmock romances, and which has no small portion\\nof comic humor, is the Hunting of the Felon\\nSow of Rokeby by the Friars of Richmond.\\nLine 247. The Filea of O Neale was he.\\nThe Filea, or Ollamh Re Dan, was the proper\\nbard, or, as the name literally implies, poet.\\nEach chieftain of distinction had one or more\\nin his service, whose office was usually heredi-\\ntary.\\nLine 258. Ah, Clandeboy thy friendly floor.\\nClandeboy is a district of Ulster, formerly\\npossessed by the sept of the O Neales, and\\nSlieve-Donard a romantic mountain in the same\\nprovince. The clan was ruined after Tyrone s\\ngreat rebellion, and their places of abode laid\\ndesolate. The ancient Irish, wild and unculti-\\nvated in other respects, did not yield even to\\ntheir descendants in practising the most free\\nand extended hospitality.\\nPage 266, line 326. On Marwood-chase and\\nToller Hill.\\nMarwood-chase is the old park extending\\nalong the Durham side of the Tees, attached to\\nBarnard Castle. Toller Hill is an eminence on\\nthe Yorkshire side of the river, commanding a\\nsuperb view of the ruins,\\nPage 267, line 414. The ancient English min-\\nstrePs dress.\\nAmong the entertainments presented to Eliza-\\nbeth at Kenilworth Castle was the introduction\\nof a person designed to represent a travelling\\nminstrel, who entertained her with a solemn\\nstory out of the Acts of King Arthur.\\nPage 282, line 884. A horseman armed at\\nheadlong speed, etc.\\nThis, and what follows, is taken from a real\\nachievement of Major Robert Philipson, called\\nfrom his desperate and adventurous courage,\\nRobin the Devil.\\nThe Bridal of Triermain.\\nPage 288, line 2. That may match with the\\nBaron of Triermain\\nTriermain was a fief of the Barony of Gils-\\nland, in Cumberland it was possessed by a\\nSaxon family at the time of the Conquest, but,\\nafter the death of Gilmore, Lord of Tryer-\\nmaine and Torcrossock, Hubert Vaux gave\\nTryermaine and Torcrossock to his second son,\\nRanulph Vaux which Ranulph afterwards\\nbecame heir to his elder brother Robert, the\\nfounder of Lanercost, who died without issue.\\nRanulph, being Lord of all Gilsland, gave Gil-\\nmore s lands to his younger son, named Roland,\\nand let the Barony descend to his eldest son\\nRobert, son of Ranulph. Roland had issue\\nAlexander, and he, Randolph, after whom suc-\\nceeded Robert, and they were named Rolands\\nsuccessively, that were lords thereof, until the\\nreign of Edward the Fourth. Burn s Anti-\\nquities of Westmoreland and Cumberland, vol. ii.\\np. 482.\\nPage 289, fine 91. And his who sleeps at\\nDunmailraise.\\nThis is one of the grand passes from Cumber-\\nland into Westmoreland. It takes its name\\nfrom a cairn, or pile of stones, erected, it is said,\\nto the memory of Dunmail, the last King of\\nCumberland.\\nPage 290, line 114. He passed Bed Penrich^s\\nTable Bound.\\nA circular intrenchment, about half a mile\\nfrom Penrith, is thus popularly termed. The\\ncircle within the ditch is about one hundred\\nand sixty paces in circumference, with openings,\\nor approaches, directly opposite to each other.\\nAs the ditch is on the inner side, it could not\\nbe intended for the purpose of defence, and it\\nhas reasonably been conjectured, that the en-\\nclosure was designed for the solemn exercise of\\nfeats of chivalry, and the embankment around\\nfor the convenience of the spectators.\\nLine 116. Left Mayburgh s mound and stones\\nof power.\\nHigher up the river Eamont than Arthur s\\nRound Table, is a prodigious enclosure of great\\nantiquity, formed by a collection of stones upon\\nthe top of a gently sloping hill, called May-\\nburgh. In the plain which it encloses there\\nstands erect an unhewn stone of twelve feet in\\nheight. Two similar masses are said to have\\nbeen destroyed during the memory of man.\\nThe whole appears to be a monument of Druid-\\nical times.\\nLine 162. The surface of that sable tarn.\\nThe small lake called Scales-tarn lies so\\ndeeply embosomed in the recesses of the huge\\nmountain called Saddleback, more poetically\\nGlaramara, is of such great depth, and so com-\\npletely hidden from the sun, that it is said its\\nbeams never reach it, and that the reflection of\\nthe stars may be seen at mid-day.\\nPage 291, line 282. On Caliburn s resistless\\nbrand.\\nThis was the name of King Arthur s well-\\nknown sword, sometimes also called Excalibur.\\nPage 292, line 321. The terrors of TintageVs\\nspear.\\nTintagel Castle, in Cornwall, is reported to\\nhave been the birthplace of King Arthur.\\nPage 295, line 175. Scattering a shower of\\nfiery dew\\nThe author has an indistinct recollection of\\nan adventure, somewhat similar to that which\\nis here ascribed to King Arthur, having befallen\\none of the ancient Kings of Denmark. The\\nhorn in which the burning liquor was presented\\nto that monarch is said still to be preserved in\\nthe Royal Museum at Copenhagen.\\nLine 184. The monarch, breathless and\\namazed, etc.\\nWe now gained a view of the Vale of St.\\nJohn s, a very narrow dell, hemmed in by", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0587.jp2"}, "586": {"fulltext": "556\\nAPPENDIX\\nPages 295 to 315\\nmountains, through which a small brook makes\\nmany meanderings, washing little enclosures\\nof grass-ground, which stretch up the rising of\\nthe hills. In the widest part of the dale you\\nare struck with the appearance of an ancient\\nruined castle, which seems to stand upon the\\nsummit of a little mount, the mountains around\\nforming an amphitheatre. This massive bul-\\nwark shows a front of various towers, and\\nmakes an awful, rude, and Gothic appearance,\\nwith its lofty turrets and ragged battlements\\nwe traced the galleries, the bending arches, the\\nbuttresses. The greatest antiquity stands char-\\nacterized in its^ architecture the inhabitants\\nnear it assert it is an antediluvian structure.\\nThe traveller s curiosity is roused, and he\\nprepares to make a nearer approach, when that\\ncuriosity is put upon the rack by his being\\nassured that if he advances, certain genii who\\ngovern the place, by virtue of their supernat-\\nural art and necromancy, will strip it of all its\\nbeauties, and by enchantment transform the\\nmagic walls. The vale seems adapted for the\\nhabitation of such beings its gloomy recesses\\nand retirements look like haunts of evil spirits.\\nThere was no delusion in the report we were\\nsoon convinced of its truth for this piece of\\nantiquity, so venerable and noble in its aspect,\\nas we drew near, changed its figure, and proved\\nno other than a shaken massive pile of rocks,\\nwhich stand in the midst of this little vale, dis-\\nunited from the adjoining mountains, and have\\nso much the real form and resemblance of a\\ncastle, that they bear the name of the Castle\\nRocks of St. John. Hutchinson s Excursion\\nto the Lakes, p. 121.\\nLine 198. Twelve bloody fields with glory\\nfought.\\nArthur is said to have defeated the Saxons in\\ntwelve pitched battles, and to have achieved\\nthe other feats alluded to in the text.\\nPage 296, line 359. Sir Carodac to, fight that\\nprize.\\nSee the comic tale of The Boy and the Mantle,\\nin the third volume of Percy s Reliques of An-\\ncient Poetry, from the Breton or Norman original\\nof which Ariosto is supposed to have taken his\\nTale of the Enchanted Cup.\\nPage 300, bine 690. Whose logic is from Sin-\\ngle-Speech. _\\nSee Parliamentary Logic, etc., by the Right\\nHonorable William Gerard Hamilton (1808),\\ncommonly called Single-Speech Hamilton.\\nThe Lord of the Isles.\\nPage 314, fine 47. Thy rugged halls, Artorn-\\nish, rung.\\nThe ruins of the castle of Artornish are situ-\\nated upon a promontory on the Morven, or main-\\nland side of the Sound of Mull, a name given to\\nthe deep arm of the sea which divides that island\\nfrom the continent. The situation is wild and\\nromantic in the highest degree, having on the\\none hand a high and. precipitous chain of rocks\\noverhanging the sea, and on the other the nar-\\nrow entrance to the beautiful salt-water lake,\\ncalled Loch Alline, which is in many places\\nfinely fringed with copsewood. The ruins of\\nArtornish are not now very considerable, and\\nconsist chiefly of the remains of an old keep, or\\ntower, with fragments of outward defences.\\nBut in former days it was a place of great con-\\nsequence, being one of the principal strongholds\\nwhich the Lords of the Isles, during the period\\nof their stormy independence, possessed upon\\nthe mainland of Argyleshire.\\nLine 76. Rude Heiskar s seal through surges\\ndark.\\nThe seal displays a taste for music, which\\ncould scarcely be expected from his habits and\\nlocal predilections. They will long follow a\\nboat in which any musical instrument is played,\\nand even a tune simply whistled has attractions\\nfor them. The Dean of the Isles says of Heiskar,\\na small uninhabited rock, about twelve (Scot-\\ntish) miles from the isle of Uist, that an infinite\\nslaughter of seals takes place there.\\nPage 315, line 177. Overlooked, dark Midi,\\nthy mighty Sound.\\nThe Sound of Mull, which divides that island\\nfrom the continent of Scotland, is one of the\\nmost striking scenes which the Hebrides afford\\nto the traveller. Sailing from Oban to Aros, or\\nTobermory, through a narrow channel, yet deep\\nenough to bear vessels of the largest burden,\\nhe has on his left the bold and mountainous\\nshores of Mull on the right those of that dis-\\ntrict of Argyleshire called Morven or Morvern,\\nsuccessively indented by deep salt-water lochs,\\nrunning up many miles inland. To the south-\\neastward arise a prodigious range of mountains,\\namong which Cruachan-Ben is preeminent.\\nAnd to the northeast is the no less huge and\\npicturesque range of the Ardnamurchan hills.\\nMany ruinous castles, situated generally upon\\ncliff s overhanging the ocean, add interest to the\\nscene. Still passing on to the northward, Ar-\\ntornish and Aros become visible upon the oppo-\\nsite shores and, lastly, Mingarry, and other\\nruins of less distinguished note. In fine weather,\\na grander and more impressive scene, both\\nfrom its natural beauties, and associations with\\nancient history and tradition, can hardly be\\nimagined. When the weather is rough, the\\npassage is both difficult and dangerous, from\\nthe narrowness of the channel, and in part from\\nthe number of inland lakes, out of which sally\\nforth a number of conflicting and thwarting\\ntides, making the navigation perilous to open\\nboats. The sudden flaws and gusts of wind\\nwbich issue without a moment s warning from\\nthe mountain glens, are equally formidable.\\nSo that in unsettled weather, a stranger, if not\\nmuch accustomed to the sea, may sometimes\\nadd to the other sublime sensations excited by\\nthe scene, that feeling of dignity which arises\\nfrom a sense of danger.\\nLine 181. Round twice a hundred islands\\nrolled.\\nThe number of the western isles of Scotland\\nexceeds two hundred, of which St. Kilda is the\\nmost northerly, anciently called Hirth, or Hirt,\\nprobably from earth, being in fact the whole\\nglobe to its inhabitants. Hay, which now be-", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0588.jp2"}, "587": {"fulltext": "Pages 3 i5 to 3 i9 NOTES: THE LORD OF THE ISLES\\n557\\nlongs almost entirely to Walter Campbell, Esq.,\\nof Shawfield, is by far the most fertile of the\\nHebrides, and has been greatly improved under\\nthe spirited and sagacious management of the\\npresent proprietor. This was in ancient times\\nthe principal abode of the Lords of the Isles,\\nbeing, if not the largest, the most important\\nisland of their archipelago.\\nLine 188. From where Mingarry sternly\\nplaced.\\nThe castle of Mingarry is situated on the\\nsea-coast of the district of Ardnamurchan.\\nThe ruins, which are tolerably entire, are sur-\\nrounded by a very high wall, forming a kind of\\npolygon, for the purpose of adapting itself to\\nthe projecting angles of a precipice overhanging\\nthe sea, on which the castle stands. It was an-\\nciently the residence of the Maclans, a clan of\\nMacDonalds, descended from Ian, or John, a\\ngrandson of Angus Og, Lord of the Isles.\\nPage 316, line 197. The heir of mighty Somer-\\nled 1\\nSomerled was thane of Argyle and Lord of\\nthe Isles, about the middle of the twelfth cen-\\ntury. He seems toha^e exercised his authority\\nin both capacities, independent of the crown of\\nScotland, against which he often stood in hos-\\ntility. He made various incursions upon the\\nwestern lowlands during the reign of Malcolm\\nIV., and seems to have made peace with him\\nupon the terms of an independent prince, about\\nthe year 1157. In 1161 he resumed the war\\nagainst Malcolm, and invaded Scotland with a\\nlarge but probably a tumultuary army, collected\\nin the isles, in the mainland of Argyleshire, and\\nin the neighboring provinces of Ireland. He\\nwas defeated and slain in an engagement with a\\nvery inferior force, near Renfrew.\\nLine 200. Lord of the Isles, whose lofty name.\\nThe representative of this independent prin-\\ncipality for such it seems to have been, though\\naeknoAvledging occasionally the preeminence of\\nthe Scottish crown was, at the period of the\\npoem, Angus, called Angus Og but the name\\nhas been, euphonio3 gratia, exchanged for that\\nof Ronald, which frequently occurs in the gen-\\nealogy. Angus was a protector of Robert\\nBruce, whom he received in his castle of Dun-\\nnaverty, during the time of his greatest dis-\\ntress.\\nLine 267. A daughter of the House of Lorn.\\nThe House of Lorn was, like the Lord of the\\nIsles, descended from a son of Somerled, slain\\nat Renfrew, in 1164. This son obtained the\\nsuccession of his mainland territories, compre-\\nhending the greater part of the three districts\\nof Lorn, in Argyleshire, and of course might\\nrather be considered as petty princes than\\nfeudal barons. They assumed the patronymic\\nappellation of MacDougal, by which they are\\ndistinguished in the history of the middle ages.\\nThe Lord of Lorn, who flourished during the\\nwars of Bruce, was Allaster (or Alexander)\\nMacDougal called Allaster of Argyle. He had\\nmarried the third daughter of John, called the\\nRed Comyn, who was slain by Bruce in the\\nDominican church at Dumfries, and hence he\\nwas a mortal enemy of that prince, and more\\nthan once reduced him to great straits during\\nthe early and distressed period of his reign, as\\nwe shall have repeated occasion to notice.\\nBruce, when he began to obtain an ascendency\\nin Scotland, took the first opportunity in his\\npower to requite these injuries. He marched\\ninto Argyleshire to lay waste the country. John\\nof Lorn, son of the chieftain, was posted with\\nhis followers in the formidable pass between\\nDalmally and Bunawe. It is a narrow path\\nalong the verge of the huge and precipitous\\nmountain, called Cruachan-Ben, and guarded\\non the other side by a precipice overhanging\\nLoch Awe. The pass seems to the eye of a\\nsoldier as strong, as it is wild and romantic to\\nthat of an ordinary traveller. But the skill of\\nBruce had anticipated this difficulty. While\\nhis main body, engaged in a skirmish with the\\nmen of Lorn, detained their attention to the\\nfront of their position, James of Douglas, with\\nSir Alexander Fraser, Sir William Wiseman,\\nand Sir Andrew Grey, ascended the mountain\\nwith a select body of archery, and obtained\\npossession of the heights which commanded\\nthe pass. A volley of arrows descending upon\\nthem directly warned the Argyleshire men of\\ntheir perilous situation, and their resistance,\\nwhich had hitherto been bold and manly, was\\nchanged into a precipitate flight. The deep and\\nrapid river of Awe was then (we learn the fact\\nfrom Barbour with some surprise) crossed by\\na bridge. This bridge the mountaineers at-\\ntempted to demolish, but Bruce s followers were\\ntoo close upon their rear they were, therefore,\\nwithout refuge and defence, and were dispersed\\nwith great slaughter. John of Lorn, suspicious\\nof the event, had early betaken himself to the\\ngalleys which he had upon the lake but the\\nfeelings which Barbour assigns to him, while\\nwitnessing the rout and slaughter of his follow-\\ners, exculpate him from the charge of coward-\\nice.\\nPage 318, line 451. The mimic fires of ocean\\nglow.\\nThe phenomenon called by sailors Sea-fire is\\none of the most beautiful and interesting which\\nis witnessed in the Hebrides. At times the\\nocean appears entirely illuminated around the\\nvessel, and a long train of lambent coruscations\\nare perpetually _ bursting upon the sides of the\\nvessel, or pursuing her wake through the dark-\\nness.\\nPage 319, line 499. Sought the dark fortress\\nby a stair.\\nThe fortress of a Hebridean chief was almost\\nalways on the sea-shore, for the facility of com-\\nmunication which the ocean afforded. Nothing\\ncan be more wild than the situations which they\\nchose, and the devices by which the architects\\nendeavored to defend them. Narrow stairs and\\narched vaults were the usual mode of access\\nand the drawbridge appears at Dunstaffnage,\\nand elsewhere, to have fallen from the gate of\\nthe building to the top of such a staircase so\\nthat any one advancing with hostile purpose,\\nfound himself in a state of exposed and preca-", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0589.jp2"}, "588": {"fulltext": "558\\nAPPENDIX\\nPages 321 to 323\\nrious elevation, with a gulf between him and\\nthe object of his attack.\\nPage 321, line 37. And that keen knight, De\\nArgentine.\\nSir Egidius, or Giles de Argentine, was one\\nof the most accomplished knights of the period.\\nHe had served in the wars of Henry of Luxem-\\nburg with such high reputation that he was,\\nin popular estimation, the third worthy of the\\nage. Those to whom fame assigned precedence\\nover him were, Henry of Luxemburg himself,\\nand Robert Bruce. Argentine had warred in\\nPalestine, encountered thrice with the Saracens,\\nand had slain two antagonists in each engage-\\nment an easy matter, he said, for one Chris-\\ntian knight to slay two Pagan dogs. His death\\ncorresponded with his high character. With\\nAymer de Valence, Earl of Pembroke, he was\\nappointed to attend immediately upon the per-\\nson of Edward II. at Bannockburn. When\\nthe day was utterly lost they forced the king\\nfrom the field. De Argentine saw the king\\nsafe from immediate danger, and then took his\\nleave of him God be with you, sir, he said,\\nit is not my wont to fly. So saying, he turned\\nhis horse, cried his war-cry, plunged into the\\nmidst of the combatants, and was slain.\\nLine 54. Fill me the mighty cup, he said.\\nA Hebridean drinking-cup, of the most an-\\ncient and curious workmanship, has been long\\npreserved in the castle of Dunvegan, in Skye,\\nthe romantic seat of MacLeod of MacLeod, the\\nchief of that ancient and powerful clan. _ This\\nvery curious piece of antiquity is nine inches\\nand three quarters in inside depth, and ten\\nand a half in height on the outside, the ex-\\ntreme measure over the lips being four inches\\nand a half. The cup is divided into two parts\\nby a wrought ledge, beautifully ornamented,\\nabout three fourths of an inch in breadth. Be-\\nneath this ledge the shape of the cup is rounded\\noff, and terminates in a flat circle, like that of\\na teacup four short feet support the whole.\\nAbove the projecting ledge the shape of the cup\\nis nearly square, projecting outward at the brim.\\nThe cup is made of wood, (oak to all appear-\\nance,) but most curiously wrought and embossed\\nwith silver work, which projects from the ves-\\nsel. There are a number of regular projecting\\nsockets, which appear to have been set with\\nstones two or three of them still hold pieces\\nof coral, the rest are empty. At the four cor-\\nners of the projecting ledge, or cornice, are four\\nsockets, much larger, probably for pebbles or\\nprecious stones. The workmanship of the sil-\\nver is extremely elegant, and appears to have\\nbeen highly gilded. The ledge brim and legs\\nof the cup are of silver.\\nPage 322, line 150. With Carriers outlawed\\nChief.\\nIt must be remembered by all who have\\nread Scottish history, that after he had slain\\nComyn at Dumfries, and asserted his right to\\nthe Scottish crown, Robert Bruce was reduced\\nto the greatest extremity by the English and\\ntheir adherents. He was crowned at Scone by\\nthe general consent of the Scottish barons, but\\nhis authority endured but a short time. Ac-\\ncording to the phrase said to have been used\\nby his wife, he was for that year a summer\\nking, but not a winter one.\\nLine 180. Whence the brooch of burning gold.\\nRobert Bruce, after his defeat at Methven,\\nbeing hard pressed by the English, endeavored,\\nwith the dispirited remnant of his followers, to\\nescape from Breadalbane and the mountains\\nof Perthshire into the Argyleshire Highlands.\\nBut he was encountered and repulsed, after a\\nvery severe engagement, by the Lord of Lorn.\\nBruce s personal strength and courage were\\nnever displayed to greater advantage than in\\nthis conflict. There is a tradition in the family\\nof the MacDougals of Lorn, that their chief-\\ntain engaged in personal battle with Bruce him-\\nself, while the latter was employed in protect-\\ning the retreat of his men that MacDougal\\nwas struck down by the king, whose strength\\nof body was equal to his vigor of mind, and\\nwould have been slain on the spot, had not two\\nof Lorn s vassals, a father and son, whom tradi-\\ntion terms MacKeoch, rescued him, by seizing\\nthe mantle of the monarch, and dragging him\\nfrom above his adversary. Bruce rid himself of\\nthese foes by two blows of his redoubted battle-\\naxe, but was so closely pressed by the other\\nfollowers of Lorn, that he was forced to aban-\\ndon the mantle, and brooch which fastened it,\\nclasped in the dying grasp of the MacKeochs.\\nA studded brooch, said to have been that which\\nKing Robert lost upon this occasion, was long\\npreserved in the family of MacDougal, and was\\nlost in a fire which consumed their temporary\\nresidence.\\nPage 323, line 212. Vain was then the Douglas\\nbrand.\\nThe gallant Sir James, called the Good Lord\\nDouglas, the most faithful and valiant of Bruce s\\nadherents, was wounded at the battle of Dairy.\\nSir Nigel, or Neil Campbell, was also in that\\nunfortunate skirmish. He married Marjorie,\\nsister to Robert Bruce, and was among his most\\nfaithful followers.\\nLine 214. Vain Kirkpatrick s bloody dirk.\\nThe proximate cause of Bruce s asserting his\\nright to the crown of Scotland was the death of\\nJohn, called the Red Comyn. (See canto i. st.\\n27.) The causes of this act of violence, equally\\nextraordinary from the high rank both of the\\nperpetrator and sufferer, and from the place\\nwhere the slaughter was committed, are vari-\\nously related by the Scottish and English his-\\ntorians, and cannot now be ascertained. The\\nfact that they met at the high altar of the\\nMinorites, or Greyfriars Church in Dumfries,\\nthat their difference broke out into high and\\ninsulting language, and that Bruce drew his\\ndagger and stabbed Comyn, is certain. Rush-\\ning to the door of the church, Bruce met two\\npowerful barons, Kirkpatrick of Closeburn, and\\nJames de Lindsay, who eagerly asked him what\\ntidings? Bad tidings, answered Bruce; I\\ndoubt I have slain Comyn. Doubtest thou\\nsaid Kirkpatrick I make sicker (1. e. sure).\\nWith these words, he and Lindsay rushed into", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0590.jp2"}, "589": {"fulltext": "Pages 3 2 3 to 3 2 5 NOTES: THE LORD OF THE ISLES\\n559\\nthe church, and despatched the wounded Comyn.\\nThe Kirkpatricks of Closeburn assumed, in\\nmemory of this deed, a hand holding a dagger,\\nwith the memorable words, I make sicker\\n(i. e. secure\\nLine 216. Barendown fled fast away.\\nThese knights are enumerated by Barbour\\namong the small number of Bruce s adherents,\\nwho remained in arms with him after the battle\\nof Methven.\\nLine 239. To praise the hand that pays thy\\npains\\nThe character of the Highland bards, how-\\never high in an earlier period of society, seems\\nsoon to have degenerated. The Irish affirm\\nthat in their kindred tribes severe laws became\\nnecessary to restrain their avarice. In the\\nHighlands they seem gradually to have sunk\\ninto contempt, as well as the orators, or men\\nof speech, with whose office that of family poet\\nwas often united. The orators, in their lan-\\nguage called Isdane, were in high esteem both\\nin these islands and the continent until within\\nthese forty years, they sat always among the\\nnobles and chiefs of families in the streah, or\\ncircle. Their houses and little villages were\\nsanctuaries, as well as churches, and they took\\nplace before doctors of physick. The orators,\\nafter the Druids were extinct, were brought in\\nto preserve the genealogy of families, and to\\nrepeat the same at every succession of chiefs\\nand upon the occasion of marriages and births,\\nthey made epithalamiums and panegyricks,\\nwhich the poet or bard pronounced. The\\norators, by the force of their eloquence, had a\\npowerful ascendant over the greatest men in\\ntheir time for if any orator did but ask the\\nhabit, arms, horse, or any other thing belong-\\ning to the greatest man in these islands, it\\nwas readily granted them, sometimes out of\\nrespect, and sometimes for fear of being ex-\\nclaimed against by a satyre, which, in those\\ndays, was reckoned a great dishonor. But\\nthese gentlemen becoming insolent, lost ever\\nsince both the profit and esteem which was\\nformerly due to their character for neither\\ntheir panegyricks nor satyres are regarded to\\nwhat they have been, and they are now allowed\\nbut a small salary. I must not omit to relate\\ntheir way of study, which is very singular\\nThey shut their doors and windows for a day s\\ntime, and lie on their backs, with a stone upon\\ntheir belly, and plads about their heads, and\\ntheir eyes being covered, they pump their\\nbrains for rhetorical encomium or panegyrick\\nand indeed they furnish such a style from this\\ndark cell as is understood by very few and if\\nthey purchase a couple of horses as the reward\\nof their meditation, they think they have done\\na great matter. The poet, or bard, had a title\\nto the bridegroom s upper garb, that is, the\\nplad and bonnet but now he is satisfyed with\\nwhat the bridegroom pleases to give him on\\nsuch occasions. Martin s Western Isles.\\nPage 325, line 459/ Was H not enough to Ro-\\nnald s bower.\\nIt was anciently customary in the Highlands\\nto bring the bride to the house of the husband.\\nNay, in some cases the complaisance was\\nstretched so far that she remained there upon\\ntrial for a twelvemonth and the bridegroom,\\neven after this period, retained an option of\\nrefusing to fulfil his engagement.\\nLine 477. Since matchless Wallace first had\\nbeen.\\nThere is something singularly doubtful about\\nthe mode in which Wallace was taken. That\\nhe was betrayed to the English is indubitable\\nand popular fame charges Sir John Menteith\\nwith the indelible infamy. Accursed, says\\nArnold Blair, be the day of nativity of John\\nde Menteith, and may his name be struck out\\nof the book of life. But John de Menteith\\nwas all along a zealous favorer of the English\\ninterest, and was governor of Dumbarton Castle\\nby commission from Edward the First and\\ntherefore, as the accurate Lord Hailes has ob-\\nserved, could not be the friend and confidant\\nof Wallace, as tradition states him to be. The\\ntruth seems to be that Menteith, thoroughly\\nengaged in the English interest, pursued Wal-\\nlace closely, and made him prisoner through\\nthe treachery of an attendant, whom Peter\\nLangtoft calls Jack Short.\\nLine 481. Where s Nigel Bruce and De la\\nHaye\\nWhen these lines were written, the author\\nwas remote from the means of correcting his\\nindistinct recollection concerning the individual\\nfate of Bruce s followers, after the battle of\\nMethven. Hugh de la Haye, and Thomas\\nSomerville of Lintoun and Cowdally, ancestor\\nof Lord Somerville, were both made prisoners\\nat that defeat, but neither was executed.\\nSir Nigel Bruce was the younger brother of\\nRobert, to whom he committed the charge\\nof his wife and daughter, Marjorie, and the\\ndefence of his strong castle of Kildrummie,\\nnear the head of the Don, in Aberdeenshire.\\nKildrummie long resisted the arms of the Earls\\nof Lancaster and Hereford, until the magazine\\nwas treacherously burnt. The garrison was\\nthen compelled to surrender at discretion, and\\nNigel Bruce, a youth remarkable for personal\\nbeauty, as well as for gallantry, fell into the\\nhands of the unrelenting Edward. He was\\ntried by a special commission at Berwick, was\\ncondemned, and executed.\\nChristopher Seatoun shared the same unfort-\\nunate fate. He also was distinguished by per-\\nsonal valor, and signalized himself in the fatal\\nbattle of Methven. Robert Bruce adventured\\nhis person in that battle like a knight of ro-\\nmance. He dismounted Aymer de Valence,\\nEarl of Pembroke, but was in his turn dis-\\nmounted by Sir Philip Mowbray. In this\\nemergence Seatoun came to his aid, and re-\\nmounted him. Langtoft mentions, that in this\\nbattle the Scottish wore white surplices, or\\nshirts, over their armor, that those of rank\\nmight not be known. In this manner both\\nBruce and Seatoun escaped. But the latter was\\nafterwards betrayed to the English, through\\nmeans, according to Barbour, of one MacNab,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0591.jp2"}, "590": {"fulltext": "5 6\\nAPPENDIX\\nPages 325 to 330\\n4 a disciple of Judas, in whom the unfortunate\\nknight reposed entire confidence. There was\\nsome peculiarity respecting his punishment\\nbecause, according to Matthew of Westmin-\\nster, he was considered not as a Scottish sub-\\nject, but an Englishman. He was therefore\\ntaken to Dumfries, where he was tried, con-\\ndemned, and executed, for the murder of a\\nsoldier slain by him. His brother, John de\\nSeton, had the same fate at Newcastle both\\nwere considered as accomplices in the slaughter\\nof Comyn but in what manner they were par-\\nticularly accessary to that deed does not appear.\\nThe fate of Sir Simon Fraser, or Frizel, an-\\ncestor of the family of Lovat, is dwelt upon\\nat great length, and with savage exultation,\\nby the English historians. This knight, who\\nwas renowned for personal gallantry, and high\\ndeeds of chivalry, was also made prisoner, after\\na gallant defence, in the battle of Methven.\\nLine 491. Was not the life of Aihole shed.\\nJohn de Strathbogie, Earl of Athole, had at-\\ntempted to escape out of the kingdom, but a\\nstorm cast him upon the coast, when he was\\ntaken, sent to London, and executed, with cir-\\ncumstances of great barbarity, being first half\\nstrangled, then let down from the gallows while\\nyet alive, barbarously dismembered, and his\\nbody burnt. It may surprise the reader to\\nlearn that this was a mitigated punishment\\nfor in respect that his mother was a grand-\\ndaughter of King John, by his natural son\\nRichard, he was not drawn on a sledge to exe-\\ncution, that point was forgiven, and he made\\nthe passage on horseback. Matthew of West-\\nminster tells lis that King Edward, then ex-\\ntremely ill, received great ease from the news\\nthat his relative was apprehended. Quo au-\\ndito, Rex Angliaz, etsi gravissimo morbo tunc\\nlangueret, levius tamen tulit dolorem. To this\\nsingular expression the text alludes.\\nLine 494. Be nought but quarter, hang, and\\nslay\\nThis alludes to a passage in Barbour, singu-\\nlarly expressive of the vindictive spirit of Ed-\\nward I. The prisoners taken at the castle\\nof Kildrummie had surrendered upon condi-\\ntion that they should be at King Edward s\\ndisposal. But his will, says Barbour, was\\nalways evil toward Scottishmen. The news of\\nthe surrender of Kildrummie arrived when he\\nwas in his mortal sickness at Burgh-upon-Sands.\\nPage 326, line 500. By Woden wild my\\ngrandsire s oath.\\nThe MacLeods, and most other distinguished\\nHebridean families, were of Scandinavian ex-\\ntraction, and some were late or imperfect con-\\nverts to Christianity. The family names of\\nTorquil, Thormod, etc. are all Norwegian.\\nLine 566. While I the blessed cross advance.\\nBruce uniformly professed, and probably felt,\\ncompunction for having violated the sanctuary\\nof the church by the slaughter of Comyn and\\nfinally, in his last hours, in testimony of his\\nfaith, penitence, and zeal, he requested James\\nLord Douglas to carry his heart to Jerusalem,\\nto be there deposited in the Holy Sepulchre.\\nLine 589. De Bruce I rose with purpose\\ndread.\\nSo soon as the notice of Comyn s slaughter\\nreached Rome, Bruce and his adherents were\\nexcommunicated. It was published first by the\\nArchbishop of York, and renewed at different\\ntimes, particularly by Lambyrton, Bishop of\\nSt. Andrews, in 1308 but it does not appear to\\nhave answered the purpose which the English\\nmonarch expected. Indeed, for reasons which\\nit may be difficult to trace, the thunders of\\nRome descended upon the Scottish mountains\\nwith less effect than in more fertile countries.\\nMany of the Scottish prelates, Lambyrton the\\nprimate particularly, declared for Bruce, while\\nhe was yet under the ban of the church, although\\nhe afterwards again changed sides.\\nLine 596._ A power that will not be repressed.\\nBruce, like other heroes, observed omens,\\nand one is recorded by tradition. After he\\nhad retreated to one of the miserable places\\nof shelter, in which he could venture to take\\nsome repose after his disasters, he lay stretched\\nupon a handful of straw, and abandoned him-\\nself to his melancholy meditations. He had\\nnow been defeated four times, and was upon\\nthe point of resolving to abandon all hopes of\\nfurther opposition to his fate, and to go to the\\nHoly Land. It chanced his eye, while he was\\nthus pondering, was attracted by the exertions\\nof a spider, who, in order to fix his web, en-\\ndeavored to swing himself from one beam to\\nanother above his head. Involuntarily he be-\\ncame interested in the pertinacity with which\\nthe insect renewed his exertions, after failing\\nsix times and it occurred to him that he would\\ndecide his own course according to the success\\nor failure of the spider. At the seventh ef-\\nfort the insect gained his object and Bruce,\\nin like manner, persevered and carried his own.\\nHence it has been held unlucky or ungrateful,\\nor both, in one of the name of Bruce to kill a\\nspider.\\nPage 329, line 160. Alas dear youth, the\\nunhappy time.\\nI have followed the vulgar and inaccurate\\ntradition, that Bruce fought against Wallace\\nand the array of Scotland, at the fatal battle\\nof Falkirk. The story, which seems to have\\nno better authority than that of Blind Harry,\\nbears, that having made much slaughter during\\nthe engagement, he sat down to dine with the\\nconquerors without washing the filthy witness\\nfrom his hands.\\nPage 330, line 245. These are the savage wilds\\nthat lie.\\nThe extraordinary piece of scenery which I\\nhave here attempted to describe is, I think,\\nunparalleled in any part of Scotland, at least in\\nany which I have happened to visit. It lies just\\nupon the frontier of the Laird of MacLeod s\\ncountry, which is thereabouts divided from the\\nestate of Mr. Maccalister of Strath- Aird, called\\nStrathnardill by the Dean of the Isles. [Scott\\ngives a full account of his. visit in his Journal\\nunder date of 25 August, 1814. See Lockhart,\\nchap, xxxi.]", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0592.jp2"}, "591": {"fulltext": "Pages 331 to 338 NOTES: THE LORD OF THE ISLES\\n56i\\nPage 331, line 400. Men were they all of evil\\nmien.\\nThe story of Bruee s meeting the banditti is\\ncopied, with such alterations as the fictitious\\nnarrative rendered necessary, from a striking\\nincident in the monarch s history, told by Bar-\\nbour.\\nPage 333, line 628. And mermaid s alabaster\\ngrot.\\nImagination can hardly conceive anything\\nmore beautiful than the extraordinary grotto\\ndiscovered not many years since upon the es-\\ntate of Alexander MacAllister, Esq., of Strath-\\naird. It has since been much and deservedly\\ncelebrated, and a full account of its beauties\\nhas been published by Dr. MacLeay of Oban.\\n[Scott, again, in the same passage of his Jour-\\nnal just referred to, gives a description of this\\ncave.]\\nPage 335, fine 62. Yet to no sense of selfish\\nwrongs.\\nThe generosity which does justice to the char-\\nacter of an enemy often marks Bruee s senti-\\nments, as recorded by the faithful Barbour. He\\nseldom mentions a fallen enemy without prais-\\ning such good qualities as he might possess.\\nPage 336, fine 78. Such hate was his on Sol-\\nway s strand.\\nTo establish his dominion in Scotland had\\nbeen a favorite object of Edward s ambition,\\nand nothing could exceed the pertinacity with\\nwhich he pursued it, unless his inveterate resent-\\nment against the insurgents, who so frequently\\nbroke the English yoke when he deemed it most\\nfirmly riveted. After the battles of Falkirk and\\nMethven, and the dreadful examples which he\\nhad made of Wallace and other champions of\\nnational independence, he probably concluded\\nevery chance of insurrection was completely\\nannihilated. This was in 1306, when Bruce,\\nas we have seen, was utterly expelled from\\nScotland yet, in the conclusion of the same\\nyear, Bruce was again in arms and formidable\\nand in 1307, Edward, though exhausted by a\\nlong and wasting malady, put himself at the\\nhead of the army destined to destroy him utterly.\\nBut even his spirit of vengeance was unable to\\nrestore his exhausted strength. He reached\\nBurgh-upon-Sands, a petty village of Cumber-\\nland, on the shores of the Solway Firth, and\\nthere, 6th July, 1307, expired in sight of the\\ndetested and devoted country of Scotland. His\\ndying injunctions to his son required him to\\ncontinue the Scottish war, and never to recall\\nGaveston.\\nPage 337, line 175. From Canna s tower, that,\\nsteep and gray.\\nThe little island of Canna, or Cannay, adjoins\\nto those of Rum and Muick, with which it\\nforms one parish. In a pretty bay opening\\ntowards the east, there is a lofty and slender\\nrock detached from the shore. Upon the sum-\\nmit are the ruins of a very small tower, scarcely\\naccessible by a steep and precipitous path.\\nHere, it is said, one of the kings, or Lords of\\nthe Isles, confined a beautiful lady, of whom he\\nwas jealous. The ruins are of course haunted\\nby her restless spirit, and many romantic stories\\nare told by the aged people of the island con-\\ncerning her fate in life, and her appearances\\nafter death.\\nLine 219. And Bonin s mountains dark have\\nsent.\\nRonin (popularly called Rum) is a very rough\\nand mountainous island, adjacent to those of\\nEigg and Cannay. There is almost no arable\\nground upon it.\\nLine 225. On Scooreigg next a warning light.\\nThese, and the following lines of the stanza,\\nrefer to a dreadful tale of feudal vengeance.\\nScoor-Eigg is a high peak in the centre^ of the\\nsle of Eigg, or Egg.\\nof the Isle of Egg, a people dependent on Clan\\nsmall Isle of Eigg, or Egg. The MacDonalds\\nRanald, had done some injury to the Laird of\\nMacLeod. The tradition of the isle says that\\nit was by a personal attack on the chieftain, in\\nwhich his back was broken. But that of the\\nother isles bears, more probably, that the injury\\nwas offered to two or three of the MacLeods,\\nwho, landing upon Eigg, and using some free-\\ndom with the young women, were seized by the\\nislanders, bound hand and foot, and turned\\nadrift in a boat, which the winds and waves\\nsafely conducted to Skye. To avenge the\\noffence given, MacLeod sailed with such a body\\nof men as rendered resistance hopeless. The\\nnatives, fearing his vengeance, concealed them-\\nselves in this cavern, and, after a strict search,\\nthe MacLeods went on board their galleys, after\\ndoing what mischief they could, concluding\\nthe inhabitants had left the isle, and betaken\\nthemselves to the Long Island, or some of Clan\\nRanald s other possessions. But next morning\\nthey espied from the vessels a man upon the\\nisland, and immediately landing again, they\\ntraced his retreat by the marks of his footsteps,\\na light snow being unhappily on the ground.\\nMacLeod then surrounded the cavern, sum-\\nmoned the subterranean garrison, and demanded\\nthat the individuals who had offended him\\nshould be delivered up to him. This was per-\\nemptorily refused. The chieftain then caused\\nhis people to divert the course of a rill of water,\\nwhich, falling over the entrance of the cave,\\nwould have prevented his purposed vengeance.\\nHe then kindled, at the entrance of the cavern,\\na huge fire, composed of turf and fern, and\\nmaintained it with unrelenting assiduity, until\\nall within were destroyed by suffocation.\\nPage 338, line 293. Scenes sung by him who\\nsings no more.\\nThe ballad, entitled Macphail of Colonsay,\\nand the Mermaid of Corrievrekin, was composed\\nby John Leyden, from a tradition which he\\nfound while making a tour through the Heb-\\nrides about 1801, soon before his fatal departure\\nfor India, where he died a martyr to his zeal\\nfor knowledge, in the island of Java, immedi-\\nately after the landing of our forces near Ba-\\ntavia, in August, 1811.\\nLine 305. Up Tarbafs western lake they\\nbore.\\nThe peninsula of Cantire is joined to South\\nKnapdale by a very narrow isthmus, formed by", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0593.jp2"}, "592": {"fulltext": "562\\nAPPENDIX\\nPages 338 to 345\\nthe western and eastern Loch of Tarbat. These\\ntwo salt-water lakes, or bays, encroach so far\\nupon the land, and the extremities come so near\\nto each other, that there is not above a mile of\\nland to divide them.\\nLine 326. Ben-Ghoil, the Mountain of the\\nWind:\\nLoch Ranza is a beautiful bay, on the north-\\nern extremity of Arran, opening towards East,\\nTarbat Loch. Ben-Ghaoil, the mountain of\\nthe winds, is generally known by its English,\\nand less poetical, nanfe of Goatfield.\\nPage 339, line 469. That blast was winded by\\nthe king\\nThe passage in Barbour describing the land-\\ning of Bruce, and his being recognized by\\nDouglas and those of his followers who had\\npreceded him, by the sound of his horn, is in\\nthe original singularly simple and affecting.\\nThe king arrived in Arran with thirty-three\\nsmall row-boats. He interrogated a female\\nif there had arrived any warlike men of late\\nin that country. Surely, sir, she replied, I\\ncan tell you of many who lately came hither,\\ndiscomfited the English governor, and block-\\naded his castle of Brodick. They maintain\\nthemselves in a wood at no great distance.\\nThe king, truly conceiving that this must be\\nDouglas and his followers, who had lately set\\nforth to try their fortune in Arran, desired\\nthe woman to conduct him to the wood. She\\nobeyed.\\nThe king then hlew his horn on high\\nAnd gert his men that were him by,\\nHold them still, and all privy\\nAnd syne again his home blew he.\\nJames of Dowglas heard him blow,\\nAnd at the last alone gan know,\\nAnd said, Soothly yon is the king\\nI know long while since his blowing.\\nThe third time therewithal! he blew,\\nAnd then Sir Robert Boid it knew\\nAnd said, Yon is the king, but dread,\\nGo we forth till him, better speed.\\nThen went they till the king in hye,\\nAnd him inclined courteously.\\nAnd blithly welcomed them the king,\\nAnd was joyful of their meeting,\\nAnd kissed them and speared syne\\nHow they had fared in hunting\\nAnd they him told all, but lesing\\nSyne laud they God of their meeting.\\nSyne with the king till his harbourye\\nWent both joyfu and jolly.\\nBarbour s nruce, Book v. pp. 115, 116.\\nPage 340, line 525. Blame ye the Bruce\\nHis brother blamed.\\nThe kind and yet fiery character of Edward\\nBruce is well painted by Barbour, in the account\\nof his behavior after the battle of Bannock-\\nburn. Sir Walter Boss, one of the very few\\nScottish nobles who fell in that battle, was so\\ndearly beloved by Edward, that he wished the\\nvictory had been lost, so Ross had lived.\\nPage 342, line 682. Thou heard st a wretched\\nfemale plain.\\nThis incident, which illustrates so happily\\nthe chivalrous generosity of Bruee s character,\\nis one of the many simple and natural traits\\nrecorded by Barbour. It occurred during the\\nexpedition which Bruce made to Ireland, to\\nsupport the pretensions of his brother Edward\\nto the throne of that kingdom. Bruce was\\nabout to retreat, and his host was arrayed for\\nmoving.\\nPage 344, line 129. O er chasms he passed\\nwhere fractures wide.\\nThe interior of the Island of Arran abounds\\nwith beautiful Highland scenery. The hills,\\nbeing very rocky and precipitous, afford some\\ncataracts of great height, though of inconsider-\\nable breadth. There is one pass over the river\\nMachrai, renowned for the dilemma of a poor\\nwoman, who, being tempted by the narrowness\\nof the ravine to step across, succeeded in mak-\\ning the first movement, but took fright when it\\nbecame necessary to move the other foot, and\\nremained in a posture equally ludicrous and\\ndangerous, until some chance passenger assisted\\nher to extricate herself. It is said she remained\\nthere some hours.\\nLine 132. Where Druids erst heard victims\\ngroan.\\nThe Isle of Arran, like those of Man and\\nAnglesea, abounds with many relics of heathen,\\nand probably Druidical, superstition. There\\nare high erect columns of unhewn stone, circles\\nof rude stones, and cairns, or sepulchral piles,\\nwithin which are usually found urns enclosing\\nLine 143. Old Brodick s Gothic towers were\\nseen.\\nBrodick or Brathwick Castle, in the Isle of\\nArran, is an ancient fortress, near an open\\nroadstead called Brodick-Bay, and not far dis-\\ntant from a tolerable harbor, closed in by the\\nIsland of Lamlash. This important place had\\nbeen assailed a short time before Bruee s arrival\\nin the island. James Lord Douglas, who accom-\\npanied Bruce to his retreat in Rachrine, seems,\\nin the spring of 1306, to have tired of his abode\\nthere, and set out accordingly, in the phrase of\\nthe times, to see what adventure God would\\nsend him. Sir Robert Boyd accompanied him\\nand his knowledge of the localities of Arran\\nappears to have directed his course thither.\\nThey landed in the island privately, and appear\\nto have laid an ambush for Sir John Hastings,\\nthe English governor of Brodwiek, and sur-\\nprised a considerable supply of arms and pro-\\nvisions, and nearly took the castle itself. Indeed,\\nthat they actually did so, has been generally\\naverred by historians, although it does not\\nappear from the narrative of Barbour. On the\\ncontrary, it would seem that they took shelter\\nwithin a fortification of the ancient inhabitants,\\na rampart called Tor an Schian. When they\\nwere joined by Bruce, it seems probable that\\nthey had gained Brodick Castle. At least\\ntradition says, that from the battlements of the\\ntower he saw the supposed signal-fire on Turn-\\nberry-nook.\\nPage 345, line 171. A language much unmeet\\nhe hears.\\nBarbour, with great simplicity, gives an anec-", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0594.jp2"}, "593": {"fulltext": "Pages 347 to 352 NOTES: THE LORD OF THE ISLES\\n563\\ndote, from which it would seem that the vice of\\nprofane swearing, afterwards too general among\\nthe Scottish nation, was, at this time, confined to\\nmilitary men. As Douglas, after Bruce s return\\nto Scotland, was roving about the mountainous\\ncountry of Tweeddale, near the water of Line,\\nhe chanced to hear some persons in a farm-\\nhouse say the devil. Concluding, from this\\nhardy expression, that the house contained war-\\nlike guests, he immediately assailed it, and had\\nthe good fortune to make prisoners Thomas\\nRandolph, afterwards the famous Earl of Mur-\\nray, and Alexander Stuart, Lord Bonkle. Both\\nwere then in the English interest, and had come\\ninto that country with the purpose of driving\\nout Douglas. They afterwards ranked among\\nBruce s most zealous adherents.\\nPage 347, line 425. Now ask you whence that\\nwondrous light.\\nThe only tradition now remembered of the\\nlanding of Robert the Bruce in Carrick, relates\\nto the fire seen by him from the Isle of Arran.\\nIt is still generally reported, and religiously\\nbelieved by many, that this fire was really the\\nwork of supernatural power, unassisted by the\\nhand of any mortal being and it is said that\\nfor several centuries the flame rose yearly on\\nthe same hour of the same night of the year on\\nwhich the king first saw it from the turrets of\\nBrodick Castle and some go so far as to say\\nthat if the exact time were known, it would be\\nstill seen. That this superstitious notion is very\\nancient, is evident from the place where the fire\\nis said to have appeared, being called the Bogles\\nBrae, beyond the remembrance of man. In\\nsupport of this curious belief it is said that the\\npractice of burning heath for the improvement\\nof land was then unknown that a spunkie\\n[Jack o lanthorn] could not have been seen\\nacross the breadth of the Forth of Clyde, be-\\ntween Ayrshire and Arran and that the courier\\nof Bruce was his kinsman, and never suspected\\nof treachery. Letter from Mr. Joseph Train\\nof Newton Stuart.\\nPage 348, line 471. And from the castle s dis-\\ntant wall.\\nThe castle of Turnberry, on the coast of\\nAyrshire, was the property of Robert Bruce, in\\nright of his mother. Lord Hailes mentions the\\nfollowing remarkable circumstance concerning\\nthe mode in which he became proprietor of it\\n4 Martha, Countess of Carrick in her own right,\\nthe wife of Robert Bruce, Lord of Annandale,\\nbare him a son, afterwards Robert I. (11 July,\\n1274). The circumstances of her marriage\\nwere singular happening to meet Robert Bruce\\nin her domains, she became enamored of him,\\nand with some violence led him to her castle of\\nTurnberry. A few days after she married him,\\nwithout the knowledge of the relations of either\\nparty, and without the requisite consent of the\\nking. The king instantly seized her castle and\\nwhole estates. She afterwards atoned by a fine\\nfor her feudal delinquency. Little did Alexan-\\nder foresee that, from this union, the restorer of\\nthe Scottish monarchy was to arise. Annals\\nof Scotland, ii. 180.\\nPage 351, line 779. The Bruce hath won his\\nfather s hall\\nI have followed the flattering and pleasing\\ntradition, that the Bruce, after his descent upon\\nthe coast of Ayrshire, actually gained posses-\\nsion of his maternal castle. But the tradition\\nis not accurate. The fact is, that he was only\\nstrong enough to alarm and drive in the out-\\nposts of the English garrison, then commanded,\\nnot by Clifford, as assumed in the text, but by\\nPercy. Neither was Clifford slain upon this\\noccasion, though he had several skirmishes with\\nBruce. He fell afterwards in the battle of\\nBannockburn. Bruce, after alarming the castle\\nof Turnberry, and surprising some part of the\\ngarrison, who were quartered without the walls\\nof the fortress, retreated into the mountainous\\npart of Carrick, and there made himself so\\nstrong that the English were obliged to evacuate\\nTurnberry, and at length the castle of Ayr.\\nLine 798. Bring here, he said, the mazers\\nfour.\\nThese mazers were large drinking-cups, or\\ngoblets.\\nLine 815. Arouse old friends and gather new.\\nAs soon as it was known in Kyle, says ancient\\ntradition, that Robert Bruce had landed in\\nCarrick, with the intention of recovering the\\ncrown of Scotland, the Laird of Craigie, and\\nforty-eight men in his immediate neighborhood,\\ndeclared in favor of their legitimate prince.\\nLine 818. Let Ettrick s archers sharp their\\ndarts.\\nThe forest of Selkirk, or Ettrick, at this\\nperiod, occupied all the district which retains\\nthat denomination, and embraced the neighbor-\\ning dales of Tweeddale, and at least the upper\\nward of Clydesdale.\\nPage 352, fine 21. When Bruce s banner had\\nvictorious flowed.\\nThe first important advantage gained by\\nBruce, after landing at Turnberry, was over\\nAymer de Valence, Earl of Pembroke, the\\nsame by whom he had been defeated near\\nMethven. They met, as has been said, by ap-\\npointment, at Loudonhill, in the west of Scot-\\nland. _ Pembroke sustained a defeat and from\\nthat time Bruce was at the head of a consider-\\nable flying army. _ Yet he was subsequently\\nobliged to retreat into Aberdeenshire, and was\\nthere assailed by Comyn, Earl of Buchan, de-\\nsirous to avenge the death of his relative, the\\nRed Comyn, and supported by a body of Eng-\\nlish troops under Philip de Moubray. Bruce\\nwas ill at the time of a scrofulous disorder, but\\ntook horse to meet his enemies, although obliged\\nto be supported on either side. He was victori-\\nous, and it is said that the agitation of his spirits\\nrestored his health.\\nLine 23. When English blood oft deluged Doug-\\nlas-dale.\\nThe good Lord James of Douglas, during\\nthese commotions, often took from the English\\nhis own castle of Douglas but being unable to\\ngarrison it, contented himself with destroying\\nthe fortifications and retiring into the moun-\\ntains. As a reward to his patriotism, it is said", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0595.jp2"}, "594": {"fulltext": "5 6 4\\nAPPENDIX\\nPages 352 to 355\\nto have been prophesied that how often soever\\nDouglas Castle should he destroyed, it should\\nalways again arise more magnificent from its\\nruins. Upon one of these occasions he used\\nfearful cruelty, causing all the store of provis-\\nions, which the English had laid up in his castle,\\nto be heaped together, bursting the wine and\\nbeer casks among the wheat and flour, slaugh-\\ntering the cattle upon the same spot, and upon\\nthe top of the whole cutting the throats of the\\nEnglish prisoners. This pleasantry of the good\\nLord James is commemorated under the name\\nof the Douglas s Larder.\\nLine 24. And fiery Edward routed stout Saint\\nJohn.\\nJohn de Saint John, with 15,000 horsemen,\\nhad advanced to oppose the inroad of the Scots.\\nBy a forced march he endeavored to surprise\\nthem but intelligence of his motions was time-\\nously received. The courage of Edward Bruce,\\napproaching to temerity, frequently enabled him\\nto achieve what men of more judicious valor\\nwould never have attempted. He ordered the\\ninfantry, and the meaner sort of his army, to\\nentrench themselves in strong narrow ground.\\nHe himself with fifty horsemen well harnessed,\\nissued forth under cover of a thick mist, sur-\\nprised the English on their march, attacked\\nand dispersed them. Dalrymple s Annals of\\nScotland.\\nLine 25. When Randolph s war-cry swelled\\nthe southern gale.\\nThomas Randolph, Bruce s sister s son, a re-\\nnowned Scottish chief, was in the early part\\nof his life not more remarkable for consistency\\nthan Bruce himself. He espoused his uncle s\\nparty when Bruce first assumed the crown, and\\n.was made prisoner at the fatal battle of Meth-\\nven, in which his relative s hopes appeared\\nto be ruined. Randolph accordingly not only\\nsubmitted to the English, but took an active\\npart against Bruce appeared in arms against\\nhim and in the skirmish where he was so\\nclosely pursued by the bloodhound it is said his\\nnephew took his standard with his own hand.\\nBut Randolph was afterwards made prisoner\\nby Douglas in Tweeddale, and brought before\\nKing Robert. Some harsh language was ex-\\nchanged between the uncle and nephew, and\\nthe latter was committed for a time to close\\ncustody. Afterwards, however, they were re-\\nconciled, and Randolph was created Earl of\\nMoray about 1312. After this period he emi-\\nnently distinguished himself, first by the sur-\\nprise of Edinburgh Castle, and afterwards by\\nmany similar enterprises, conducted with equal\\ncourage and ability.\\nLine 72. Northward of Tweed, but Stirling s\\ntowers.\\nWhen a long train of success, actively im-\\nproved by Robert Bruce, had made him master\\nof almost all Scotland, Stirling Castle continued\\nto hold out. The care of the blockade was com-\\nmitted by the king to his brother Edward, who\\nconcluded a treaty with Sir Philip Mowbray,\\nthe governor, that he should surrender the f ort-\\nress, if it were not succored by the King of Eng-\\nland before St. John the Baptist s day. The\\nconsequence was, of course, that each kingdom\\nmustered its strength for the expected battle\\nand as the space agreed upon reached from\\nLent to Midsummer, full time was allowed for\\nthat purpose.\\nLine 95. And Cambria, but of late subdued.\\nEdward the First, with the usual policy of a\\nconqueror, employed the Welsh, whom he had\\nsubdued, to assist him in his Scottish wars, for\\nwhich their habits, as mountaineers, particularly\\nfitted them. But this policy was not without\\nits risks. Previous to the battle of Falkirk, the\\nWelsh quarrelled with the English men-at-arms,\\nand after bloodshed on both parts, separated\\nthemselves from his army, and the feud between\\nthem, at so dangerous and critical a juncture,\\nwas reconciled with difficulty. Edward II. fol-\\nlowed his father s example in this particular,\\nand with no better success. They could not be\\nbrought to exert themselves in the cause of\\ntheir conquerors. But they had an indifferent\\nreward for their forbearanee. Without arms,\\nand clad only in scanty dresses of linen cloth,\\nthey appeared naked in the eyes even of the\\nScottish peasantry and after the rout of Ban-\\nnoekburn were massacred by them in great\\nnumbers, as they retired in confusion towards\\ntheir own country.\\nLine 97. And Connoght poured from waste\\nand wood.\\nThere is in the Fozdera an invitation to Eth\\nO Connor, chief of the Irish of Connaught, set-\\nting forth that the king was about to move\\nagainst his Scottish rebels, and therefore re-\\nquesting the attendance of all the force he\\ncould muster, either commanded by himself\\nin person, or by some nobleman of his race.\\nThese auxiliaries were to be commanded by\\nRichard de Burgh, Earl of Ulster.\\nPage 354, line 220. Their chief, Fitz-Louis,\\nhad the care.\\nFitz-Louis, or MacLouis, otherwise called\\nFullarton, is a family of ancient descent in the\\nIsle of Arran. They are said to be of French\\norigin, as the name intimates. They attached\\nthemselves to Bruce upon his first landing and\\nFergus MacLouis, or Fullarton, received from\\nthe grateful monarch a charter, dated 26th No-\\nvember, in the second year of his reign, 1307,\\nfor the lands of Kilmichel, and others.\\nLine 258. Beneath their chieftains ranked their\\nfiles.\\nThe men of Argyle, the islanders, and the\\nHighlanders in general, were ranked in the rear.\\nThey must have been numerous, for Bruce had\\nreconciled himself with almost all their chief-\\ntains, excepting the obnoxious MacDougals of\\nLorn.\\nPage 355, line 309. The monarch rode along\\nthe van.\\nThe English vanguard, commanded by the\\nEarls of Gloucester and Hereford, came in sight\\nof the Scottish army upon the evening of the 23d\\nof June. Bruce was then riding upon a little\\npalfrey, in front of his foremost line, putting\\nhis host in order. It was then that the per-", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0596.jp2"}, "595": {"fulltext": "Pages 357 to 360 NOTES: THE LORD OF THE ISLES\\n56S\\nsonal encounter took place betwixt him and Sir\\nHenry de Bohun, a gallant English knight, the\\nissue of which had a great effect upon the spirits\\nof both armies. The Scottish leaders remon-\\nstrated with the king upon his temerity. He\\nonly answered, I have broken my good battle-\\naxe. The English vanguard retreated after\\nwitnessing this single combat. Probably their\\ngenerals did not think it advisable to hazard\\nan attack while its unfavorable issue remained\\nupon their minds.\\nPage 357, line 516. Pipe-clang and bugle-\\nsound were tossed.\\nThere is an old tradition, that the well-known\\nScottish tune of Hey, tutti taitti, was Bruce s\\nmarch at the battle of Bannoekburn. The late\\nMr. Ritson, no granter of propositions, doubts\\nwhether the Scots had any martial music, quotes\\nFroissart s account of each soldier in the host\\nbearing a little horn, on which, at the onset,\\nthey would make such a horrible noise, as if all\\nthe devils of hell had been among them. He\\nobserves that these horns are the only music\\nmentioned by Barbour, and concludes that it\\nmust remain a moot point whether Bruce s\\narmy were cheered by the sound even of a soli-\\ntary bagpipe.\\nLine 552. See where yon barefoot abbot stands.\\nMaurice, Abbot of Inchaffray, placing him-\\nself on an eminence, celebrated mass in sight\\nof the Scottish army. He then passed along\\nthe front barefooted, and bearing a crucifix\\nin his hands, and exhorting the Scots, in few\\nand forcible words, to combat for their rights\\nand their liberty. The Scots kneeled down.\\nThey yield, cried Edward; see, they im-\\nplore mercy. They do, answered Ingel-\\nram de Umfraville, but not ours. On that\\nfield they will be victorious, or die. Annals\\nof Scotland, vol. ii. p. 47.\\nLine 593. Forth, Marshal, on the peasant\\nfoe!\\nThe English archers commenced the attack\\nwith their usual bravery and dexterity. But\\nagainst a force, whose importance he had\\nlearned by fatal experience, Bruce was pro-\\nvided. A small but select body of cavalry\\nwere detached from the right, under command\\nof Sir Robert Keith. They rounded, as I con-\\nceive, the marsh called Milntown bog, and,\\nkeeping the firm ground, charged the left flank\\nand rear of the English archers. As the bow-\\nmen had no spears nor long weapons fit to defend\\nthemselves against horse, they were instantly\\nthrown into disorder, and spread through the\\nwhole English army a confusion from which\\nthey never fairly recovered.\\nPage 358, fine 627. Twelve Scottish lives his\\nbaldric bore\\nRoger Ascham quotes a similar Scottish pro-\\nverb, whereby they give the whole praise of\\nshooting honestly to Englishmen, saying thus,\\nthat every English archer beareth under his\\ngirdle twenty-four Scottes. Indeed, Toxophi-\\nlus says before, and truly of the Scottish nation,\\nThe Scottes surely be good men of warre in\\ntheyre owne feates as can be but as for shoot-\\ninge, they can neither use it to any profite, nor\\nyet challenge it for any praise.\\nLine 646. Down down in headlong over-\\nthrow.\\nIt is generally alleged by historians, that the\\nEnglish men-at-arms fell into the hidden snare\\nwhich Bruce had prepared for them. Barbour\\ndoes not mention the circumstance. According\\nto his account, Randolph, seeing the slaughter\\nmade by the cavalry on the right wing among\\nthe archers, advanced courageously against the\\nmain body of the English, and entered into\\nclose combat with them. Douglas and Stuart,\\nwho commanded the Scottish centre, led their\\ndivision also to the charge, and the battle be-\\ncoming general along the whole line, was obsti-\\nnately maintained on both sides for a long space\\nof time the Scottish archers doing great exe-\\ncution among the English men-at-arms, after\\nthe bowmen of England were dispersed.\\nLine 656. And steeds that shriek in agony\\nI have been told that this line requires an\\nexplanatory note and, indeed, those who wit-\\nness the silent patience with which horses sub-\\nmit to the most cruel usage, may be permitted\\nto doubt that in moments of sudden and intol-\\nerable anguish, they utter a most melancholy\\ncry. Lord Erskine, in a speech made in the\\nHouse of Lords, upon a bill for enforcing hu-\\nmanity towards animals, noticed this remark-\\nable fact, in language which I will not mutilate\\nby attempting to repeat it. It was my fortune,\\nupon one occasion, to hear ahorse, in a moment\\nof agony, utter a thrilling scream, which I still\\nconsider the most melancholy sound I ever\\nheard.\\nPage 359, line 739. Lord of the Isles, my trust\\nin thee.\\nWhen the engagement between the main bod-\\nies had lasted some time, Bruce made a de-\\ncisive movement by bringing up the Scottish\\nreserve. It is traditionally said that at this\\ncrisis he addressed the Lord of the Isles in a\\nphrase used as a motto by some of his descend-\\nants, My trust is constant in thee.\\nPage 360, line 797. To arms they flew, axe,\\nclub, or spear.\\nThe followers of the Scottish camp observed,\\nfrom the Gillies Hill in the rear, the impression\\nproduced upon the English army by the bring-\\ning up of the Scottish reserve, and, prompted\\nby the enthusiasm of the moment, or the desire\\nof plunder, assumed, in a tumultuary manner,\\nsuch arms as they found nearest, fastened sheets\\nto tent-poles and lances, and showed themselves\\nlike a new army advancing to battle. The un-\\nexpected apparition of what seemed a new army\\ncompleted the confusion which already prevailed,\\namong the English, who fled in every direction,\\nand were pursued with immense slaughter. The\\nbrook of Bannock, according to Barbour, was\\nso choked with the bodies of men and horses\\nthat it might have been passed dry-shod.\\nLine 808. O, give their hapless prince his due\\nEdward II., according to the best authorities,\\nshowed, in the fatal field of Bannoekburn, per-\\nsonal gallantry not unworthy of his great sire", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0597.jp2"}, "596": {"fulltext": "5 66\\nAPPENDIX\\nPages 363 to 36S\\nand greater son He remained on the field till\\nforced away by the Earl of Pembroke, when\\nall was lost. He then rode to the Castle of\\nStirling, and demanded admittance but the\\ngovernor, remonstrating upon the imprudence\\nof shutting himself up in that fortress, which\\nmust so soon surrender, he assembled around\\nhis person five hundred men-at-arms, and,\\navoiding the field of battle and the victorious\\narmy, fled towards Linlithgow, pursued by\\nDouglas with about sixty horse. They were\\naugmented by Sir Lawrence Abernethy with\\ntwenty more, whom Douglas met in the Tor-\\nwood upon their way to join the English army,\\nand whom he easily persuaded to desert the\\ndefeated monarch, and to assist in the pursuit.\\nThey hung upon Edward s flight as far as\\nDunbar, too few in number to assail him with\\neffect, but enough to harass his retreat so con-\\nstantly, that whoever fell an instant behind,\\nwas instantly slain, or made prisoner. Ed-\\nward s ignominious flight terminated at Dun-\\nbar, where the Earl of March, who still pro-\\nfessed allegiance to him, received him full\\ngently. From thence, the monarch of so great\\nan empire, and the late commander of so gal-\\nlant and numerous an army, escaped to Bam-\\nborough in a fishing vessel.\\nThe Field of Waterloo.\\nPage 363, line 31. Plies the hooked staff and\\nshortened scythe.\\nThe reaper in Flanders carries in his left\\nhand a stick with an iron hook, with which\\nhe collects as much grain as he can cut at one\\nsweep with a short scythe, which he holds in\\nhis right hand. They carry on this double pro-\\ncess with great spirit and dexterity.\\nPage 364, line 71. A stranger might reply.\\n[On the margin of the proof sheets submitted\\nby Ballantyne and preserved by him appeared\\nthe following\\nJames. My objection to this is probably\\nfantastical, and I state it only because, from\\nthe first moment to the last, it has always\\nmade me boggle. I don t like a stranger\\nQuery, the questioned, the spectator\\ngazer, etc.\\nScott. Stranger is appropriate it means\\nstranger to the circumstances.\\nLine 113. Her garner-house profound.\\nJames. You had changed garner-house\\nprofound, which I think quite admirable, to\\ngarner under ground which I think quite\\notherwise. I have presumed not to make the\\nchange must I\\nScott. I acquiesce, but with doubts pro-\\nfound sounds affected.\\nPage 365, line 155. Pale Brussels I then what\\nthoughts were thine.\\nIt was affirmed by the prisoners of war that\\nBonaparte had promised his army, in case of\\nvictory, twenty-four hours plunder of the city\\nof Brussels.\\nLine 177. On On was still his stern ex-\\nclaim.\\nThe characteristic obstinacy of Napoleon was\\nnever more fully displayed than in what we may\\nbe permitted to hope will prove the last of his\\nfields. He would listen to no advice and allow\\nof no obstacles. An eyewitness has given the\\nfollowing account of his demeanor towards\\nthe end of the action\\nIt was near seven o clock Bonaparte, who\\ntill then had remained upon the ridge of the\\nhill whence he could best behold what passed,\\ncontemplated with a stern countenance the\\nscene of this horrible slaughter. The more\\nthat obstacles seemed to multiply, the more\\nhis obstinacy seemed to increase. He became\\nindignant at these unforeseen difficulties and,\\nfar from fearing to push to extremities an\\narmy whose confidence in him was boundless,\\nhe ceased not to pour down fresh troops, and to\\ngive orders to march forward to charge with\\nthe bayonet to carry by storm. He was re-\\npeatedly informed, from different points, that\\nthe day went against him, and that the troops\\nseemed to be disordered to which he only\\nreplied, En-avant En-avant\\nLine 187. The fate their leader shunned to\\nshare.\\nIt has been reported that Bonaparte charged\\nat the head of his guards, at the last period of\\nthis dreadful conflict. This, however, is not\\naccurate. He came down, indeed, to a hollow\\npart _ of the high-road leading to Charleroi,\\nwithin less than a quarter of a mile of the\\nfarm of La Haye Sainte, one of the points\\nmost fiercely disputed. Here he harangued\\nthe guards, and informed them that his pre-\\nceding operations had destroyed the British\\ninfantry and cavalry, and that they had only\\nto support the fire of the artillery, which they\\nwere to attack with the bayonet. This exhor-\\ntation was received with shouts of Vive VEm-\\npereur, which were heard over all our fine, and\\nled to an idea that Napoleon was charging in\\nperson. But the guards were led on by Ney\\nnor did Bonaparte approach nearer the scene\\nof action than the spot already mentioned,\\nwhich the rising banks on each side rendered\\nsecure from all such balls as did not come in a\\nstraight line.\\nLine 194. England shall tell the .fight\\nIn riding up to a regiment which was hard\\npressed, the duke called to the men, Soldiers,\\nwe must never be beat, what will they say\\nin England It is needless to say how this\\nappeal was answered.\\nPage 366, line 241. As plies the smith his\\nclanging trade.\\nA private soldier of the 95th regiment com-\\npared the sound which took place immediately\\nupon the British cavalry mingling with those\\nof the enemy, to a thousand tinkers at work\\nmending pots and kettles.\\nLine 255. As their own ocean-rocks hold stance.\\n[In the marginal notes, John Ballantyne\\nwrites I do not know such an English word\\nas stance, and Scott rejoins, Then we 11 make\\nit one for the nance.\\nPage 368, line 440. Period of honor as of woes.\\n[Sir Thomas Picton, Sir William Ponsonby,", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0598.jp2"}, "597": {"fulltext": "Pages 368 to 442\\nNOTES: MISCELLANEOUS POEMS\\n567\\nand Sir William de Lancey were among the\\nlost. The last-named was married in the pre-\\nceding April. Colonel Miller, when mortally\\nwounded, desired to see the colors of the regi-\\nment once more ere he died. They were waved\\nover his head, and the expiring officer declared\\nhimself satisfied. Colonel Cameron, of Fassie-\\nfern, so often distinguished in Lord Welling-\\nton s despatches from Spain, fell in the action\\nat Quatre Bras (16th June, 1815), while leading\\nthe 92d or Gordon Highlanders, to charge a\\nbody of cavalry supported by infantry. Colo-\\nnel Alexander Gordon fell by the side of his\\nchief.]\\nLine 446. Redoubled Picton s soul of fire.\\nJames. From long association, this epithet\\nstrikes me as conveying a semi-ludicrous idea..\\nScott. It is here appropriate, and your ob-\\njection seems merely personal to your own asso-\\nciation.\\nHarold the Dauntless.\\nPage 381, line 8. Some reverend room, some\\nprebendary 1 s stall.\\n[It is possible that in these introductory lines,\\nScott did have a half sly purpose of throwing\\nreaders off the scent as to the authorship of the\\npoem. Nobody would suspect Scott of such\\ndreams, though the sentiment might easily\\nhave been attached to Erskine, a son of an Epis-\\ncopal clergyman, and by his temper and predi-\\nlections, quite likely to entertain such hopes.]\\nLine 14. There might I share my Surtees\\nhappier lot.\\n[Robert Surtees of Mainsforth. A Fellow of\\nthe Society of Antiquaries, and author of The\\nHistory and Antiquities of the County Palatine\\nof Durham. He was an early and dear friend\\nof Scott s. A club for the publication of docu-\\nments connected with the history of the English\\nborder was formed, named The Surtees Club.]\\nPage 385, line 27. And such if fame speak\\ntruth the honored Barrington.\\n[Shute Barrington, Bishop of Durham, was\\na friend of Scott s. The lives of Bishops Mat-\\nthew and Morton are recorded by Surtees in his\\nHistory of the Bishopric of Durham.]\\nPage 398, line 380. A tale six cantos long,\\nyet scorned to add a note.\\n[Scott here gives a sly dig at the Scott, whose\\nname was not attached to Harold the Dauntless,\\nand whose predilection for notes was well\\nknown.]\\nThe Norman Horse-Shoe.\\nPage 399, line 14. In crimson light on Rym-\\nny s stream.\\nRymny is a stream which divides the counties\\nof Monmouth and Glamorgan. Caerphili, the\\nscene of the supposed battle, is a vale upon its\\nbanks, dignified by the ruins of a very ancient\\ncastle.\\nThe Poacher.\\nPage 407, line 62. On the bleak coast of frost-\\nbarred Labrador.\\nSuch is the law in the New Forest, Hamp-\\nshire, tending greatly to increase the various\\nsettlements of thieves, smugglers, and deer-\\nstealers, who infest it. In the forest courts\\nthe presiding Judge wears as a badge of office\\nan antique stirrup, said to have been that of\\nWilliam Ruf us. See Mr. William Rose s spirited\\npoem, entitled l The Red King.\\nLine 81. Yon cask holds moonlight, run when\\nmoon was none.\\nA cant term for smuggled spirits.\\nThe Bold Dragoon.\\nPage 408, line 14. And, as the devil leaves a\\nhouse, they tumbled through the wall.\\nIn their hasty evacuation of Campo Mayor,\\nthe French pulled down a part of the rampart,\\nand marched out over the glacis.\\nLetter in Verse.\\nPage 412, line 104. But spring, I m informed,\\nfrom the Scotts of Scotstarvet.\\nThe Scotts of Scotstarvet, and other families\\nof the name in Fife and elsewhere, claim no\\nkindred with the great elan of the Border, and\\ntheir armorial bearings are different.\\nSong on the Lifting of the Banner of\\nthe House of Buccleuch.\\nPage 424, line 13. A stripling s weak hand to\\nour revel has borne her.\\n[This was Scott s eldest son, Walter.]\\nThe Return to Ulster.\\nPage 426, line 20. Like a burst of the sun\\nwhen the tempest is nigh.\\nIn ancient Irish poetry, the standard of Fion,\\nor Fingal, is called the Sun-burst, an epithet\\nfeebly rendered by the Sun-beam of Macpher-\\nThe Search after Happiness.\\nPage 434, line 239. The work too little and the\\npay too much.\\nSee the True-Born Englishman, by Daniel\\nDefoe.\\nEpilogue to The Appeal.\\nPage 439, line 10. Since the New Jail became\\nour next-door neighbor.\\nIt is necessary to mention, that the allusions\\nin this piece are all local, and addressed only\\nto the Edinburgh audience. The new prisons of\\nthe city, on the Calton Hill, are not far from\\nthe theatre.\\nLine 22. With the tempestuous question, Up\\nor down\\nAt this time, the public of Edinburgh was\\nmuch agitated by a lawsuit betwixt the magis-\\ntrates and many of the inhabitants of the city,\\nconcerning a range of new buildings on the\\nwestern side of the North Bridge, which the\\nlatter insisted should be removed as a deform-\\nity.\\nThe Battle of Sempach.\\nPage 442, line 27. The Switzer priest has ta en\\nthe field.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0599.jp2"}, "598": {"fulltext": "5 68\\nAPPENDIX\\nPages 442 to 475\\nAll the Swiss clergy who were able to bear\\narms fought in this patriotic war.\\nLine 52. Might well-nigh load a wain.\\nThis seems to allude to the preposterous fash-\\nion, during the middle ages, of wearing boots\\nwith the points or peaks turned upwards, and\\nso long, that in some cases they were fastened\\nto the knees of the wearer with small chains.\\nWhen they alighted to fight upon foot, it would\\nseem that the Austrian gentlemen found it ne-\\ncessary to cut off these peaks that they might\\nmove with the necessary activity.\\nThe Noble Moringer.\\nPage 444. The original of these verses occurs\\nin a collection of German popular songs, entitled\\nSammlung Deustcher Volkslieder, Berlin, 1807,\\npublished by Messrs. Busching and Von der\\nHagen, both, and more especially the last, dis-\\ntinguished for their acquaintance with the an-\\ncient popular poetry and legendary history of\\nGermany.\\nIn the German editor s notice of the ballad,\\nit is stated to have been extracted from a manu-\\nscript Chronicle of Nicolaus Thomann, chaplain\\nto Saint Leonard in Weisenhorn, which bears\\nthe date 1533 and the song is stated by the\\nauthor to have been generally sung in the neigh-\\nborhood at that early period. Thomann, as\\nquoted by the German editor, seems faithfully\\nto have believed the event he narrates. He\\nquotes tombstones and obituaries to prove the\\nexistence of the personages of the ballad, and\\ndiscovers that there actually died, on the 11th\\nMay, 1349, a Lady Von Neuffen, Countess of\\nMarstetten, who was, by birth, of the house of\\nMoringer. This lady he supposes to have been\\nMoringer s daughter, mentioned in the ballad.\\nHe quotes the same authority for the death\\nof Berckhold Von Neuffen, in the same year.\\nThe editors, on the whole, seem to embrace the\\nopinion of Professor Smith, of Ulm, who, from\\nthe language of the ballad, ascribes its date to\\nthe 15th century.\\nCarle, now the King s come.\\nPage 169, line 47. Come, Clerk, and give\\nyour bugle breath.\\nSir George Clerk, of Pennycuik, Bart. The\\nBaron of Pennycuik is bound by his tenure,\\nwhenever the king comes to Edinburgh, to re-\\nceive him at the Harestone (in which the stand-\\nard of James IV. was erected when his army en-\\ncamped on the Boroughmuir, before his fatal\\nexpedition to England), now built into the park-\\nwall at the end of Tipperlin Lone, near the\\nBoroughmuirhead and, standing thereon, to\\ngive three blasts on a born.\\nPage 470, line 25. Come forward with the\\nBlanket Blue.\\nThe Blue Blanket is the standard of the\\nincorporated trades of Edinburgh, and is kept\\nby their convener, at whose appearance there-\\nwith, observes Maitland, tis said, that not\\nonly the artificers of Edinburgh are obliged to\\nrepair to it, but all the artificers or craftsmen\\nwithin Scotland are bound to follow it, and fight\\nunder the convener of Edinburgh, as afore-\\nsaid.\\nThe Bannatyne Club.\\nPage 471. This club was instituted in 1822\\nfor the publication of rare and curious works\\nconnected with the history and antiquities of\\nScotland. It consisted, at first, of a very few\\nmembers, gradually extended to one hundred.\\nThey assume the name from George Bannatyne,\\nof whom little is known beyond that prodigious\\neffort which produced his present honors, and\\nis, perhaps, one of the most singular instances\\nof its kind which the literature of any country\\nexhibits. His labors as an amanuensis were\\nundertaken during the time of pestilence, in\\n1568. The dread of infection had induced him\\nto retire into solitude, and under such circum-\\nstances he had the energy to form and execute\\nthe plan of saving the literature of the whole\\nnation and, undisturbed by the general mourn-\\ning for the dead, and general fears of the living,\\nto devote himself to the task of collecting and\\nrecording the triumphs of human genius in the\\npoetry of his age and country thus, amid the\\nwreck of all that was mortal, employing himself\\nin preserving the lays by which immortality is\\nat once given to others, and obtained for the\\nwriter himself. He informs us of some of the\\nnumerous difficulties he had to contend with in\\nthis self-imposed task. The volume containing\\nbis labors, deposited in the Library of the\\nFaculty of Advocates at Edinburgh, is no less\\nthan eight hundred pages in length, and very\\nneatly and closely written, containing nearly\\nall the ancient poetry of Scotland now known\\nto exist.\\nTo J. G. Lockhart, Esq.\\nPage 475, line 2. Fat worship.\\n[So also at foot of the page Fatsman, one\\nof the many aliases of Mr. James Ballantyne.\\nS peats and raxes are spits and ranges.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0600.jp2"}, "599": {"fulltext": "GLOSSARY\\n569\\nIV. GLOSSARY\\nabbaye, abbey.\\nacton, buckram vest worn under armor.\\nair, sand-bank.\\nalmagest, astronomical or astrological treatise.\\nAlmayn, German.\\namice, ecclesiastical vestment.\\nangel, a gold coin.\\narquebus, hagbut, or beavy musket.\\naventayle, movable front of helmet.\\nbaldric, belt.\\nbale, beacon-fire.\\nballium, fortified court.\\nbandelier, belt for carrying ammunition.\\nban-dog, watch-dog.\\nbandrol, a kind of banner or ensign.\\nbarbican, fortification at castle-gate.\\nbarded, armored (of horses).\\nbarding, horse-armor.\\nbarret-cap, cloth cap.\\nbartizan, small overhanging turret.\\nbasnet, light helmet.\\nbassened, having a white stripe down the face.\\nbattalia, battalion, army (not a plural).\\nbattle, army.\\nbeadsman, one hired to offer prayers for an-\\nother.\\nbeaver, movable front of helmet.\\nBeltane, the first of May (a Celtic festival).\\nbend, bind.\\nbend (noun), heraldic term.\\nbent, slope.\\nbeshrew, may evil befall confound.\\nbill, a kind of battle-axe or halberd.\\nbillmen, troops armed with the bill.\\nblack-jack, leather jug or pitcher.\\nblaze blazon, proclaim.\\nbonail, i. e. bonallez, a god-speed, parting with\\na friend.\\nbonnet-pieces, gold coins with the king s cap\\n(bonnet) on them.\\nboune, bowne, prepare, make ready.\\nboune, ready, prepared.\\nbourd, jest.\\nbower, chamber, lodging-place lady s apart-\\nments.\\nbrae, hillside.\\nbraid, broad.\\nbratchet, slowhound.\\nbrigantine, a kind of body armor.\\nbrigg, bridge.\\nbrock, badger.\\nbroke, quartered (the cutting up of a deer).\\nbrotikins, buskins.\\nbuff, a thick cloth.\\nbuxom, lively.\\nby times, betimes, early.\\ncaird, tinker.\\ncairn, heap of stones.\\ncanna, cotton-grass.\\ncap of maintenance, cap worn by the king-at-\\narms or chief herald.\\ncarp, talk.\\ncast, pair (of hawks).\\nchanters, the pipes of the bagpipe.\\ncheck at, meditate attack (in falconry).\\ncheer, face, countenance.\\nclaymore, a large sword.\\nclerk, scholar.\\nclip, clasp, embrace.\\ncombust, astrological term.\\ncorbel, bracket.\\ncoronach, dirge.\\ncorrei, hollow in hillside, resort of game.\\ncrabs, crab-apples.\\ncrenell, aperture for shooting arrows through.\\ncresset, hanging lamp or chandelier.\\nculver, small cannon.\\ncumber, trouble.\\ncurch, matron s coif, or head-dress.\\ncushat-dove, wood-pigeon.\\ndarkling, in the dark.\\ndeas, dais, platform.\\ndeft, skilful.\\ndemi-volt, movement in horsemanship.\\ndern, hid.\\ndight, decked, dressed.\\ndonjon, main tower or keep of a castle.\\ndoom, judgment, arbitration.\\ndouble tressure, a kind of border in heraldry.\\ndought, could.\\ndown, hill.\\ndrie, suffer, endure.\\nearn (see erne).\\neburnine, made of ivory.\\nembossed, foaming at the mouth (hunter s term).\\nemprise, enterprise.\\nensenzie, ensign, war-cry.\\nerne, eagle.\\neven, spotless.\\nfalcon, a kind of small cannon.\\nfang, to catch. _\\nfar yaud, the signal made by a shepherd to his\\ndog, when he is to drive away some sheep at\\na distance.\\nfauld, sheep-fold.\\nfay, faith.\\nferlie, marvel.\\nflemens- firth, asylum for outlaws.\\nforce, waterfall.\\nfosse, ditch, moat.\\nfretted, adorned with raised work.\\nfro, from.\\nfrounced, flounced, plaited.\\ngalliard, a lively dance.\\ngallowg lasses, heavy-armed soldiers (Celtic).\\ngar, to make.\\ngazehound, a hound that pursues by sight rather\\nthan scent,,\\nghast, ghastly.\\ngipon, doublet or jacket worn under armor.\\nglaive, broadsword.\\nglamour, magical illusion.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0601.jp2"}, "600": {"fulltext": "57\u00c2\u00b0\\nAPPENDIX\\nglee-maiden, dancing-girl.\\nglidders, slippery stones.\\nglozing, flattering.\\ngorged, having the throat cut.\\ngorget, armor for the throat.\\ngraith, armor.\\ngramarye, magic.\\ngramercy, great thanks (French, grand merci).\\ngree, prize.\\ngripple, grasping, miserly.\\ngrisly, horrible, grim.\\nguarded, edged, trimmed.\\ngules, red (heraldic).\\nhackbuteer, soldier armed with hackbut or hag-\\nbut.\\nhaffets, cheeks.\\nhag, broken ground in a bog.\\nhagbut (hackbut, haquebut, arquebus, harquebuss,\\netc.), a heavy musket.\\nhalberd (halbert), combined spear and battle-axe.\\nhale, haul, drag.\\nhanger, short broadsword.\\nharried, plundered, sacked.\\nhearse, canopy over tomb, or the tomb itself.\\nheeze, hoist.\\nhent, seize.\\nheriot, tribute due to a lord from a vassal.\\nheron-shew, young heron.\\nhight, called, named.\\nholt, wood, woodland.\\nhosen, hose (old plural).\\nidlesse, idleness.\\nimp, child.\\ninch, island.\\njack, leather jacket, a kind of armor for the\\nbody.\\njennet, a small Spanish horse.\\njerkin, a kind of short coat.\\nkale, broth.\\nkeek, peep.\\nkern, light-armed soldier (Celtic).\\nkill, cell.\\nkirn, Scottish harvest-home.\\nkirtle, skirt, gown.\\nknosp, knob (architectural).\\nlair, to stick in the mud.\\nlargesse, largess, liberality, gift.\\nlauds, midnight service of the Catholic Church.\\nlauncegay, a kind of spear.\\nlaverock, lark.\\nleaguer, camp.\\nleash, thong for leading greyhound also the\\nhounds so led.\\nleven, lawn, an open space between or among\\nwoods.\\nlevin, lightning, thunderbolt.\\nLincoln green, a cloth worn by huntsmen.\\nlinn, waterfall pool below fall precipice.\\nlinstock (lintstock), handle for lint, or match used\\nin firing cannon.\\nlists, enclosure for tournament.\\nlitherlie, mischievous, vicious.\\nlorn, lost.\\nlourd, rather.\\nlout, bend, stoop.\\nlurch, rob.\\nlurcher, a dog that lurches (lurks), or lies in wait\\nfor game.\\nlurdane, blockhead.\\nlyke-wake, watching of corpse before burial.\\nmake, do.\\nmalison, malediction, curse.\\nMalvoisie, Malmsey wine.\\nmarch, border, frontier.\\nmarch-treason, offences committed on the Bor-\\nder.\\nmassy,\\nmavis, thrush.\\nmelle, mell, meddle.\\nmerle, blackbird.\\nmewed, shut up, confined.\\nmickle, much, great.\\nminion, favorite.\\nminiver, a kind of fur.\\nmirk, dark.\\nmorion, steel cap, helmet.\\nm or rice-pike, long heavy spear.\\nmorris, a kind of dance.\\nmor sing-horns, powder-flasks.\\nmot {mote), must, might.\\nmuir, moor, heath.\\nneed-fire, beacon-fire.\\nnese, nose.\\noe, island.\\nO hone, alas\\nOmrahs, nobles (Turkish).\\nor, gold (heraldic).\\nowches, jewels.\\npiallioun, pavilion.\\npalmer, pilgrim to Holy Land.\\npardoner, seller of priestly indulgences.\\npartisan, halberd.\\npeel, Border tower.\\npensils, small pennons or streamers.\\npentacle, magic diagram.\\npibroch, Highland air on bagpipe.\\npied, variegated.\\npinnet, pinnacle.\\nplacket, stomacher, petticoat, slit in petticoat,\\netc.\\nplate-jack, coat-armor.\\nplump, body of cavalry group, company.\\npoke, sack, pocket.\\nport, martial bagpipe music.\\npost and pair, an old game at cards.\\npresence, royal presence-chamber.\\npricked, spurred.\\npryse, the note blown at the death of the game.\\npursuivant, attendant on herald.\\nquaigh, wooden cup, composed of staves hooped\\ntogether.\\nquarry, game (hunter s term).\\nquatre-feuille, quatrefoil (Gothic ornament).\\nquit, requite.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0602.jp2"}, "601": {"fulltext": "GLOSSARY\\n57i\\nrack, floating cloud.\\nracking, flying, like breaking cloud.\\nrade, rode (old form).\\nrais, master of a vessel.\\nreads, counsels.\\nreave, tear away.\\nrede, story counsel, advice.\\nretrograde, astrological term.\\nrie, prince or chief, O hone a rie, alas for the\\nchief\\nrisp, creak.\\nrochet, bishop s short surplice.\\nrood, cross (as in Holy-Rood),\\nroom, piece of land.\\nrowan, mountain-ash.\\nruth, pity, compassion.\\nsack, Sherry or Canary wine.\\npackless, innocent.\\nsaga, Scandinavian epic.\\nsaltier, stirrup.\\nsalvo-shot, salute of artillery.\\nsaye, say, assertion.\\nscalds, Scandinavian minstrels.\\nscapular, ecclesiastical scarf.\\nscathe, harm, injury.\\nscaur, cliff, precipice.\\nscrae, bank of loose stones.\\nscrogg, shady wood.\\nsea-dog, seal.\\nselcouth, strange, uncouth.\\nselle, saddle.\\nseneschal, steward of castle.\\nsewer, officer who serves up a feast.\\nshalm, shawm, musical instrument.\\nsheeling, shepherd s hut.\\nsheen, bright, shining.\\nshent, shamed;\\nshrieve, shrive, absolve.\\nshroud, garment, plaid.\\nsleights, tricks, stratagems.\\nslogan, Highland battle-cry.\\nsnood, maiden s hair-band or fillet.\\nsoland, solan-goose, gannet.\\nsooth, true, truth.\\nsped, despatched, done for.\\nspeer, speir, ask.\\nspell, make out, study out.\\nsperthe, a battle-axe.\\nspringlet, small spring.\\nspule, shoulder.\\nspurn, kick.\\nstag of ten, one having ten branches on his ant-\\nlers.\\nstance, station.\\nsterte, started.\\nstirrup-cup, parting cup.\\nstole, ecclesiastical scarf (sometimes robe).\\nstoled, wearing the stole,\\nstore (adjective), stored up.\\nstowre, battle, tumult.\\nstrain, stock, race.\\nstrath, broad river- valley.\\nstrathspey, a Highland dance.\\nstreight, strait.\\nstrook, struck, stricken.\\nstumah, faithful.\\nsivith, haste.\\nsyde, long.\\nsyne, since.\\ntabard, herald s coat.\\ntarn, mountain lake.\\ntartan, the full Highland dress, made of the\\nchecquered stuff so termed.\\ntelt, a plait or plaited knot.\\nthrostle, thrush.\\ntide, time.\\ntint, lost.\\ntire, head-dress.\\ntottered, tattered, ragged.\\ntrain, allure, entice.\\ntressure, border (heraldic).\\ntrews, Highland trousers.\\ntrine, astrological term.\\ntrow, believe, trust.\\ntyke, dog.\\ntyne, to lose.\\nuneath, not easily, with difficulty.\\nunsparred, unbarred.\\nupsees, Bacchanalian cry or interjection, bor-\\nrowed from the Dutch.\\nurchin, elf.\\nvail, avail.\\nvail, lower, let fall.\\nvair, fur of squirrel.\\nvantage-coign, advantageous corner.\\nvaunt-brace, or warn-brace, armor for the body.\\nvaward, van, front.\\nvilde, vile.\\nwan, won (old form).\\nWarden-raid, a raid commanded by a Border\\nWarden in person.\\nwarlock, a wizard.\\nwarped, frozen.\\nwarrison, note of assault (Scott).\\nwassail, spiced ale drinking-bout.\\nweapon-schaw, military array of a county mus-\\nter.\\nweed, garment.\\nweird, fate, doom.\\nwhenas, when.\\nwhilere (while-ere), erewhile, a while ago.\\nwhilom (whilome), formerly.\\nwhin, gorse, furze.\\nwhingers, knives, poniards.\\nwhinyard, hunter s knife.\\nwight, active, gallant, war-like.\\nwildering, bewildering.\\nwimple, veil.\\nwoe-worth, woe be to.\\nwoned, dwelt.\\nwraith, apparition, spectre.\\nwreak, avenge.\\nyare, ready.\\nyate, gate.\\nyaud, see far yaud.\\nyerk, jerk.\\nyode, went (archaic).", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0603.jp2"}, "602": {"fulltext": "", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0604.jp2"}, "603": {"fulltext": "INDEX OF FIRST LINES\\n[Including the first Lines of Songs contained in the longer Poems]\\nA CAT of yore or else old iEsop lied, 439.\\nA courtier extraordinary, who by diet, 496.\\nA grain of dust, 505.\\nA mightier wizard far than I, 457.\\nA mirthful man he was the snows of age, 507.\\nA priest, ye cry, a priest lame shepherds\\nthey, 496.\\nA tale of sorrow, for your eyes may weep, 508\u00e2\u0080\u009e\\nA thousand winters dark have flown, 462.\\nA weary lot is thine, fair maid, 253.\\nA weary month has wandered o er, 420.\\nAdmire not that I gained the prize, 485.\\nAh County Guy, the hour is nigh, 472.\\nAh mark the matron well and laugh not,\\nHarry, 500.\\nAh, poor Louise the livelong day, 481.\\nAlas alas 456.\\nAll is prepared the chambers of the mine, 508.\\nAll joy was bereft me the day that you left me,\\n401.\\nAll your ancient customs, 499.\\nAllen-a-Dale has no fagot for burning, 254.\\nAmid these aisles where once his precepts\\nshowed, 405.\\nAn hour with thee When earliest day, 480.\\nAnd art thou cold and lowly laid, 205.\\nAnd be he safe restored ere evening set, 494.\\nAnd did ye not hear of a mirth befell, 413.\\nAnd Need and Misery, Vice and Danger, bind,\\n494.\\nAnd ne er but once, my son, he says, 23.\\nAnd some for safety took the dreadful leap, 503.\\nAnd what though winter will pinch severe, 430.\\nAnd when Love s torch has set the heart in\\nflame, 497.\\nAnd whither would you lead me then, 270.\\nAnd you shall deal the funeral dole, 464.\\nAnna-Marie, love, up is the sun, 452.\\nApproach the chamber, look upon his bed, 495.\\nArouse thee, youth it is no common call,\\n493.\\nArouse the tiger of Hyrcanian deserts, 495.\\nAs lords their laborers hire delay, 474.\\nAs the worn war-horse, at the trumpet s sound,\\n436.\\nAs, to the Autumn breeze s bugle-sound, 494.\\nAsk thy heart, whose secret cell, 457.\\nAssist me, ye friends of Old Books and Old\\nWine, 471.\\nAt school I knew him a sharp-witted youth,\\n497.\\nAutumn departs but still its mantle s fold,\\n313.\\nAve Maria maiden mild 180.\\nAway our journey lies through dell and dingle,\\n495.\\nAy and I taught thee the word and the spell,\\n455.\\nAy, Pedro, come you here with mask and lan-\\ntern, 498.\\nAy, sir our ancient crown, in these wild times,\\n498.\\nAy, sir, the clouted shoe hath ofttimes craft\\nin t, 500.\\nAy, this is he who wears the wreath of bays,\\n507.\\nBeggar the only freemen of your Common-\\nwealth, 492.\\nBehold the Tiber the vain Roman cried, 506.\\nBetween the foaming jaws of the white torrent,\\n507.\\nBid not thy fortune troll upon the wheels, 500.\\nBirds of omen dark and foul, 448.\\nBold knights and fair dames, to my harp give\\nan ear, 19.\\nBring the bowl which you boast, 480.\\nBut follow, follow me, 418.\\nBy pathless march, by greenwood tree, 480.\\nBy this good light, a wench of matchless metal,\\n501.\\nBy ties mysterious linked, our fated race, 457.\\nCanny moment, lucky fit, 424.\\nCan she not speak, 502.\\nCauld is my bed, Lord Archibald, 441,\\nChampion, famed for warlike toil, 465.\\nChance will not do the work, 501.\\nCh m-maid The Genman in the front parlor,\\n504.\\nCome forth, old man thy daughter s side, 505.\\nCome hither, young one Mark me Thou art\\nnow, 501.\\nCome, let me have thy council, for I need it, 504.\\nCome, Lucy, while t is morning hour, 287.\\nComplain not on me, child of clay, 457.\\nContentions fierce, 503.\\nCredit me, friend, it hath been ever thus, 501.\\nCry the wild war-nota, let the champions pass,\\n508.\\nCursed be the gold and silver which persuade,\\n506.\\nDaring youth for thee t is well, 456.\\nDark Ahriman, whom Irak still, 477.\\nDark are thy words and severe, 462.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0605.jp2"}, "604": {"fulltext": "574\\nINDEX OF FIRST LINES\\nDark on their journey loured the gloomy day,\\n494.\\nDark shall be light, 425.\\nDear John, I some time ago wrote to inform\\nhis, 475.\\nDeath distant No, alas he s ever with us,\\n498.\\nDeath finds us mid our play-things snatches\\nus, 501.\\nDeeds are done on earth, 506.\\nDim burns the once bright star of Avenel, 457.\\nDinas Emlinn, lament for the moment is nigh,\\n399.\\nDire was his thought who first in poison steeped,\\n493.\\nDonald Caird s come again, 440.\\nDust unto dust, 453.\\nDwellers of the mountain, rise, 461.\\nEmblem of England s ancient faith, 417.\\nEnchantress, farewell, who so oft has decoyed\\nme, 467.\\nFair Brussels, thou art far behind, 363.\\nFair is the damsel, passing fair, 506.\\nFar as the eye could reach no tree was seen, 494 P\\nFar in the bosom of the deep, 410.\\nFare thee well, thou Holly green 458.\\nFarewell farewell the voice you hear, 404.\\nFarewell, merry maidens, to song and to laugh,\\n463.\\nFarewell to Mackenneth, great Earl of the\\nNorth, 419.\\nFarewell to Northmaven, 460.\\nFarewell to the land where the clouds love to\\nrest, 494.\\nFathoms deep beneath the wave, 461.\\nFearest thou to go with me 456.\\nFor all our men were very very merry, 473.\\nFor leagues along the watery way, 461.\\nForget thee No my worthy fere 481.\\nFortune, my Foe, why dost thou frown on me\\n488.\\nFortune, you say, flies from us She but circles,\\n493.\\nFrederick leaves the land of France, 25.\\nFrom heavy dreams fair Helen rose, 1.\\nFrom the brown crest of Newark its summons\\nextending, 424.\\nFrom thy Pomeranian throne, 380.\\nGentle sir, You are our captive, 504.\\nGive me a morsel on the greensward rather, 497.\\nGive us good voyage, gentle stream we stun\\nnot, 501.\\nGive way give way I must and will have\\njustice, 501.\\nGlowing with love, on fire for fame, 423.\\nGod protect brave Alexander, 428.\\nGood even, good fair moon, good even to thee,\\n441.\\nGood evening, Sir Priest, and so late as you\\nride, 454.\\nGo sit old Cheviot s crest below, 25.\\nHail to the Chief who in triumph advances\\n168.\\nHail to thy cold and clouded beam, 239.\\nHappy thou art then happy be, 494.\\nHark I the bells summon and the bugle calls,\\n498.\\nHark to the insult loud, the bitter sneer, 500.\\nHarp of the North, farewell The hills grow\\ndark, 208.\\nHarp of the North that mouldering long hast\\nhung, 156.\\nHawk and osprey screamed for joy, 382.\\nHe came amongst them like a new-raised spirit,\\n503.\\nHe came but valor had so fired his eye, 429.\\nHe is- gone on the mountain, 177.\\nHe strikes no coin, tis true, but coins new\\nphrases, 496.\\nHe was a fellow in a peasant s garb, 502.\\nHe was a man Versed in the world as pilot in\\nhis compass, 498.\\nHe was a son of Egypt, as he told me, 503.\\nHe, whose heart for vengeance sued, 458.\\nHealth to the chieftain from his clansman true\\n411.\\nHear what Highland Nora said, 427.\\nHeaven knows its time the bullet has its billet,\\n508.\\nHeir lyeth John o ye Girnell, 429.\\nHenry and King Pedro clasping, 487.\\nHere come we to our close for that which fol-\\nlows, 504.\\nHere has been such a stormy encounter, 492.\\nHere is a father now, 494.\\nHere lies the volume thou hast boldly sought.\\n456.\\nHere lyes ane saint to prelates surly, 431.\\nHere s a weapon now, 507.\\nHere stand I tight and trim, 503.\\nHere stands the victim there the proud be-\\ntrayer, 499.\\nHere we have one head, 506.\\nHere, youth, thy foot unbrace, 507.\\nHie away, hie away, 414.\\nHigh deeds achieved of knightly fame, 449.\\nHigh feasting was there there the gilded\\nroofs, 503.\\nHigh o er the eastern steep the sun is beaming,\\n499.\\nHis talk was of another world his bodements,\\n508.\\nHither we come, 487.\\nHold fast thy truth, young soldier Gentle\\nmaiden, 503.\\nHow fares the man on whom good men would\\nlook, 501.\\nI asked of my harp, Who hath injured thy\\nchords 476.\\nI beseech you, 494.\\nI climbed the dark brow of the mighty Hell-\\nveUyn, 38.\\nI do love these ancient ruins, 499.\\nI fear the devil worst when gown and cassock,\\n502.\\nI glance like the wildfire thro country and town,\\n440.\\nI knew AnselmOo He was shrewd and prudent,\\n492.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0606.jp2"}, "605": {"fulltext": "INDEX OF FIRST LINES\\n575\\nI 11 give thee, good fellow, a twelvemonth or\\ntwain, 450.\\nI 11 walk on tiptoe arm my eye with caution,\\n496.\\nI m Madge of the country, I m Madge of the\\ntown, 441.\\nI see thee yet, fair France thou favored land,\\n503.\\nI strive like to the vessel in the tide-way, 499.\\nI was a wild and wayward boy, 267.\\nI was one, 506.\\nIf you fail honor here, 492.\\nIll fares the bark with tackle riven, 383.\\nIn awful ruins iEtna thunders nigh, 491.\\nIn Madoc s tent the clarion sounds, 504.\\nIn some breasts passion lies concealed and silent,\\n498.\\nIn the bonny cells of Bedlam, 441.\\nIn the wide pile, by others heeded not, 493.\\nIn the wild storm The seaman hews his mast\\ndown, 497.\\nIn yon lone vale bis early youth was bred, 495.\\nIndifferent, but indifferent pshaw he doth\\nit not, 496.\\nIs this thy castle, Baldwin Melancholy, 495.\\nIt chanced that Cupid on a season, 423.\\nIt comes it wrings me in my parting hour, 504.\\nIt is and is not t is the thing I sought for,\\n497.\\nIt is not texts will do it Church artillery, 497.\\nIt is the bonny butcher lad, 441.\\nIt is time of danger, not of revel, 498.\\nIt s up Glembarchan s braes I gaed, 414.\\nIt was a little naughty page, 9.\\nIt was an English ladye bright, 76.\\nIt was Dunois, the young and brave, was bound\\nfor Palestine, 423.\\nJoy to the victors, the sons of old Aspen, 10.\\nLate, when the autumn evening fell, 414.\\nLaw, take thy victim May she find the\\nmercy, 494.\\nLet the proud salmon gorge the feathered hook,\\n501.\\nLet those go see who will I like it not, 493.\\nLife ebbs from such old age, unmarked and si-\\nlent, 493.\\nLife hath its May, and all is mirthful then, 497.\\nLife, with you, Glows in the brain and dances\\nin the arteries, 492.\\nLives there a strain whose sounds of mounting\\nfire, 210.\\nLook not thou on beauty s charming, 448.\\nLook on my girdle on this thread of gold, 457.\\nLook round thee, young Astolpho Here s the\\nplace, 493.\\nLord William was born in gilded bower, 377.\\nLoud o er my head though awful thunders roll,\\n491.\\nLove wakes and weeps, 464.\\nLo where he lies embalmed in gore, 506.\\nMacleod s wizard flag from the gray castle sal-\\nlies, 439.\\nMaiden whose sorrows wail the Living Dead,\\n458.\\nMany a fathom dark and deep, 456.\\nMany great ones Would part with half their\\nsta,tes, 492.\\nMarch, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale, 453.\\nMarry, come up, sir, with your gentle blood,\\n502.\\nMeasurers of good and evil, 483.\\nMenseful maiden ne er should rise, 465.\\nMerrily swim we, the moon shines bright, 453.\\nMerry it is in the good greenwood, 184.\\nMid these wild scenes Enchantment waves her\\nhands, 505.\\nMortal warp and mortal woof, 456.\\nMother darksome, Mother dread, 462.\\nMust we then sheath our still victorious sword,\\n505.\\nMy hawk is tired of perch and hood, 206.\\nMy hounds may a rin masterless, 493.\\nMy tongue pads slowly under this new language,\\n506.\\nMy wayward fate I needs must plain, 404.\\nNay, dally not with time, the wise man s trea-\\nsure, 496.\\nNay, hear me, brother I am elder, wiser, 497.\\nNay, let me have the friends who eat my vict-\\nuals, 496.\\nNearest of blood should still be next in love,\\n504. m\\nNecessity thou best of peace-makers, 502.\\nNight and morning were at meeting, 421.\\nNo human quality is so well wove, 503.\\nNo, sir, I will not pledge I m one of those,\\n502.\\nNorman saw on English oak, 450.\\nNot faster yonder rowers might, 164.\\nNot serve two masters Here s a youth will\\ntry it, 498.\\nNot the wild billow, when it breaks its barrier,\\n497.\\nNovember s hail-cloud drifts away, 449.\\nNovember s sky is chill and drear, 88.\\nNow, all ye ladies of fair Scotland, 504.\\nNow bid the steeple rock she comes, she\\ncomes, 498.\\nNow, by Our Lady, Sheriff, t is hard reckoning,\\n496.\\nNow choose thee, gallant, betwixt wealth and\\nhonor, 496.\\nNow fare thee well, my master, if true service,\\n498.\\nNow God be good to me in this wild pilgrimage,\\n498.\\nNow, hoist the anchor, mates and let the sails,\\n502.\\nNow let us sit in conclave. That these weeds,\\n496.\\nNow on my faith this gear is all entangled, 497.\\nNow Scot and English are agreed, 500.\\nO ay the Monks, the Monks, they did the\\nmischief 495.\\nO, Brignall banks are wild and fair, 250.\\nO, dread was the time, and more dreadful the\\nomen, 409.\\nO for a draught of power to steep, 506.\\nO for a glance of that gay Muse s eye, 431.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0607.jp2"}, "606": {"fulltext": "576\\nINDEX OF FIRST LINES\\nO for the voice of that wild horn, 438.\\nO hone a rie O hone a rie 11.\\nO, hush thee, my Tbabie, thy sire was a knight,\\n425.\\n0, I do know him t is the mouldy lemon, 500.\\nO, lady, twine no wreath for me, 266.\\nO listen, listen, ladies gay 78.\\nO, lovers eyes are sharp to see, 401.\\nO, low shone the sun on the fair lake of Toro,\\n400.\\nO Maid of Isla from the cliff, 467.\\nO, open the door, some pity to show, 400.\\nO, sadly shines the morning sun, 504.\\nO, say not, my love, with that mortified air, 404.\\nO sleep ye sound, Sir James, she said, 440.\\nO, tell me, Harper, wherefore flow, 409.\\nO, thus it was he loved him dear, 506.\\nO, who rides by night thro the woodland so\\nwild? 8.\\nO, will you hear a knightly tale of old Bohemian\\nday, 444.\\nO, will ye hear a mirthful bourd 29.\\nOf all the birds on bush or tree, 459.\\nOf yore, in old England, it was not thought\\ngood, 474.\\nOh, I m come to the Low Country, 481.\\nOh young Lochinvar is come out of the west,\\n130.\\nOh! you would be a vestal maid, I warrant,\\n504.\\nOn Ettrick Forest s mountains dun, 467.\\nOn Hallow-Mass Eve, ere you boune ye to rest,\\n415.\\nOnce again, but how changed since my wan-\\nderings began, 425.\\nOne thing is certain in our Northern land, 505.\\nOur counsels waver like the unsteady bark, 503.\\nOur vicar still preaches that Peter and Poule,\\n200.\\nOur work is over over now, 441.\\nOver the mountains and under the waves, 500.\\nPainters show Cupid blind hath Hymen eyes\\n503.\\nParental love, my friend, has power o er wisdom,\\n500.\\nPibroch of Donuil Dhu, 427.\\nPlain as her native dignity of mind, 447.\\nPoor sinners whom the snake deceives, 467.\\nProud Maisie is in the wood, 441.\\nQuake to your foundation deep, 310.\\nRash adventurer, bear thee back, 306.\\nRash thy deed, 456.\\nRed glows the forge in Striguil s bounds, 399.\\nRemorse she ne er forsakes us 492.\\nRescue or none, Sir Knight, I am your captive,\\n503.\\nRing out the merry bells, the bride approaches,\\n504.\\nRove not from pole to pole the man lives here,\\n501.\\nSaint Magnus control thee, 464.\\nSay not my art is fraud all live by seeming,\\n495.\\nSee the treasures Merlin piled, 307.\\nSee yonder woman, whom our swains revere,\\n499.\\nShe does no work by halves, yon raving ocean,\\n499.\\nShe may be fair, he sang, but yet, 383.\\nSince here we are set in array round the table,\\n402.\\nSir, stay at home and take an old man s counsel,\\n494.\\nSo sung the old bard in the grief of his heart,\\n419, m\\nSo, while the Goose, of whom the fable told,\\n493.\\nSoft spread the southern summer night, 420.\\nSoldier, rest thy warfare o er, 162.\\nSoldier, wake the day is peeping, 476.\\nSometimes he thinks that Heaven this vision\\nsent, 492.\\nSon of a witch, 480.\\nSon of Honor, theme of story, 309.\\nSound, sound the clarion, fill the fife 493.\\nSpeak not of niceness, when there s chance for\\nwreck, 502.\\nStaffa sprung from high Macdonald, 410.\\nStern eagle of the far Northwest, 459.\\nStern was the law which bade its votaries leave,\\n495._\\nStill in his dead hand clenched remain the\\nstrings, 492.\\nStill though the headlong cavalier, 504.\\nStrange ape of man who loathes thee while he\\nscorns thee, 508.\\nSummer eve is gone and past, 264.\\nSweet shone the sun on the fair lake of Toro,\\n10.\\nTake these flowers which, purple waving, 8.\\nTake thou no scorn, 453.\\nTell me not of it, friend when the young\\nweep, 492.\\nTell me not of it I could ne er abide, 507.\\nThat day of wrath, that dreadful day, 80.\\nThat s right, friend drive the gaitlings back,\\n472.\\nThe ashes here of murdered kings, 506.\\nThe Baron of Smaylho me rose with day, 14.\\nThe bleakest rock upon the loneliest heath, 493.\\nThe course of human life is changeful still, 502.\\nThe deadliest snakes are those which, twined\\nmongst flowers, 506.\\nThe Druid Urien had daughters seven, 388.\\nThe forest of Glenmore is drear, 37.\\nThe hearth in hall was black and dead, 494.\\nThe heath this night must be my bed, 179.\\nThe herring loves the merry moon-light, 429.\\nThe hottest horse will oft be cool, 495.\\nThe knight s to the mountain, 414.\\nThe last of our steers on the board has been\\nspread, 484.\\nThe Lord Abbot had a soul, 492.\\nThe Minstrel came once more to view, 203.\\nThe monk must arise when the matins ring, 448.\\nThe moon is in her summer glow, 231.\\nThe moon 1 s on the lake and the mist s on the\\nbrae, 428.\\nThe news has flown frae mouth to mouth, 469.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0608.jp2"}, "607": {"fulltext": "INDEX OF FIRST LINES\\n577\\nThe parties met. The wily, wordy Greek, 508.\\nThe Pope he was saying the high, high mass, 17.\\nThe rose is fairest when tis budding new, 181.\\nThe sacred tapers lights are gone, 497.\\nThe sages for authority, pray, look, 473.\\nThe sound of Rokeby s woods I hear, 269.\\nThe storm increases t is no sunny shower, 507.\\nThe sun is rising dimly red, 460.\\nThe sun upon the lake is low, 484.\\nThe sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill, 437.\\nThe tears I shed must ever fall, 505.\\nThe violet in her greenwood bower, 8.\\nThe way is long, my children, long and rough\\n508.\\nThe way was long, the wind was cold, 46.\\nThe Wildgrave winds his bugle-horn, 5.\\nThe wisest sovereigns err like private men, 499.\\nThere are times, 506.\\nThere came three merry men from south, west,\\nand north, 452.\\nThere is a mood of mind we all have known, 370.\\nThere is mist on the mountain, and night on\\nthe vale, 416.\\nThere must be government in all society 504.\\nThere s a bloodhound raging Tinwald. wood,\\n441.\\nThere s something in that ancient superstition,\\n496.\\nThese be the adept s doctrines every element,\\n507.\\nThese were wild times the antipodes of ours,\\n508.\\nThey bid me sleep, they bid me pray, 187.\\nThings needful we have thought on; but the\\nthing, 500.\\nThis is a gentle trader and a prudent, 499.\\nThis is a lecturer so skilled in policy, 503.\\nThis is a love meeting See the maiden mourns,\\n502.\\nThis is he Who rides on the court-gale, 498.\\nThis is rare news thou tell st me, my good fel-\\nlow, 498.\\nThis is some creature of the elements, 502.\\nThis is the day when the fairy kind, 456.\\nThis is the Prince of Leeches fever, plague,\\n504.\\nThis is the time Heaven s maiden sentinel,\\n501.\\nThis is the very barn-yard, 500.\\nThis, sir, is one among the Seigniory, 500.\\nThis superb successor, 507.\\nThis wandering race, severed from other men,\\n495.\\nThis was the entry, then these stairs but\\nwhither after 495.\\nThis way lie safety and a sure retreat, 501.\\nThose evening clouds, that setting ray, 491.\\nThou hast each secret of the household, Fran-\\ncis, 497.\\nThou so needful, yet so dread, 465.\\nThou who seek st my fountain lone, 458.\\nThough right be aft put down by strength, 418.\\nThrice to the holly brake, 455.\\nThrough the vain webs, which puzzle sophists\\nskill, 507.\\nThy craven fear my truth accused, 455.\\nThy hue, dear pledge, is pure and bright, 430.\\nThy time is not yet out the devil thou serv-\\nest, 503.\\nT is a weary life this 497.\\nT is not alone the scene the man, Anselmo,\\n499.\\nT is not her sense for sure, in that, 505.\\nT is strange that in the dark sulphureous mine,\\n508.\\nTis sweet to hear expiring Summer s sigh, 405.\\nT is the black ban-dog of our jail pray look\\non him, 502.\\nT is when the wound is stiffening with the cold,\\n496.\\nTo horse to horse the standard flies, 9.\\nTo man in this his trial state, 494.\\nTo the Lords of Convention t was Claver se who\\nspoke, 485.\\nTo youth, to age, alike, this tablet pale, 484.\\nToll, toll the bell 507.\\nToo much rest is rust, 504.\\nTraquair has ridden up Chapel-hope, 31.\\nTrue-love, an thou be true, 494.\\nTrue Thomas sat on Huntlie bank, 33.\\nTrust me, each state must have its policies, 495.\\nT was a Marshal of France, and he fain would\\nhonor gain, 408.\\nTwas All-souls eve, and Surrey s heart beat\\nhigh, 77.\\nTwas near the fair city of Bene vent, 478.\\nTwas time and griefs, 493.\\nT was when among our linden-trees, 442.\\nTwist ye, twine ye even so, 425.\\nUpon the Rhine, upon the Rhine they cluster,\\n507.\\nUp rose the sun o er moor and mead, 482.\\nVain man, thou mayst esteem thy love as fair,\\n507.\\nViewless Essence, thin and bare, 482.\\nWake, Maid of Lorn the moments fly, 315.\\nWaken, lords and ladies gay, 403.\\nWant you a man, 507.\\nWasted, weary, wherefore stay, 425.\\nWe are bound to drive the bullocks, 418.\\nWe are not worse at once the course of evil,\\n502.\\nWe do that in our zeal, 506.\\nWe know not when we sleep nor when we wake,\\n507.\\nWe 11 keep our customs what is law itself,\\n499.\\nWe love the shrill trumpet, we love the drum s\\nrattle, 485.\\nWe meet, as men see phantoms in a dream, 502.\\nWelcome, grave stranger, to our green retreats,\\n406.\\nWell, then, our course is chosen; spread the\\nsail 498.\\nWell, well, at worst, t is neither theft nor coin-\\nage, 493.\\nWere ever such two loving friends 506.\\nWere every hair upon his head a life, 505.\\nWhat brave chief shall head the forces, 478.\\nWhat dazzled by a flash of Cupid s mirror,\\n501.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0609.jp2"}, "608": {"fulltext": "578\\nINDEX OF FIRST LINES\\nore-\\nWhat did ye wi the bridal ring, 441.\\nWhat ho, my jovial mates! come on! we ll\\nfrolic it, 499.\\nWhat makes the troopers frozen courage mus-\\nter, 11.\\nWhat, man, ne er lack a draught when the full\\ncan, 498.\\nWhat sheeted ghost is wandering through the\\nstorm, 504.\\nWheel the wild dance, 422.\\nWhen autumn nights were long and drear, 495.\\nWhen beauty leads the lion in her toils, 505.\\nWhen friends are met o er merry cheer, 486.\\nWhen fruitful Clydesdale s apple bowers, 22.\\nWhen Israel of the Lord beloved, 451.\\nWhen princely Hamilton s abode, 26.\\nWhen Princes meet, astrologers may mark it,\\n503.\\nWhen the fight of grace is fought, 441.\\nWhen the gledd s in the blue cloud, 440.\\nWhen the heathen trumpet s clang, 438.\\nWhen the last Laird of Ravenswood to Ravens-\\nwood shall ride, 448.\\nWhen the lone pilgrim views afar, 436.\\nWhen the tempest s at the loudest, 485.\\nWhen we two meet, we meet like rushing tor-\\nrents, 506.\\nWhence the brooch of burning gold, 322.\\nWhere corpse-light, 465.\\nWhere is he Has the deep earth swallowed\\nhim? 508.\\nWhere shall the lover rest, 110.\\nWherefore come ye not to court, 500.\\nWhet the bright steel, 451.\\nWhile the dawn on the mountain was misty and\\nW^ray, 268.\\nho is he One that for the lack of land, 492.\\nWhy, now I have Dame Fortune by the fore\\nlock, 494.\\nWhy sit st thou by that ruined hall, 429\\nWhy, then, we will have bellowing of beeves,\\n502.\\nWhy weep ye by the tide, ladie 426.\\nWidowed wife and wedded maid, 477.\\nWith my curtch on my foot, and my shoe on\\nmy hand, 441.\\nWithin that awful volume lies, 455.\\nWithout a ruin, broken, tangled, cumbrous,\\n508.\\nWoe to the vanquished was stern Brenno s\\nword, 494.\\nWoman s faith, and woman s trust, 476.\\nYes I love Justice well as well as you do\\n493.\\nYes, it is she whose eyes looked on thy child-\\nhood, 498.\\nYes, life hath left him every busy thought,\\n496.\\nYes, thou mayst sigh, 482.\\nYon path of greensward, 505.\\nYou call it an ill angel it may be so, 496.\\nYou call this education, do you not, 496.\\nYou have summoned me once, you have sum-\\nmoned me twice, 458.\\nYou shall have no worse person than my cham-\\nber, 502.\\nYou talk of Gayety and Innocence, 505.\\nYoung men will love thee more fair and more\\nfast, 415.\\nYour suppliant, by name, 468.\\nYouth of the dark eye, wherefore didst thou\\ncall me 455.\\nYouth thou wear st to manhood now, 497.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0610.jp2"}, "609": {"fulltext": "INDEX OF TITLES\\n[The Titles of Major Works and General Divisions are set in small capitals]\\njbot, The, mottoes from, 497.\\ndmire not that I gained, 485.\\nbert Graeme s Song, 76.\\nexandre, M., the celebrated Ventriloquist,\\nLines addressed to, 474.\\nice Brand, 184.\\nlen-a-Dale, 254.\\nm hour with thee, 480.\\nicient Gaelic Melody, 448.\\n.nd did ye not hear of a mirth befell, 413.\\nme of Geierstein, verses from, 483 mottoes\\nTom, 506.\\nlswer to Introductory Epistle, 453.\\nitiquary, The, verses from, 429 mottoes\\n:rom, 492.\\nmeal, The, Epilogue to, 439.\\nlords their laborers hire delay, 474.\\nrenel, Mary, To, 458.\\nillads\\nAlice Brand, 184.\\nAnd whither would you lead me then, 270.\\nBattle of Sempaeh, The, 442.\\nBothwell Castle, 22.\\nCadyow Castle, 26.\\nCastle of the Seven Shields, The, 388.\\nChristie s Will, 30.\\nErl-King, The, 8.\\nEve of St. John, The, 14.\\nFire-King, The, 19.\\nFrederick and Alice, 25.\\nGlenfmlas, 11.\\nGray Brother, The, 17.\\nNoble Moringer, The, 444.\\nReiver s Wedding, The, 29.\\nShepherd s Tale, The, 23.\\nThe herring loves the merry moon-light,\\n429.\\nThomas the Rhymer, 32.\\nWild Huntsman, The, 5.\\nWilliam and Helen, 1.\\nLLLADS FROM THE GERMAN OF BtTRGER,\\nTwo, 1.\\n.nnatyne Club, The, 471.\\n,rd s Incantation, The, 37.\\n-refooted Friar, The, 450.\\nttle of Beal an Duine, 203.\\n,ttle of Sempaeh, The, 442.\\ntrothed, The, songs from, 476 mottoes from,\\n.04.\\nick Dwarf, The, mottoes from, 493.\\nick Knight and Wamba, The, 452.\\n)ody Vest, The, 478.\\nBoat Song, 168.\\nBold Dragoon, The, 408.\\nBonny Dundee, 485.\\nBorder Song, 453.\\nBothwell Castle, 22.\\nBridal of Triermain, The, 283.\\nBride of Lammermoor, The, songs from, 448\\nmottoes from, 494.\\nBrooch of Lorn, The, 322.\\nBryce Snailsfoot s Advertisement, 467.\\nBuccleuch, Duke of, To his Grace the, 411.\\nBurger, Two Ballads from the German\\nof, 1.\\nBut foUow, follow me, 418.\\nBy pathless march, by greenwood tree, 480.\\nCadyow Castle, 26.\\nCanny moment, lucky fit, 424.\\nCarle, now the king s come, 469.\\nCastle Dangerous, mottoes from, 508.\\nCastle of the Seven Shields, The, 388.\\nCatch of Cowley s altered, A, 473.\\nCavalier, The, 268.\\nCheviot, 25.\\nChristie s Will, 30.\\nChronicles of the Canon-Gate, verses from,\\n481 mottoes from, 506.\\nCleveland s Songs, 464.\\nCoronach, 177.\\nCoronach, Lord Ronald s, 11.\\nCount Robert of Paris, mottoes from, 507.\\nCounty Guy, 472.\\nCrusader s Return, The, 449.\\nCypress Wreath, The, 266.\\nDance of Death, The, 421.\\nDark Ahriman, whom Irak still, 477.\\nDark shall be light, 425.\\nDead, Hymn for the, 80.\\nDeath Chant, 481.\\nDeath of Don Pedro, The, 487.\\nDeath of Keeldar, The, 482.\\nDe Wilton s History, 141.\\n1 Donald Caird s Come Again, 440.\\nDon Roderick, The Vision of, 208.\\nDoom of Devorgoil, Songs from the, 484.\\nDying Bard, The, 399.\\nEarly Ballads and Lyrics, 7.\\nEdward the Black Prince, To the Memory of,\\n438.\\nEpilogue The sages for authority, pray,\\nlook 473.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0611.jp2"}, "610": {"fulltext": "5 8o\\nINDEX OF TITLES\\nEpilogue to The Appeal, 439.\\nEpilogue to the Drama founded on Saint Ro-\\nnan s Well, 472.\\nEpitaph designed for a monument in Lichfield\\nCathedral, 405.\\nEpitaph Heir lyeth John o ye Girnell 429.\\nEpitaph on Balfour of Burley, 430.\\nEpitaph on Mrs. Erskine, 447.\\nErl-King, The, 8.\\nEve of St. John, The, 14.\\nFair Maid of Perth, The, verses from, 481\\nmottoes from, 506.\\nFamily Legend, The, Prologue to, 405.\\nFarewell, The, 269.\\nFarewell to Mackenzie, 419.\\nFarewell to the Muse, 467.\\nField of Waterloo, The, 362.\\nFire-King, The, 19.\\nFishermen s Song, The, 463.\\nFitztraver s Song, 77.\\nFlora Maclvor s Song, 416.\\nFor a That an a That, 418.\\nForay, The, 484.\\nFording the River, 453.\\nFortune, Lines on, 487.\\nFortunes of Nigel, The, lines from, 468 mot-\\ntoes from, 500.\\nFrederick and Alice, 25.\\nFrom Virgil, a translation, 491.\\nFuneral Hymn, 453.\\nGaelic Melody, Ancient, 448.\\nGlee for King Charles, 480.\\nGlee-Maiden, Song of the, 482.\\nGleneoe, On the Massacre of, 409.\\nGlendinning, Edward, To, 458.\\nGlenfinlas, 11.\\nGoetz von Berlichingen, Song from, 9.\\nGoldthred s Song, 459.\\nGray Brother, The, 17.\\nGuy Mannering, songs from, 424.\\nHalhert, To, 455, 456.\\nHalhert s Incantation, 455.\\nHalcro and Noma, 462.\\nHalcro s Song, 460.\\nHalcro s Verses, 464.\\nHarold s Song, 78.\\nHarold Harf ager s Song, 460.\\nHarold the Dauntless, 369.\\nHarp, The, 267.\\nHe came, but valor had so fired his eye, 429.\\nHealth to Lord Melville, 402.\\nHeart of Midlothian, The, songs from, 440;\\nmottoes from, 494.\\nHellvellyn, 37.\\n1 Hie away, hie away, 414.\\nHither we come, 487.\\nHost s Tale, The, 112.\\nHour with Thee, An, 480.\\nHouse of Aspen, The, songs from, 10.\\nHunting Song, 403.\\nHymns\\nFuneral, 453.\\nfor the Dead, 80.\\nRebecca s, 451.\\nHymn to the Virgin, 180.\\nI asked of my harp, 476.\\nImitation (of the Farewell to Mackenzie)\\n419.\\nImprisoned Huntsman, Lay of the, 206.\\nInscription for the Monument of the Rev.\\nGeorge Scott, 484.\\nInvocation, 380.\\nIt chanced that Cupid on a season, 423.\\nIt s up Glembarchan s braes I gaed, 414.\\nIvanhoe, verses from, 449 mottoes from, 495.\\nJock of Hazeldean, 426.\\nJuvenile Lines, 491.\\nKenilworth, song from, 459 mottoes from,\\n498.\\nKemble s, Mr., Farewell Address, 436.\\nLady of the Lake, The, 152.\\nLady, To a, 8.\\nLament, 205.\\nLate, when the autumn evening fell, 414.\\nLay of Poor Louise, The, 481.\\nLay of the Imprisoned Huntsman, 206.\\nLay of the Last Minstrel, The, 39.\\nLegend of Montrose, The, songs from, 448;\\nmottoes from, 494.\\nLetter in verse, 410.\\nLines addressed to M. Alexandre the cele-\\nbrated ventriloquist, 474 addressed to Ra-\\nnald Macdonald, Esq., of Staffa, 410 on\\nFortune, 487; to Sir Cuthbert Sharp, 480;\\nwritten for Miss Smith, 436.\\nLochinvar, 130.\\nLockhart, Esq., J. G\u00e2\u0080\u009e To, 474.\\nLook not thou on beauty s charming, 448.\\nLord of the Isles, The, 312.\\nLord Ronald s Coronach, 11.\\nLullaby of an Infant Chief, 425.\\nLyulph s Tale, 290.\\nMacdonald, Ronald, Esq., of Staffa, Lines ad-\\ndressed to, 410.\\nMaeGregor s Gathering, 428.\\nMackenzie, Farewell to, 419.\\nMackrimmon s Lament, 439.\\nMadge Wildfire s Songs, 440.\\nMaid of Isla, The, 467.\\nMaid of Neidpath, The, 401.\\nMaid of Toro, The, 400.\\nMarmion, 81.\\nMassacre of Gleneoe, On the, 409.\\nMelville, Lord, Health to, 402.\\nMermaids and Mermen s Song, 461.\\nMiscellaneous Poems, 398.\\nMonastery, The, verses from, 453; mottoes\\nfrom, 495.\\nMonks of Bangor s March, The, 438.\\nMoon, Song to the, 239.\\nMortham s History, 259.\\nMottoes from the Novels, 491.\\nNigel s Initiation at Whitefriars, 468.\\nNoble Moringer, The, 444.\\nNora s Vow, 427.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0612.jp2"}, "611": {"fulltext": "INDEX OF TITLES 581\\nNorman Horse-Shoe, The, 399.\\nBonny Dundee, 485.\\nNorman saw on English Oak, 450.\\nBorder Song, 453.\\nBrooch of Lorn, The, 322.\\nNoma s Incantations, 465. The same, at the\\nmeeting 1 with Minna, 465.\\nBut follow, follow me, 418.\\nNoma s Verses, 461.\\nCanny moment, lucky fit, 424.\\nCatch of Cowley s altered, A, 473.\\nOak Tree, To an, 417.\\nCavalier, The, 268.\\nOld Mortality, verses from, 430 mottoes from,\\nCleveland s, 464.\\n493.\\nCoronach, 177.\\nOn a Thunder-Storm, 491.\\nCounty Guy, 472.\\nOn Ettrick Forest s Mountains Dun, 467.\\nCypress Wreath, The, 266.\\nDark shaU be light, 425.\\nOn the Massacre of Glencoe, 409.\\nOn the Setting Sun, 491.\\nDonald Caird s Come Again, 440.\\nDoom of Devorgoil, the, Songs from, 484.\\nOrphan Maid, The, 449.\\nFareweU, The, 269.\\nPalmer, The, 400.\\nFarewell to Mackenzie, 419.\\nPeveril of the Peak, mottoes from, 502.\\nFishermen s, The, 463.\\nPharos Loquitur, 410.\\nFitztraver s, 77.\\nPihroch of Donald Dhu, 427.\\nFlora Maclvor s, 416.\\nPirate, The, verses from, 459 mottoes from,\\nFor a That an a That, 418.\\n499.\\nFor the Anniversary of the Pitt Club of\\nPoacher, The, 406.\\nScotland, 409.\\nPostscriptum, 412.\\nGlee for King Charles, 480.\\nGlee-Maiden s, 482.\\nPrologue to Miss Baillie s Play of The Family\\nLegend, 405.\\nGod protect brave Alexander, 428.\\nGoetz von Berlichingen, from, 9.\\nQuentin Durward, mottoes from, 503.\\nGoldthred s, 459.\\nQuest of Sultaun Solimaun, The, 431.\\nHalcro s, 460.\\nHarold s, 78.\\nRebecca s Hymn, 451.\\nHarold Harfager s, 460.\\nRedgauntlet, verses from, 473.\\nHarp, The, 267.\\nReiver s Wedding, The, 29.\\nHawk and osprey screamed for joy, 382.\\nHealth to Lord Melville, 402.\\nResolve, The, 404.\\nReturn to Ulster, The, 425.\\nHie away, hie away, 414.\\nHighland Widow, The, from, 481.\\nRhein-Wein Lied, 11.\\nRob Roy, song from, 438 mottoes from, 493.\\nHither we come, 487.\\nRokeby, 226.\\nHouse of Aspen, Songs from the, 10.\\nRomance of Dunois, 423.\\nHunting Song, 403.\\nI asked of my harp, 476.\\nSaint Cloud, 420.\\n111 fares the bark with tackle riven, 383.\\nSaint Ronan s Well, mottoes from, 504.\\nIt s up Glembarchan s braes I gaed, 414.\\nSt. Swithin s Chair, 415.\\nJoy to the victors, the sons of old Aspen,\\nScott, Rev. George, Inscription for the Monu-\\n10.\\nment of, 484.\\nLament, 205.\\nSearch after Happiness, The, 431.\\nLament, Mackrimmon s, 439.\\nSecret Tribunal, The, 483.\\nLay of Poor Louise, The, 481.\\nSempaeh, The Battle of, 442.\\nLay of the imprisoned huntsman, 206.\\nSetting Sun, On the, 491.\\nLochinvar, Lady Heron s Song, 130.\\nSharp, Sir Cuthbert, Lines to, 480.\\nLook not thou on beauty s charming, 448.\\nShepherd s Tale, The, 23.\\nLord William was born in gilded bower,\\nSir David Lindesay s Tale, 120.\\n377.\\nSmith, Miss, Lines written for, 436.\\nLullaby of an Infant Chief, 425.\\nSoldier, wake 476.\\nMacgregor s Gathering, 428.\\nSoldier s Song, 200.\\nMadge Wildfire s, 440.\\nSon of a Witch, 480.\\nMaid of Isla, The, 467.\\nSongs\\nMaid of Neidpath, The, 401.\\nA weary lot is thine, fair maid, 253.\\nMaid of Toro, The, 400.\\nAdmire not that I gained the prize, 485.\\nMermaids and Mermen, of the, 461.\\nAlbert Gramme s, 76.\\nMonks of Bangor s March, The, 438.\\nAllen-a-Dale, 254.\\nMoon, To the, 239.\\nAncient Gaelic Melody, 448.\\nNora s Vow, 427.\\nAnd did ye not hear of a mirth befell,\\nNot faster yonder rower]s might, 164.\\n413.\\nO, Brignall banks are wild and fair, 250.\\nBattle of Beal an Duine, 203.\\nO for the voice of that wild horn, 438.\\nBlack Knight and Wamba, The, 452.\\nO, say not, my love, with that mortified\\nBoat Song, 168.\\nair, 404.\\nBold Dragoon, The, 408.\\nOld Song, 481.", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0613.jp2"}, "612": {"fulltext": "5*2\\n5 9W3\\nINDEX OF TITLES #^p\\nV2\\nOn the Lifting of the Banner of the House\\nof Bueeleuch, 424.\\nOrphan Maid, The, 449.\\nPalmer, The, 400.\\nPibroch of Donald Dhu, 427.\\nQuake to your foundation deep, 310.\\nRash adventurer, hear thee back, 306.\\nRhein-Wein Lied, 11.\\nSt. Swithin s Chair, 415.\\nSee the treasure Merlin piled, 307.\\nShe may be fair, he sang, but yet, 383.\\nSoldier, rest thy warfare o er, 162.\\nSoldier, wake 476.\\nSoldier s, 200.\\nSon of Honor, theme of story, 309.\\nSummer eve is gone and past, 264.\\nSun upon the Lake, The, 484.\\nSun upon the Weirdlaw Hill, The, 437.\\nSweet shone the sun on the fair lake of\\nToro, 10.\\nTempest, Song of the, 459.\\nThe heath this night must be my bed,\\n179.\\nThe knight s to the mountain, 414.\\nThe monk must arise when the matins\\nring, 448.\\nThey bid me sleep, they bid me pray, 187.\\nTwist ye, twine ye even so, 425.\\nWake, Maid of Lorn, 315.\\nWandering Willie, 401.\\nWar-Song, 450.\\nWar-Song of Lachlan, 420.\\nWar-Song of the Royal Edinburgh Light\\nDragoons, 9.\\nWasted, weary, wherefore stay, 425.\\nWe are bound to drive the bullocks, 418.\\nWe love the shrill trumpet, 485.\\nWheel the wild dance, 422.\\nWhen friends are met, 486.\\nWhen the last Laird of Ravenswood to\\nRavenswood shall ride, 448.\\nWhen the tempest, 485.\\nWhere shall the lover rest, 110.\\nWhite Lady of Avenel, of the, 453.\\nWidowed wife and wedded maid, 477.\\nWoman s faith, 476.\\nYoung men will love thee more fair and\\nmore fast 415.\\nSun upon the Lake, The, 484.\\nSun upon the Weirdlaw Hill, The, 437.\\nTalisman, The, verses from, 477 mottoes from,\\n504.\\nTempest, Song of the, 459.\\nThe herring loves the merry moon-light, 429.\\nThe Knight s to the mountain, 414.\\nThe monk must arise when the matins x\\\\xm\\n448. 5\\nThomas the Rhymer, 32.\\nThou, so needful, yet so dread, 465.\\nThunder-Storm, On a, 491,\\nTo a Lady, 8.\\nTo an Oak Tree, 417.\\nTo Edward Glendinniug, 458.\\nTo Halbert (The White Maid of Avenel), 455.\\nTo his Grace the Duke of Bueeleuch, 411.\\nTo J. G. Lockhart, Esq., 474.\\nTo Mary Avenel, 458.\\nTo the Memory of Edward the Black Princ\\n438.\\nTo the Sub-Prior, 454.\\nTrlermain, The Bridal, of, 283.\\nTroubadour, The, 423.\\nTwist ye, twine ye even so, 425.\\nVerses found, with a lock of hair, in Bothwell\\npocket-book, 430.\\nVerses sung at the dinner to the Granddul\\nNicholas, 428.\\nViolet, The, 7.\\nVirgil, a translation from, 491.\\nVirgin, Hymn to the, 180.\\nVision of Don Roderick, The, 208.\\nWandering Willie, 401.\\nWar-Song, 450.\\nWar-Song of Lachlan, 420.\\nWar-Song of the Royal Edinburgh Light Dr|\\ngoons, 9.\\nWasted, weary, wherefore stay, 425.\\nWaterloo, The Fleld of, 362.\\nWaverley, songs and verses from, 413.\\nWe are bound to drive the bullocks, 418.\\nWe love the shrill trumpet, 485.\\nWhat brave chief shall head the forces, 471\\nWhen friends are met, 486.\\nWhen the last Laird of Ravenswood to Ravei\\nwood shall ride, 448.\\nWhen the tempest, 485.\\nWhite Lady s Farewell, The, 458.\\nWhite Lady of Avenel, Songs of the, 453.\\nWhy sit st thou by that ruined hall, 429.\\nWidowed wife and wedded maid, 477.\\nWild Huntsman, The, 5.\\nWilliam and Helen, 1.\\nWoman s Faith, 476.\\nWoodstock, verses from, 480 mottoes from, 5(\\nYoung men will love thee more fair and mc\\nfast, 415.\\n^A*^", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0614.jp2"}, "613": {"fulltext": "", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0615.jp2"}, "614": {"fulltext": "", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0616.jp2"}, "615": {"fulltext": "", "height": "3815", "width": "2485", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0617.jp2"}, "616": {"fulltext": "JgHft\\nLIBRARY OF CONGRESS\\n014 528 789 3\\n839\u00e2\u0084\u00a2", "height": "4250", "width": "2858", "jp2-path": "completepoetical00sco_0618.jp2"}}