Walter Scott - The Complete Poems of Sir Walter Scott

Dream conquest sure, or cheaply bought!

Lord Marmion, I say nay:

God is the guider of the field,

He breaks the champion’s spear and shield -

But thou thyself shalt say,

When joins yon host in deadly stowre,

That England’s dames must weep in bower,

Her monks the death-mass sing;

For never saw’st thou such a power

Led on by such a king.”

And now, down winding to the plain,

The barriers of the camp they gain,

And there they made a stay.

There stays the minstrel, till he fling

His hand o’er every Border string,

And fit his harp the pomp to sing,

Of Scotland’s ancient court and king,

In the succeeding lay.

To GEORGE ELLIS, ESQ. Edinburgh.

Table of Contents

When dark December glooms the day,

And takes our autumn joys away;

When short and scant the sunbeam throws,

Upon the weary waste of snows,

A cold and profitless regard,

Like patron on a needy bard,

When silvan occupation’s done,

And o’er the chimney rests the gun,

And hang, in idle trophy, near,

The game-pouch, fishingrod, and spear;

When wiry terrier, rough and grim,

And greyhound, with his length of limb,

And pointer, now employed no more,

Cumber our parlour’s narrow floor;

When in his stall the impatient steed

Is long condemned to rest and feed;

When from our snow-encircled home,

Scarce cares the hardiest step to roam,

Since path is none, save that to bring

The needful water from the spring;

When wrinkled news-page, thrice conned o’er,

Beguiles the dreary hour no more,

And darkling politican, crossed

Inveighs against the lingering post,

And answering housewife sore complains

Of carriers’ snow-impeded wains;

When such the country cheer, I come,

Well pleased, to seek our city home;

For converse, and for books, to change

The Forest’s melancholy range,

And welcome, with renewed delight,

The busy day and social night.

Not here need my desponding rhyme

Lament the ravages of time,

As erst by Newark’s riven towers,

And Ettrick stripped of forest bowers.

True—Caledonia’s Queen is changed,

Since on her dusky summit ranged,

Within its steepy limits pent,

By bulwark, line, and battlement,

And flanking towers, and laky flood,

Guarded and garrisoned she stood,

Denying entrance or resort,

Save at each tall embattled port;

Above whose arch, suspended, hung

Portcullis spiked with iron prong.

That long is gone,—but not so long,

Since, early closed, and opening late,

Jealous revolved the studded gate,

Whose task, from eve to morning tide,

A wicket churlishly supplied.

Stern then, and steel-girt was thy brow,

Dunedin! Oh, how altered now,

When safe amid thy mountain court

Thou sitt’st, like empress at her sport,

And liberal, unconfined, and free,

Flinging thy white arms to the sea,

For thy dark cloud, with umbered lower,

That hung o’er cliff, and lake, and tower,

Thou gleam’st against the western ray

Ten thousand lines of brighter day.

Not she, the championess of old,

In Spenser’s magic tale enrolled,

She for the charmed spear renowned,

Which forced each knight to kiss the ground -

Not she more changed, when, placed at rest,

What time she was Malbecco’s guest,

She gave to flow her maiden vest;

When from the corslet’s grasp relieved,

Free to the sight her bosom heaved;

Sweet was her blue eye’s modest smile,

Erst hidden by the aventayle;

And down her shoulders graceful rolled

Her locks profuse, of paly gold.

They who whilom, in midnight fight,

Had marvelled at her matchless might,

No less her maiden charms approved,

But looking liked, and liking loved.

The sight could jealous pangs beguile,

And charm Malbecco’s cares a while;

And he, the wandering squire of dames,

Forgot his Columbella’s claims,

And passion, erst unknown, could gain

The breast of blunt Sir Satyrane;

Nor durst light Paridel advance,

Bold as he was, a looser glance.

She charmed at once, and tamed the heart,

Incomparable Britomarte!

So thou, fair city! disarrayed

Of battled wall, and rampart’s aid,

As stately seem’st, but lovelier far

Than in that panoply of war.

Nor deem that from thy fenceless throne

Strength and security are flown;

Still as of yore Queen of the North!

Still canst thou send thy children forth.

Ne’er readier at alarm-bell’s call

Thy burghers rose to man thy wall,

Than now, in danger, shall be thine,

Thy dauntless voluntary line;

For fosse and turret proud to stand,

Their breasts the bulwarks of the land.

Thy thousands, trained to martial toil,

Full red would stain their native soil,

Ere from thy mural crown there fell

The slightest knosp or pinnacle.

And if it come—as come it may,

Dunedin! that eventful day -

Renowned for hospitable deed,

That virtue much with Heaven may plead

In patriarchal times whose care

Descending angels deigned to share;

That claim may wrestle blessings down

On those who fight for the good town,

Destined in every age to be

Refuge of injured royalty;

Since first, when conquering York arose,

To Henry meek she gave repose,

Till late, with wonder, grief, and awe,

Great Bourbon’s relics, sad she saw.

Truce to these thoughts!—for, as they rise,

How gladly I avert mine eyes,

Bodings, or true or false, to change,

For Fiction’s fair romantic range,

Or for tradition’s dubious light,

That hovers ‘twixt the day and night:

Dazzling alternately and dim,

Her wavering lamp I’d rather trim,

Knights, squires, and lovely dames, to see

Creation of my fantasy,

Than gaze abroad on reeky fen,

And make of mists invading men.

Who love not more the night of June

Than dull December’s gloomy noon?

The moonlight than the fog of frost?

And can we say which cheats the most?

But who shall teach my harp to gain

A sound of the romantic strain,

Whose Anglo-Norman tones whilere

Could win the royal Henry’s ear,

Famed Beauclerc called, for that he loved

The minstrel, and his lay approved?

Who shall these lingering notes redeem,

Decaying on Oblivion’s stream;

Such notes as from the Breton tongue

Marie translated, Blondel sung?

O! born Time’s ravage to repair,

And make the dying muse thy care;

Who, when his scythe her hoary foe

Was poising for the final blow,

The weapon from his hand could wring,

And break his glass, and shear his wing,

And bid, reviving in his strain,

The gentle poet live again;

Thou, who canst give to lightest lay

An unpedantic moral gay,

Nor less the dullest theme bid flit

On wings of unexpected wit;

In letters as in life approved,

Example honoured and beloved -

Dear Ellis! to the bard impart

A lesson of thy magic art,

To win at once the head and heart -

At once to charm, instruct, and mend,

My guide, my pattern, and my friend!

Such minstrel lesson to bestow

Be long thy pleasing task—but, oh!

No more by thy example teach -

What few can practise, all can preach -

With even patience to endure

Lingering disease, and painful cure,

And boast affliction’s pangs subdued