Walter Scott - The Complete Poems of Sir Walter Scott

And through the passes of the wood

Guided my steps, not unpursued;

And Roderick shall his welcome make,

Despite old spleen, for Douglas’ sake.

Then must he seek Strath-Endrick glen

Nor peril aught for me again.’

XXVII

Sir Roderick, who to meet them came,

Reddened at sight of Malcolm Graeme,

Yet, not in action, word, or eye,

Failed aught in hospitality.

In talk and sport they whiled away

The morning of that summer day;

But at high noon a courier light

Held secret parley with the knight,

Whose moody aspect soon declared

That evil were the news he heard.

Deep thought seemed toiling in his head;

Yet was the evening banquet made

Ere he assembled round the flame

His mother, Douglas, and the Graeme,

And Ellen too; then cast around

His eyes, then fixed them on the ground,

As studying phrase that might avail

Best to convey unpleasant tale.

Long with his dagger’s hilt he played,

Then raised his haughty brow, and said:—

XXVIII

‘Short be my speech; — nor time affords,

Nor my plain temper, glozing words.

Kinsman and father,—if such name

Douglas vouchsafe to Roderick’s claim;

Mine honored mother;—Ellen,—why,

My cousin, turn away thine eye?—

And Graeme, in whom I hope to know

Full soon a noble friend or foe,

When age shall give thee thy command,

And leading in thy native land,—

List all!—The King’s vindictive pride

Boasts to have tamed the Border-side,

Where chiefs, with hound and trawl; who came

To share their monarch’s sylvan game,

Themselves in bloody toils were snared,

And when the banquet they prepared,

And wide their loyal portals flung,

O’er their own gateway struggling hung.

Loud cries their blood from Meggat’s mead,

From Yarrow braes and banks of Tweed,

Where the lone streams of Ettrick glide,

And from the silver Teviot’s side;

The dales, where martial clans did ride,

Are now one sheepwalk, waste and wide.

This tyrant of the Scottish throne,

So faithless and so ruthless known,

Now hither comes; his end the same,

The same pretext of sylvan game.

What grace for Highland Chiefs, judge ye

By fate of Border chivalry.

Yet more; amid Glenfinlas’ green,

Douglas, thy stately form was seen.

This by espial sure I know:

Your counsel in the streight I show.’

XXIX

Ellen and Margaret fearfully

Sought comfort in each other’s eye,

Then turned their ghastly look, each one,

This to her sire, that to her son.

The hasty color went and came

In the bold cheek of Malcohm Graeme,

But from his glance it well appeared

‘T was but for Ellen that he feared;

While, sorrowful, but undismayed,

The Douglas thus his counsel said:

‘Brave Roderick, though the tempest roar,

It may but thunder and pass o’er;

Nor will I here remain an hour,

To draw the lightning on thy bower;

For well thou know’st, at this gray head

The royal bolt were fiercest sped.

For thee, who, at thy King’s command,

Canst aid him with a gallant band,

Submission, homage, humbled pride,

Shall turn the Monarch’s wrath aside.

Poor remnants of the Bleeding Heart,

Ellen and I will seek apart

The refuge of some forest cell,

There, like the hunted quarry, dwell,

Till on the mountain and the moor

The stern pursuit be passed and o’er,’—

XXX

‘No, by mine honor,’ Roderick said,

‘So help me Heaven, and my good blade!

No, never! Blasted be yon Pine,

My father’s ancient crest and mine,

If from its shade in danger part

The lineage of the Bleeding Heart!

Hear my blunt speech: grant me this maid

To wife, thy counsel to mine aid;

To Douglas, leagued with Roderick Dhu,

Will friends and allies flock enow;

Like cause of doubt, distrust, and grief,

Will bind to us each Western Chief

When the loud pipes my bridal tell,

The Links of Forth shall hear the knell,

The guards shall start in Stirling’s porch;

And when I light the nuptial torch,

A thousand villages in flames

Shall scare the slumbers of King James!—

Nay, Ellen, blench not thus away,

And, mother, cease these signs, I pray;

I meant not all my heat might say.—

Small need of inroad or of fight,

When the sage Douglas may unite

Each mountain clan in friendly band,

To guard the passes of their land,

Till the foiled King from pathless glen

Shall bootless turn him home again.’

XXXI

There are who have, at midnight hour,

In slumber scaled a dizzy tower,

And, on the verge that beetled o’er

The ocean tide’s incessant roar,

Dreamed calmly out their dangerous dream,

Till wakened by the morning beam;

When, dazzled by the eastern glow,

Such startler cast his glance below,

And saw unmeasured depth around,

And heard unintermitted sound,

And thought the battled fence so frail,

It waved like cobweb in the gale;

Amid his senses’ giddy wheel,

Did he not desperate impulse feel,

Headlong to plunge himself below,

And meet the worst his fears foreshow?—

Thus Ellen, dizzy and astound,

As sudden ruin yawned around,

By crossing terrors wildly tossed,

Still for the Douglas fearing most,

Could scarce the desperate thought withstand,

To buy his safety with her hand.

XXXII

Such purpose dread could Malcolm spy

In Ellen’s quivering lip and eye,

And eager rose to speak,—but ere

His tongue could hurry forth his fear,

Had Douglas marked the hectic strife,

Where death seemed combating with life;

For to her cheek, in feverish flood,

One instant rushed the throbbing blood,

Then ebbing back, with sudden sway,

Left its domain as wan as clay.

‘Roderick, enough! enough!’ he cried,

‘My daughter cannot be thy bride;

Not that the blush to wooer dear,

Nor paleness that of maiden fear.

It may not be,—forgive her,

Chief, Nor hazard aught for our relief.

Against his sovereign, Douglas ne’er

Will level a rebellious spear.

‘T was I that taught his youthful hand

To rein a steed and wield a brand;

I see him yet, the princely boy!

Not Ellen more my pride and joy;

I love him still, despite my wrongs

By hasty wrath and slanderous tongues.

O. seek the grace you well may find,

Without a cause to mine combined!’

XXXIII

Twice through the hall the Chieftain strode;

The waving of his tartars broad,

And darkened brow, where wounded pride

With ire and disappointment vied

Seemed, by the torch’s gloomy light,

Like the ill Demon of the night,

Stooping his pinions’ shadowy sway

Upon the righted pilgrim’s way:

But, unrequited Love! thy dart

Plunged deepest its envenomed smart,

And Roderick, with thine anguish stung,

At length the hand of Douglas wrung,

While eyes that mocked at tears before

With bitter drops were running o’er.

The death-pangs of long-cherished hope

Scarce in that ample breast had scope

But, struggling with his spirit proud,

Convulsive heaved its checkered shroud,

While every sob—so mute were all

Was heard distinctly through the ball.

The son’s despair, the mother’s look,

III might the gentle Ellen brook;