Walter Scott - The Complete Poems of Sir Walter Scott

Ellen.

‘No, Allan, no ‘ Pretext so kind

My wakeful terrors could not blind.

When in such tender tone, yet grave,

Douglas a parting blessing gave,

The tear that glistened in his eye

Drowned not his purpose fixed and high.

My soul, though feminine and weak,

Can image his; e’en as the lake,

Itself disturbed by slightest stroke.

Reflects the invulnerable rock.

He hears report of battle rife,

He deems himself the cause of strife.

I saw him redden when the theme

Turned, Allan, on thine idle dream

Of Malcolm Graeme in fetters bound,

Which I, thou saidst, about him wound.

Think’st thou he bowed thine omen aught?

O no’ ‘t was apprehensive thought

For the kind youth,— for Roderick too—

Let me be just—that friend so true;

In danger both, and in our cause!

Minstrel, the Douglas dare not pause.

Why else that solemn warning given,

‘If not on earth, we meet in heaven!’

Why else, to Cambuskenneth’s fane,

If eve return him not again,

Am I to hie and make me known?

Alas! he goes to Scotland’s throne,

Buys his friends’ safety with his own;

He goes to do—what I had done,

Had Douglas’ daughter been his son!’

XI

‘Nay, lovely Ellen!—dearest, nay!

If aught should his return delay,

He only named yon holy fane

As fitting place to meet again.

Be sure he’s safe; and for the Graeme,—

Heaven’s blessing on his gallant name!—

My visioned sight may yet prove true,

Nor bode of ill to him or you.

When did my gifted dream beguile?

Think of the stranger at the isle,

And think upon the harpings slow

That presaged this approaching woe!

Sooth was my prophecy of fear;

Believe it when it augurs cheer.

Would we had left this dismal spot!

Ill luck still haunts a fairy spot!

Of such a wondrous tale I know—

Dear lady, change that look of woe,

My harp was wont thy grief to cheer.’

Ellen.

‘Well, be it as thou wilt;

I hear, But cannot stop the bursting tear.’

The Minstrel tried his simple art,

Rut distant far was Ellen’s heart.

XII

Ballad.

Alice Brand.

Merry it is in the good greenwood,

When the mavis and merle are singing,

When the deer sweeps by, and the hounds are in cry,

And the hunter’s horn is ringing.

‘O Alice Brand, my native land

Is lost for love of you;

And we must hold by wood and word,

As outlaws wont to do.

‘O Alice, ‘t was all for thy locks so bright,

And ‘t was all for thine eyes so blue,

That on the night of our luckless flight

Thy brother bold I slew.

‘Now must I teach to hew the beech

The hand that held the glaive,

For leaves to spread our lowly bed,

And stakes to fence our cave.

‘And for vest of pall, thy fingers small,

That wont on harp to stray,

A cloak must shear from the slaughtered deer,

To keep the cold away.’

‘O Richard! if my brother died,

‘T was but a fatal chance;

For darkling was the battle tried,

And fortune sped the lance.

‘If pall and vair no more I wear,

Nor thou the crimson sheen

As warm, we’ll say, is the russet gray,

As gay the forest-green.

‘And, Richard, if our lot be hard,

And lost thy native land,

Still Alice has her own Richard,

And he his Alice Brand.’

XIII

Ballad Continued.

‘tis merry, ‘tis merry, in good greenwood;

So blithe Lady Alice is singing;

On the beech’s pride, and oak’s brown side,

Lord Richard’s axe is ringing.

Up spoke the moody Elfin King,

Who woned within the hill,—

Like wind in the porch of a ruined church,

His voice was ghostly shrill.

‘Why sounds yon stroke on beech and oak,

Our moonlight circle’s screen?

Or who comes here to chase the deer,

Beloved of our Elfin Queen?

Or who may dare on wold to wear

The fairies’ fatal green?

‘Up, Urgan, up! to yon mortal hie,

For thou wert christened man;

For cross or sign thou wilt not fly,

For muttered word or ban.

‘Lay on him the curse of the withered heart,

The curse of the sleepless eye;

Till he wish and pray that his life would part,

Nor yet find leave to die.’

XIV

Ballad Continued.

‘Tis merry, ‘tis merry, in good greenwood,

Though the birds have stilled their singing;

The evening blaze cloth Alice raise,

And Richard is fagots bringing.

Up Urgan starts, that hideous dwarf,

Before Lord Richard stands,

And, as he crossed and blessed himself,

‘I fear not sign,’ quoth the grisly elf,

‘That is made with bloody hands.’

But out then spoke she, Alice Brand,

That woman void of fear,—

‘And if there ‘s blood upon his hand,

‘Tis but the blood of deer.’

‘Now loud thou liest, thou bold of mood!

It cleaves unto his hand,

The stain of thine own kindly blood,

The blood of Ethert Brand.’

Then forward stepped she, Alice Brand,

And made the holy sign,—

‘And if there’s blood on Richard’s hand,

A spotless hand is mine.

‘And I conjure thee, demon elf,

By Him whom demons fear,

To show us whence thou art thyself,

And what thine errand here?’

XV

Ballad Continued.

“Tis merry, ‘tis merry, in Fairyland,

When fairy birds are singing,

When the court cloth ride by their monarch’s side,

With bit and bridle ringing:

‘And gayly shines the Fairyland—

But all is glistening show,

Like the idle gleam that December’s beam

Can dart on ice and snow.

‘And fading, like that varied gleam,

Is our inconstant shape,

Who now like knight and lady seem,

And now like dwarf and ape.

‘It was between the night and day,

When the Fairy King has power,

That I sunk down in a sinful fray,

And ‘twixt life and death was snatched away

To the joyless Elfin bower.

‘But wist I of a woman bold,

Who thrice my brow durst sign,

I might regain my mortal mould,

As fair a form as thine.’

She crossed him once—she crossed him twice—

That lady was so brave;

The fouler grew his goblin hue,

The darker grew the cave.

She crossed him thrice, that lady bold;

He rose beneath her hand

The fairest knight on Scottish mould,

Her brother, Ethert Brand!

Merry it is in good greenwood,

When the mavis and merle are singing,

But merrier were they in Dunfermline gray,

When all the bells were ringing.

XVI

Just as the minstrel sounds were stayed,

A stranger climbed the steepy glade;

His martial step, his stately mien,

His hunting-suit of Lincoln green,

His eagle glance, remembrance claims—

‘Tis Snowdoun’s Knight, ‘tis James FitzJames.

Ellen beheld as in a dream,

Then, starting, scarce suppressed a scream:

‘O stranger! in such hour of fear

What evil hap has brought thee here?’

‘An evil hap how can it be

That bids me look again on thee?

By promise bound, my former guide

Met me betimes this morning-tide,

And marshalled over bank and bourne

The happy path of my return.’

‘The happy path!—what! said he naught

Of war, of battle to be fought,

Of guarded pass?’ ‘No, by my faith!

Nor saw I aught could augur scathe.’

‘O haste thee, Allan, to the kern: