Walter Scott - The Complete Poems of Sir Walter Scott

Yonder his tartars I discern;

Learn thou his purpose, and conjure

That he will guide the stranger sure!—

What prompted thee, unhappy man?

The meanest serf in Roderick’s clan

Had not been bribed, by love or fear,

Unknown to him to guide thee here.’

XVII

‘Sweet Ellen, dear my life must be,

Since it is worthy care from thee;

et life I hold but idle breath

When love or honor’s weighed with death.

Then let me profit by my chance,

And speak my purpose bold at once.

I come to bear thee from a wild

Where ne’er before such blossom smiled,

By this soft hand to lead thee far

From frantic scenes of feud and war.

Near Bochastle my horses wait;

They bear us soon to Stirling gate.

I’ll place thee in a lovely bower,

I’ll guard thee like a tender flower—’

‘O hush, Sir Knight! ‘t were female art,

To say I do not read thy heart;

Too much, before, my selfish ear

Was idly soothed my praise to hear.

That fatal bait hath lured thee back,

In deathful hour, o’er dangerous track;

And how, O how, can I atone

The wreck my vanity brought on!—

One way remains—I’ll tell him all—

Yes! struggling bosom, forth it shall!

Thou, whose light folly bears the blame,

Buy thine own pardon with thy shame!

But first—my father is a man

Outlawed and exiled, under ban;

The price of blood is on his head,

With me ‘t were infamy to wed.

Still wouldst thou speak?—then hear the truth!

FitzJames, there is a noble youth—

If yet he is!—exposed for me

And mine to dread extremity—

Thou hast the secret of my bears;

Forgive, be generous, and depart!’

XVIII

FitzJames knew every wily train

A lady’s fickle heart to gain,

But here he knew and felt them vain.

There shot no glance from Ellen’s eye,

To give her steadfast speech the lie;

In maiden confidence she stood,

Though mantled in her cheek the blood

And told her love with such a sigh

Of deep and hopeless agony,

As death had sealed her Malcolm’s doom

And she sat sorrowing on his tomb.

Hope vanished from FitzJames’s eye,

But not with hope fled sympathy.

He proffered to attend her side,

As brother would a sister guide.

‘O little know’st thou Roderick’s heart!

Safer for both we go apart.

O haste thee, and from Allan learn

If thou mayst trust yon wily kern.’

With hand upon his forehead laid,

The conflict of his mind to shade,

A parting step or two he made;

Then, as some thought had crossed his brain

He paused, and turned, and came again.

XIX

‘Hear, lady, yet a parting word!—

It chanced in fight that my poor sword

Preserved the life of Scotland’s lord.

This ring the grateful Monarch gave,

And bade, when I had boon to crave,

To bring it back, and boldly claim

The recompense that I would name.

Ellen, I am no courtly lord,

But one who lives by lance and sword,

Whose castle is his helm and shield,

His lordship the embattled field.

What from a prince can I demand,

Who neither reck of state nor land?

Ellen, thy hand—the ring is thine;

Each guard and usher knows the sign.

Seek thou the King without delay;

This signet shall secure thy way:

And claim thy suit, whate’er it be,

As ransom of his pledge to me.’

He placed the golden circlet on,

Paused—kissed her hand—and then was gone.

The aged Minstrel stood aghast,

So hastily FitzJames shot past.

He joined his guide, and wending down

The ridges of the mountain brown,

Across the stream they took their way

That joins Loch Katrine to Achray.

XX

All in the Trosachs’ glen was still,

Noontide was sleeping on the hill:

Sudden his guide whooped loud and high—

‘Murdoch! was that a signal cry?’—

He stammered forth, ‘I shout to scare

Yon raven from his dainty fare.’

He looked—he knew the raven’s prey,

His own brave steed: ‘Ah! gallant gray!

For thee—for me, perchance—‘t were well

We ne’er had seen the Trosachs’ dell.—

Murdoch, move first–but silently;

Whistle or whoop, and thou shalt die!’

Jealous and sullen on they fared,

Each silent, each upon his guard.

XXI

Now wound the path its dizzy ledge

Around a precipice’s edge,

When lo! a wasted female form,

Blighted by wrath of sun and storm,

In tattered weeds and wild array,

Stood on a cliff beside the way,

And glancing round her restless eye,

Upon the wood, the rock, the sky,

Seemed naught to mark, yet all to spy.

Her brow was wreathed with gaudy broom;

With gesture wild she waved a plume

Of feathers, which the eagles fling

To crag and cliff from dusky wing;

Such spoils her desperate step had sought,

Where scarce was footing for the goat.

The tartan plaid she first descried,

And shrieked till all the rocks replied;

As loud she laughed when near they drew,

For then the Lowland garb she knew;

And then her hands she wildly wrung,

And then she wept, and then she sung—

She sung!—the voice, in better time,

Perchance to harp or lute might chime;

And now, though strained and roughened, still

Rung wildly sweet to dale and hill.

XXII

Song.

They bid me sleep, they bid me pray,

They say my brain is warped and wrung—

I cannot sleep on Highland brae,

I cannot pray in Highland tongue.

But were I now where Allan glides,

Or heard my native Devan’s tides,

So sweetly would I rest, and pray

That Heaven would close my wintry day!

‘Twas thus my hair they bade me braid,

They made me to the church repair;

It was my bridal morn they said,

And my true love would meet me there.

But woe betide the cruel guile

That drowned in blood the morning smile!

And woe betide the fairy dream!

I only waked to sob and scream.

XXIII

‘Who is this maid? what means her lay?

She hovers o’er the hollow way,

And flutters wide her mantle gray,

As the lone heron spreads his wing,

By twilight, o’er a haunted spring.’

”Tis Blanche of Devan,’ Murdoch said,

‘A crazed and captive Lowland maid,

Ta’en on the morn she was a bride,

When Roderick forayed Devan-side.

The gay bridegroom resistance made,

And felt our Chief’s unconquered blade.

I marvel she is now at large,

But oft she ‘scapes from Maudlin’s charge.—

Hence, brain-sick fool!’—He raised his bow:—

‘Now, if thou strik’st her but one blow,

I’ll pitch thee from the cliff as far

As ever peasant pitched a bar!’

‘Thanks, champion, thanks’ the Maniac cried,

And pressed her to FitzJames’s side.

‘See the gray pennons I prepare,

To seek my true love through the air!

I will not lend that savage groom,

To break his fall, one downy plume!

No!—deep amid disjointed stones,

The wolves shall batten on his bones,

And then shall his detested plaid,

By bush and brier in mid-air stayed,

Wave forth a banner fail and free,

Meet signal for their revelry.’

XXIV

‘Hush thee, poor maiden, and be still!’

‘O! thou look’st kindly, and I will.

Mine eye has dried and wasted been,

But still it loves the Lincoln green;