Walter Scott - The Complete Poems of Sir Walter Scott

And thou must keep thee with thy sword.’

XIII

The Saxon paused: ‘I ne’er delayed,

When foeman bade me draw my blade;

Nay more, brave Chief, I vowed thy death;

Yet sure thy fair and generous faith,

And my deep debt for life preserved,

A better meed have well deserved:

Can naught but blood our feud atone?

Are there no means?’—’ No, stranger, none!

And hear,—to fire thy flagging zeal,—

The Saxon cause rests on thy steel;

For thus spoke Fate by prophet bred

Between the living and the dead:”

Who spills the foremost foeman’s life,

His party conquers in the strife.”’

‘Then, by my word,’ the Saxon said,

“The riddle is already read.

Seek yonder brake beneath the cliff,—

There lies Red Murdoch, stark and stiff.

Thus Fate hath solved her prophecy;

Then yield to Fate, and not to me.

To James at Stirling let us go,

When, if thou wilt be still his foe,

Or if the King shall not agree

To grant thee grace and favor free,

I plight mine honor, oath, and word

That, to thy native strengths restored,

With each advantage shalt thou stand

That aids thee now to guard thy land.’

XIV

Dark lightning flashed from Roderick’s eye:

‘Soars thy presumption, then, so high,

Because a wretched kern ye slew,

Homage to name to Roderick Dhu?

He yields not, he, to man nor Fate!

Thou add’st but fuel to my hate;—

My clansman’s blood demands revenge.

Not yet prepared?—By heaven, I change

My thought, and hold thy valor light

As that of some vain carpet knight,

Who ill deserved my courteous care,

And whose best boast is but to wear

A braid of his fair lady’s hair.’ ‘I thank thee,

Roderick, for the word!

It nerves my heart, it steels my sword;

For I have sworn this braid to stain

In the best blood that warms thy vein.

Now, truce, farewell! and, rush, begone!—

Yet think not that by thee alone,

Proud Chief! can courtesy be shown;

Though not from copse, or heath, or cairn,

Start at my whistle clansmen stern,

Of this small horn one feeble blast

Would fearful odds against thee cast.

But fear not — doubt not—which thou wilt—

We try this quarrel hilt to hilt.’

Then each at once his falchion drew,

Each on the ground his scabbard threw

Each looked to sun and stream and plain

As what they ne’er might see again;

Then foot and point and eye opposed,

In dubious strife they darkly closed.

XV

Ill fared it then with Roderick Dhu,

That on the field his targe he threw,

Whose brazen studs and tough bull-hide

Had death so often dashed aside;

For, trained abroad his arms to wield

FitzJames’s blade was sword and shield.

He practised every pass and ward,

To thrust, to strike, to feint, to guard;

While less expert, though stronger far,

The Gael maintained unequal war.

Three times in closing strife they stood

And thrice the Saxon blade drank blood;

No stinted draught, no scanty tide,

The gushing flood the tartars dyed.

Fierce Roderick felt the fatal drain,

And showered his blows like wintry rain;

And, as firm rock or castle-roof

Against the winter shower is proof,

The foe, invulnerable still,

Foiled his wild rage by steady skill;

Till, at advantage ta’en, his brand

Forced Roderick’s weapon from his hand,

And backward borne upon the lea,

Brought the proud Chieftain to his knee.

XVI

Now yield thee, or by Him who made

The world, thy heart’s blood dyes my blade!;

‘Thy threats, thy mercy, I defy!

Let recreant yield, who fears to die.’

Like adder darting from his coil,

Like wolf that dashes through the toil,

Like mountain-cat who guards her young,

Full at FitzJames’s throat he sprung;

Received, but recked not of a wound,

And locked his arms his foeman round.

Now, gallant Saxon, hold thine own!

No maiden’s hand is round thee thrown!

That desperate grasp thy frame might feel

Through bars of brass and triple steel!

They tug, they strain! down, down they go,

The Gael above, FitzJames below.

The Chieftain’s gripe his throat compressed,

His knee was planted on his breast;

His clotted locks he backward threw,

Across his brow his hand he drew,

From blood and mist to clear his sight,

Then gleamed aloft his dagger bright!

But hate and fury ill supplied

The stream of life’s exhausted tide,

And all too late the advantage came,

To turn the odds of deadly game;

For, while the dagger gleamed on high,

Reeled soul and sense, reeled brain and eye.

Down came the blow! but in the heath

The erring blade found bloodless sheath.

The struggling foe may now unclasp

The fainting Chief’s relaxing grasp;

Unwounded from the dreadful close,

But breathless all, FitzJames arose.

XVII

He faltered thanks to Heaven for life,

Redeemed, unhoped, from desperate strife;

Next on his foe his look he cast,

Whose every gasp appeared his last

In Roderick’s gore he dipped the braid,—

‘Poor Blanche! thy wrongs are dearly paid;

Yet with thy foe must die, or live,

The praise that faith and valor give.’

With that he blew a bugle note,

Undid the collar from his throat,

Unbonneted, and by the wave

Sat down his brow and hands to rave.

Then faint afar are heard the feet

Of rushing steeds in gallop fleet;

The sounds increase, and now are seen

Four mounted squires in Lincoln green;

Two who bear lance, and two who lead

By loosened rein a saddled steed;

Each onward held his headlong course,

And by FitzJames reined up his horse,—

With wonder viewed the bloody spot,—

‘Exclaim not, gallants ‘ question not.—

You, Herbert and Luffness, alight

And bind the wounds of yonder knight;

Let the gray palfrey bear his weight,

We destined for a fairer freight,

And bring him on to Stirling straight;

I will before at better speed,

To seek fresh horse and fitting weed.

The sun rides high;—I must be boune

To see the archer-game at noon;

But lightly Bayard clears the lea.—

De Vaux and Herries. follow me.

XVIII

‘Stand, Bayard, stand!’—the steed obeyed,

With arching neck and bended head,

And glancing eye and quivering ear,

As if he loved his lord to hear.

No foot FitzJames in stirrup stayed,

No grasp upon the saddle laid,

But wreathed his left hand in the mane,

And lightly bounded from the plain,

Turned on the horse his armed heel,

And stirred his courage with the steel.

Bounded the fiery steed in air,

The rider sat erect and fair,

Then like a bolt from steel crossbow

Forth launched, along the plain they go.

They dashed that rapid torrent through,

And up Carhonie’s hill they flew;

Still at the gallop pricked the Knight,

His merrymen followed as they might.

Along thy banks, swift Teith! they ride,

And in the race they mock thy tide;

Torry and Lendrick now are past,

And Deanstown lies behind them cast;

They rise, the bannered towers of Doune,

They sink in distant woodland soon;

Blair-Drummond sees the hoofs strike fire,

They sweep like breeze through Ochtertyre;

They mark just glance and disappear

The lofty brow of ancient Kier;