Walter Scott - The Complete Poems of Sir Walter Scott

They bathe their coursers’ sweltering sides

Dark Forth! amid thy sluggish tides,

And on the opposing shore take ground

With plash, with scramble, and with bound.

Righthand they leave thy cliffs, Craig-Forth!

And soon the bulwark of the North,

Gray Stirling, with her towers and town,

Upon their fleet career looked clown.

XIX

As up the flinty path they strained,

Sudden his steed the leader reined;

A signal to his squire he flung,

Who instant to his stirrup sprung:—

‘Seest thou, De Vaux, yon woodsman gray,

Who townward holds the rocky way,

Of stature tall and poor array?

Mark’st thou the firm, yet active stride,

With which he scales the mountainside?

Know’st thou from whence he comes, or whom?’

‘No, by my word;—a burly groom

He seems, who in the field or chase

A baron’s train would nobly grace—’

‘Out, out, De Vaux! can fear supply,

And jealousy, no sharper eye?

Afar, ere to the hill he drew,

That stately form and step I knew;

Like form in Scotland is not seen,

Treads not such step on Scottish green.

‘Tis James of Douglas, by Saint Serle!

The uncle of the banished Earl.

Away, away, to court, to show

The near approach of dreaded foe:

The King must stand upon his guard;

Douglas and he must meet prepared.’

Then righthand wheeled their steeds, and straight

They won the Castle’s postern gate.

XX

The Douglas, who had bent his way

From Cambuskenneth’s abbey gray,

Now, as he climbed the rocky shelf,

Held sad communion with himself:—

‘Yes! all is true my fears could frame;

A prisoner lies the noble Graeme,

And fiery Roderick soon will feel

The vengeance of the royal steel.

I, only I, can ward their fate,—

God grant the ransom come not late!

The Abbess hath her promise given,

My child shall be the bride of Heaven;—

Be pardoned one repining tear!

For He who gave her knows how dear,

How excellent!—but that is by,

And now my business is—to die.—

Ye towers! within whose circuit dread

A Douglas by his sovereign bled;

And thou, O sad and fatal mound!

That oft hast heard the death-axe sound.

As on the noblest of the land

Fell the stern headsmen’s bloody hand,—

The dungeon, block, and nameless tomb

Prepare—for Douglas seeks his doom!

But hark! what blithe and jolly peal

Makes the Franciscan steeple reel?

And see! upon the crowded street,

In motley groups what masquers meet!

Banner and pageant, pipe and drum,

And merry morrice-dancers come.

I guess, by all this quaint array,

The burghers hold their sports to-day.

James will be there; he loves such show,

Where the good yeoman bends his bow,

And the tough wrestler foils his foe,

As well as where, in proud career,

The highborn filter shivers spear.

I’ll follow to the Castle-park,

And play my prize;—King James shall mark

If age has tamed these sinews stark,

Whose force so oft in happier days

His boyish wonder loved to praise.’

XXI

The Castle gates were open flung,

The quivering drawbridge rocked and rung,

And echoed loud the flinty street

Beneath the coursers’ clattering feet,

As slowly down the steep descent

Fair Scotland’s King and nobles went,

While all along the crowded way

Was jubilee and loud huzza.

And ever James was bending low

To his white jennet’s saddlebow,

Doffing his cap to city dame,

Who smiled and blushed for pride and shame.

And well the simperer might be vain,—

He chose the fairest of the train.

Gravely he greets each city sire,

Commends each pageant’s quaint attire,

Gives to the dancers thanks aloud,

And smiles and nods upon the crowd,

Who rend the heavens with their acclaims,—

‘Long live the Commons’ King, King James!’

Behind the King thronged peer and knight,

And noble dame and damsel bright,

Whose fiery steeds ill brooked the stay

Of the steep street and crowded way.

But in the train you might discern

Dark lowering brow and visage stern;

There nobles mourned their pride restrained,

And the mean burgher’s joys disdained;

And chiefs, who, hostage for the* clan,

Were each from home a banished man,

There thought upon their own gray tower,

Their waving woods, their feudal power,

And deemed themselves a shameful part

Of pageant which they cursed in heart.

XXII

Now, in the Castle-park, drew out

Their checkered bands the joyous rout.

There morricers, with bell at heel

And blade in hand, their mazes wheel;

But chief, beside the butts, there stand

Bold Robin Hood and all his band,—

Friar Tuck with quarterstaff and cowl,

Old Scathelocke with his surly scowl,

Maid Marian, fair as ivory bone,

Scarlet, and Mutch, and Little John;

Their bugles challenge all that will,

In archery to prove their skill.

The Douglas bent a bow of might,—

His first shaft centred in the white,

And when in turn he shot again,

His second split the first in twain.

From the King’s hand must Douglas take

A silver dart, the archers’ stake;

Fondly he watched, with watery eye,

Some answering glance of sympathy,—

No kind emotion made reply!

Indifferent as to archer wight,

The monarch gave the arrow bright.

XXIII

Now, clear the ring! for, hand to hand,

The manly wrestlers take their stand.

Two o’er the rest superior rose,

And proud demanded mightier foes,—

Nor called in vain, for Douglas came.—

For life is Hugh of Larbert lame;

Scarce better John of Alloa’s fare,

Whom senseless home his comrades bare.

Prize of the wrestling match, the King

To Douglas gave a golden ring,

While coldly glanced his eye of blue,

As frozen drop of wintry dew.

Douglas would speak, but in his breast

His struggling soul his words suppressed;

Indignant then he turned him where

Their arms the brawny yeomen bare,

To hurl the massive bar in air.

When each his utmost strength had shown,

The Douglas rent an earthfast stone

From its deep bed, then heaved it high,

And sent the fragment through the sky

A rood beyond the farthest mark;

And still in Stirling’s royal park,

The grayhaired sires, who know the past,

To strangers point the Douglas cast,

And moralize on the decay

Of Scottish strength in modern day.

XXIV

The vale with loud applauses rang,

The Ladies’ Rock sent back the clang.

The King, with look unmoved, bestowed

A purse well filled with pieces broad.

Indignant smiled the Douglas proud,

And threw the gold among the crowd,

Who now with anxious wonder scan,

And sharper glance, the dark gray man;

Till whispers rose among the throng,

That heart so free, and hand so strong,

Must to the Douglas blood belong.

The old men marked and shook the head,

To see his hair with silver spread,

And winked aside, and told each son

Of feats upon the English done,

Ere Douglas of the stalwart hand

Was exiled from his native land.

The women praised his stately form,

Though wrecked by many a winter’s storm;

The youth with awe and wonder saw

His strength surpassing Nature’s law.

Thus judged, as is their wont, the crowd