Walter Scott - The Complete Poems of Sir Walter Scott

And bring them hitherward with speed.

Forbear your mirth and rude alarm,

For none shall do them shame or harm.—

‘Hear ye his boast?’ cried John of Brent,

Ever to strife and jangling bent;

‘Shall he strike doe beside our lodge,

And yet the jealous niggard grudge

To pay the forester his fee?

I’ll have my share howe’er it be,

Despite of Moray, Mar, or thee.’

Bertram his forward step withstood;

And, burning in his vengeful mood,

Old Allan, though unfit for strife,

Laid hand upon his dagger-knife;

But Ellen boldly stepped between,

And dropped at once the tartan screen:—

So, from his morning cloud, appears

The sun of May through summer tears.

The savage soldiery, amazed,

As on descended angel gazed;

Even hardy Brent, abashed and tamed,

Stood half admiring, half ashamed.

VIII

Boldly she spoke: ‘Soldiers, attend!

My father was the soldier’s friend,

Cheered him in camps, in marches led,

And with him in the battle bled.

Not from the valiant or the strong

Should exile’s daughter suffer wrong.’

Answered De Brent, most forward still

In every feat or good or ill:

‘I shame me of the part I played;

And thou an outlaw’s child, poor maid!

An outlaw I by forest laws,

And merry Needwood knows the cause.

Poor Rose,—if Rose be living now,’—

He wiped his iron eye and brow,—

‘Must bear such age, I think, as thou.—

Hear ye, my mates! I go to call

The Captain of our watch to hall:

There lies my halberd on the floor;

And he that steps my halberd o’er,

To do the maid injurious part,

My shaft shall quiver in his heart!

Beware loose speech, or jesting rough;

Ye all know John de Brent. Enough.’

IX

Their Captain came, a gallant young,—

Of Tullibardine’s house he sprung,—

Nor wore he yet the spurs of knight;

Gay was his mien, his humor light

And, though by courtesy controlled,

Forward his speech, his bearing bold.

The highborn maiden ill could brook

The scanning of his curious look

And dauntless eye:—and yet, in sooth

Young Lewis was a generous youth;

But Ellen’s lovely face and mien

Ill suited to the garb and scene,

Might lightly bear construction strange,

And give loose fancy scope to range.

‘Welcome to Stirling towers, fair maid!

Come ye to seek a champion’s aid,

On palfrey white, with harper hoar,

Like errant damosel of yore?

Does thy high quest a knight require,

Or may the venture suit a squire?’

Her dark eye flashed;—she paused and sighed:—

‘O what have I to do with pride!—

Through scenes of sorrow, shame, and strife,

A suppliant for a father’s life,

I crave an audience of the King.

Behold, to back my suit, a ring,

The royal pledge of grateful claims,

Given by the Monarch to FitzJames.’

X

The signet-ring young Lewis took

With deep respect and altered look,

And said: ‘This ring our duties own;

And pardon, if to worth unknown,

In semblance mean obscurely veiled,

Lady, in aught my folly failed.

Soon as the day flings wide his gates,

The King shall know what suitor waits.

Please you meanwhile in fitting bower

Repose you till his waking hour.

Female attendance shall obey

Your hest, for service or array.

Permit I marshal you the way.’

But, ere she followed, with the grace

And open bounty of her race,

She bade her slender purse be shared

Among the soldiers of the guard.

The rest with thanks their guerdon took,

But Brent, with shy and awkward look,

On the reluctant maiden’s hold

Forced bluntly back the proffered gold:—

‘Forgive a haughty English heart,

And O, forget its ruder part!

The vacant purse shall be my share,

Which in my barrel-cap I’ll bear,

Perchance, in jeopardy of war,

Where gayer crests may keep afar.’

With thanks—‘twas all she could—the maid

His rugged courtesy repaid.

XI

When Ellen forth with Lewis went,

Allan made suit to John of Brent:—

‘My lady safe, O let your grace

Give me to see my master’s face!

His minstrel I,—to share his doom

Bound from the cradle to the tomb.

Tenth in descent, since first my sires

Waked for his noble house their Iyres,

Nor one of all the race was known

But prized its weal above their own.

With the Chief’s birth begins our care;

Our harp must soothe the infant heir,

Teach the youth tales of fight, and grace

His earliest feat of field or chase;

In peace, in war, our rank we keep,

We cheer his board, we soothe his sleep,

Nor leave him till we pour our verse—

A doleful tribute!—o’er his hearse.

Then let me share his captive lot;

It is my right,—deny it not!’

‘Little we reck,’ said John of Brent,

‘We Southern men, of long descent;

Nor wot we how a name—a word—

Makes clansmen vassals to a lord:

Yet kind my noble landlord’s part,—

God bless the house of Beaudesert!

And, but I loved to drive the deer

More than to guide the labouring steer,

I had not dwelt an outcast here.

Come, good old Minstrel, follow me;

Thy Lord and Chieftain shalt thou see.’

XII

Then, from a rusted iron hook,

A bunch of ponderous keys he took,

Lighted a torch, and Allan led

Through grated arch and passage dread.

Portals they passed, where, deep within,

Spoke prisoner’s moan and fetters’ din;

Through rugged vaults, where, loosely stored,

Lay wheel, and axe, and headsmen’s sword,

And many a hideous engine grim,

For wrenching joint and crushing limb,

By artists formed who deemed it shame

And sin to give their work a name.

They halted at a Iow-browed porch,

And Brent to Allan gave the torch,

While bolt and chain he backward rolled,

And made the bar unhasp its hold.

They entered:—‘twas a prison-room

Of stern security and gloom,

Yet not a dungeon; for the day

Through lofty gratings found its way,

And rude and antique garniture

Decked the sad walls and oaken floor,

Such as the rugged days of old

Deemed fit for captive noble’s hold.

‘Here,’ said De Brent, ‘thou mayst remain

Till the Leech visit him again.

Strict is his charge, the,warders tell,

To tend the noble prisoner well.’

Retiring then the bolt he drew,

And the lock’s murmurs growled anew.

Roused at the sound, from lowly bed

A captive feebly raised his head.

The wondering Minstrel looked, and knew—

Not his dear lord, but Roderick Dhu!

For, come from where Clan-Alpine fought,

They, erring, deemed the Chief he sought.

XIII

As the tall ship, whose lofty prore

Shall never stem the billows more,

Deserted by her gallant band,

Amid the breakers lies astrand,—

So on his couch lay Roderick Dhu!

And oft his fevered limbs he threw

In toss abrupt, as when her sides

Lie rocking in the advancing tides,

That shake her frame with ceaseless beat,

Yet cannot heave her from her seat;—

O, how unlike her course at sea!

Or his free step on hill and lea!—

Soon as the Minstrel he could scan,—

‘What of thy lady?—of my clan?—

My mother?—Douglas?—tell me all!

Have they been ruined in my fall?