Walter Scott - The Complete Poems of Sir Walter Scott

When light a footstep struck her ear,

And Snowdoun’s graceful Knight was near.

She turned the hastier, lest again

The prisoner should renew his strain.

‘O welcome, brave FitzJames!’ she said;

‘How may an almost orphan maid

Pay the deep debt—’ ‘O say not so!

To me no gratitude you owe.

Not mine, alas! the boon to give,

And bid thy noble father live;

I can but be thy guide, sweet maid,

With Scotland’s King thy suit to aid.

No tyrant he, though ire and pride

May lay his better mood aside.

Come, Ellen, come! ‘tis more than time,

He holds his court at morning prime.’

With heating heart, and bosom wrung,

As to a brother’s arm she clung.

Gently he dried the falling tear,

And gently whispered hope and cheer;

Her faltering steps half led, half stayed,

Through gallery fair and high arcade,

Till at his touch its wings of pride

A portal arch unfolded wide.

XXVI

Within ‘t was brilliant all and light,

A thronging scene of figures bright;

It glowed on Ellen’s dazzled sight,

As when the setting sun has given

Ten thousand hues to summer even,

And from their tissue fancy frames

Aerial knights and fairy dames.

Still by FitzJames her footing staid;

A few faint steps she forward made,

Then slow her drooping head she raised,

And fearful round the presence gazed;

For him she sought who owned this state,

The dreaded Prince whose will was fate!—

She gazed on many a princely port

Might well have ruled a royal court;

On many a splendid garb she gazed,—

Then turned bewildered and amazed,

For all stood bare; and in the room

FitzJames alone wore cap and plume.

To him each lady’s look was lent,

On him each courtier’s eye was bent;

Midst furs and silks and jewels sheen,

He stood, in simple Lincoln green,

The centre of the glittering ring,—

And Snowdoun’s Knight is Scotland’s King!

XXVII

As wreath of snow on mountain-breast

Slides from the rock that gave it rest,

Poor Ellen glided from her stay,

And at the Monarch’s feet she lay;

No word her choking voice commands,—

She showed the ring,—she clasped her hands.

O, not a moment could he brook,

The generous Prince, that suppliant look!

Gently he raised her,—and, the while,

Checked with a glance the circle’s smile;

Graceful, but grave, her brow he kissed,

And bade her terrors be dismissed:—

‘Yes, fair; the wandering poor

FitzJames The fealty of Scotland claims.

To him thy woes, thy wishes, bring;

He will redeem his signet ring.

Ask naught for Douglas;—yester even,

His Prince and he have much forgiven;

Wrong hath he had from slanderous tongue,

I, from his rebel kinsmen, wrong.

We would not, to the vulgar crowd,

Yield what they craved with clamor loud;

Calmly we heard and judged his cause,

Our council aided and our laws.

I stanched thy father’s death-feud stern

With stout De Vaux and gray Glencairn;

And Bothwell’s Lord henceforth we own

The friend and bulwark of our throne.—

But, lovely infidel, how now?

What clouds thy misbelieving brow?

Lord James of Douglas, lend thine aid;

Thou must confirm this doubting maid.’

XXVIII

Then forth the noble Douglas sprung,

And on his neck his daughter hung.

The Monarch drank, that happy hour,

The sweetest, holiest draught of Power,—

When it can say with godlike voice,

Arise, sad Virtue, and rejoice!

Yet would not James the general eye

On nature’s raptures long should pry;

He stepped between—’ Nay, Douglas, nay,

Steal not my proselyte away!

The riddle ‘tis my right to read,

That brought this happy chance to speed.

Yes, Ellen, when disguised I stray

In life’s more low but happier way,

‘Tis under name which veils my power

Nor falsely veils,—for Stirling’s tower

Of yore the name of Snowdoun claims,

And Normans call me James FitzJames.

Thus watch I o’er insulted laws,

Thus learn to right the injured cause.’

Then, in a tone apart and low,—

‘Ah, little traitress! none must know

What idle dream, what lighter thought

What vanity full dearly bought,

Joined to thine eye’s dark witchcraft, drew

My spellbound steps to Benvenue

In dangerous hour, and all but gave

Thy Monarch’s life to mountain glaive!’

Aloud he spoke: ‘Thou still cost hold

That little talisman of gold,

Pledge of my faith, FitzJames’s ring,—

What seeks fair Ellen of the King?’

XXIX

Full well the conscious maiden guessed

He probed the weakness of her breast;

But with that consciousness there came

A lightening of her fears for Graeme,

And more she deemed the Monarch’s ire

Kindled ‘gainst him who for her sire

Rebellious broadsword boldly drew;

And, to her generous feeling true,

She craved the grace of Roderick Dhu.

‘Forbear thy suit;—the King of kings

Alone can stay life’s parting wings.

I know his heart, I know his hand,

Have shared his cheer, and proved his brand;

My fairest earldom would I give

To bid Clan-Alpine’s Chieftain live!—

Hast thou no other boon to crave?

No other captive friend to save?’

Blushing, she turned her from the King,

And to the Douglas gave the ring,

As if she wished her sire to speak

The suit that stained her glowing cheek.

‘Nay, then, my pledge has lost its force,

And stubborn justice holds her course.

Malcolm, come forth!’—and, at the word,

Down kneeled the Graeme to Scotland’s Lord.

‘For thee, rash youth, no suppliant sues,

From thee may Vengeance claim her dues,

Who, nurtured underneath our smile,

Hast paid our care by treacherous wile,

And sought amid thy faithful clan

A refuge for an outlawed man,

Dishonoring thus thy loyal name.—

Fetters and warder for the Graeme!’

His chain of gold the King unstrung,

The links o’er Malcolm’s neck he flung,

Then gently drew the glittering band,

And laid the clasp on Ellen’s hand.

Harp of the North, farewell! The hills grow dark,

On purple peaks a deeper shade descending;

In twilight copse the glowworm lights her spark,

The deer, half seen, are to the covert wending.

Resume thy wizard elm! the fountain lending,

And the wild breeze, thy wilder minstrelsy;

Thy numbers sweet with nature’s vespers blending,

With distant echo from the fold and lea,

And herd-boy’s evening pipe, and hum of housing bee.

Yet, once again, farewell, thou Minstrel Harp!

Yet, once again, forgive my feeble sway,

And little reck I of the censure sharp

May idly cavil at an idle lay.

Much have I owed thy strains on life’s long way,

Through secret woes the world has never known,

When on the weary night dawned wearier day,

And bitterer was the grief devoured alone.—

That I o’erlive such woes, Enchantress! is thine own.

Hark! as my lingering footsteps slow retire,

Some Spirit of the Air has waked thy string!

‘Tis now a seraph bold, with touch of fire,

‘Tis now the brush of Fairy’s frolic wing.

Receding now, the dying numbers ring

Fainter and fainter down the rugged dell;

And now the mountain breezes scarcely bring

A wandering witch-note of the distant spell—