Walter Scott - The Complete Poems of Sir Walter Scott

“Babe’s bloody hands may not be cleansed.

The face of golden Mean:

Her sisters two, Extremities,

Her strive to banish clean.”

entirely agreed with my friendly critic in the necessity of having some sort of pitch-pipe, which might make readers aware of the object, or rather the tone, of the publication. But I doubted whether, in assuming the oracular style of Spenser’s mottoes, the interpreter might not be censured as the harder to be understood of the two. I therefore introduced the Old Minstrel, as an appropriate prolocutor, by whom the lay might be sung, or spoken, and the introduction of whom betwixt the cantos, might remind the reader at intervals, of the time, place, and circumstances of the recitation. This species of cadre, or frame, afterwards afforded the poem its name of “The Lay of the Last Minstrel.”

The work was subsequently shown to other friends during its progress, and received the imprimatur of Mr. Francis Jeffrey, who had been already for some time distinguished by his critical talent.

The poem, being once licensed by the critics as fit for the market, was soon finished, proceeding at about the rate of a canto per week. There was, indeed, little occasion for pause or hesitation, when a troublesome rhyme might be accommodated by an alteration of stanza, or where an incorrect measure might be remedied by a variation in the rhyme. It was finally published in 1805, and may be regarded as the first work in which the writer who has been since so voluminous, laid his claim to be considered as an original author.

The book was published by Longman and Company, and Archibald Constable and Company. The principal of the latter firm was then commencing that course of bold and liberal industry which was of so much advantage to his country, and might have been so to himself, but for causes which it is needless to enter into here. The work, brought out on the usual terms of division of profits between the author and the publishers, was not long after purchased by them for 500l. to which Messrs. Longman and Company afterwards added 100l., in their own unsolicited kindness, in consequence of the uncommon success of the work. It was handsomely given to supply the lose of a fine horse, which broke down suddenly while the author was riding with one of the publishers.

It would be great affectation not to own frankly, that the author expected some success from “The Lay of the Last Minstrel.” The attempt to return to a more simple and natural style of poetry was likely to be welcomed, at a time when the publich had become tired of heroic hexameters, with all the buckram and binding which belong to them of latter days. But whatever might have been his expectations, whether moderate or unreasonable, the result left them far behind, for among those who smiled on the adventurous Minstrel, were numbered the great names of William Pitt and Charles Fox. Neither was the extent of the sale inferior to the character of the judges who received the poem with approbation. Upwards of thirty thousand copies of the Lay were disposed of by the trade; and the author had to perform a task difficult to human vanity, when called upon to make the necessary deductions from his own merits, in a calm attempt to account for his popularity.

A few additional remarks on the author’s literary attempts after this period will be found in the Introduction to the Poem of Marmion.

ABBOTSFORD, April, 1830.

Introduction

The way was long, the wind was cold,

The Minstrel was infirm and old;

His wither’d cheek, and tresses gray,

Seem’d to have known a better day;

The harp, his sole remaining joy,

Was carried by an orphan boy.

The last of all the Bards was he,

Who sung of Border chivalry;

For, welladay! their date was fled,

His tuneful brethren all were dead;

And he, neglected and oppress’d,

Wish’d to be with them, and at rest.

No more on prancing palfrey borne,

He caroll’d, light as lark at morn;

No longer courted and caress’d,

High placed in hall, a welcome guest,

He pour’d, to lord and lady gay,

The unpremeditated lay:

Old times were changed, old manners gone;

A stranger filled the Stuarts’ throne;

The bigots of the iron time

Had call’d hs harmless art a crime.

A wandering Harper, scorn’d and poor,

He begg’d his bread from door to door.

And timed, to please a peasant’s ear,

The harp, a king had loved to hear.

He pass’d where Newark’s stately tower

Looks out from Yarrow’s birchen bower:

The Minstrel gazed with wishful eye,

No humbler resting-place was nigh,

With hesitating step at last,

The embattled portal arch he bunny’d,

Whose ponderous grate and massy bar

Had oft roll’d back the tide of war,

But never closed the iron door

Against the desolate and poor.

The Duchess marked his weary pace,

His timid mien, and reverend face,

And bade her page the menials tell,

That they should tend the old man well:

For she had known adversity,

Though born in such a high degree;

In pride of power, in beauty’s bloom,

Had wept o’er Monmouth’s bloody tomb!

When kindness had his wants supplied,

And the old man was gratified,

Began to rise his minstrel pride:

And he began to talk anon,

Of good Earl Francis, dead and gone,

And of Earl Walter, rest him, God!

A braver ne’er to battle rode;

And how full many a tale he knew,

Of the old warriors of Buccleuch:

And, would the noble Duchess deign

To listen to an old man’s strain,

Though stiff his hand, his voice though weak,

He thought even yet, the sooth to speak,

That, if she loved the harp to hear,

He could make music to her ear.

The humble boon was soon obtain’d;

The Aged Minstrel audience gain’d.

But, when he reach’d the room of state,

Where she, with all her ladies, sate,

Perchance he wished his boon denied:

For, when to tune his harp he tried,

His trembling hand had lost the ease,

Which marks security to please;

And scenes, long past, of joy and pain,

Came wildering o’er his aged brain,

He tried to tune his harp in vain!

The pitying Duchess praised its chime,

And gave him heart, and gave him time,

Till every string’s according glee

Was blended into harmony.

And then, he said, he would full fain

He could recall an ancient strain,

He never thought to sing again.

It was not framed for village churls,

But for high dames and mighty carls;

He had play’d it to King Charles the Good,

When he kept court in Holyrood,

And much he wish’d yet fear’d to try

The long-forgotten melody.

Amid the strings his fingers stray’d,

And an uncertain warbling made,

And oft he shook his hoary head.

But when he caught the measure wild,

The old man raised his face, and smiled;

And lighten’d up his faded eye,

With all a poet’s ecstasy!

In varying cadence, soft or strong,

He swept the sounding chords along:

The present scene, the future lot,

His toils, his wants, were all forgot:

Cold diffidence, and age’s frost,

In the full tide of song were lost;

Each blank in faithless memory void,

The poet’s glowing thought supplied;

And while his harp responsive rung,

‘Twas thus the Latest Minstrel sung.

Table of Contents

I

The feast was over in Branksome tower,

And the Ladye had gone to her secret bower;

Her bower that was guarded by word and by spell,

Deadly to hear, and deadly to tell,