Walter Scott - The Complete Poems of Sir Walter Scott

She raised her stately head,

And her heart throbb’d high with pride:

“Your mountains shall bend,

And your streams ascend,

Ere Margaret be our foeman’s bride!”

XIX

The Lady sought the lofty hall,

Where many a bold retainer lay,

And, with jocund din, among them all,

Her son pursued his infant play.

A fancied mosstrooper, the boy

The truncheon of a spear bestrode,

And round the hall, right merrily,

In mimic foray rode.

Even bearded knights, in arms grown old,

Share in his frolic gambols bore,

Albeit their hearts of rugged mould,

Were stubborn as the steel they wore.

For the grey warriors prophesied,

How the brave boy, in future war,

Should tame the Unicorn’s pride,

Exalt the Crescent and the Star.

XX

The Ladye forgot her purpose high,

One moment, and no more;

One moment gazed with a mother’s eye,

As she paused at the arched door:

Then from amid the armed train,

She call’d to her William of Deloraine.

XXI

A stark mosstrooping Scott was he,

As e’er couch’d Border lance by knee;

Through Solway sands, through Tarras moss,

Blindfold, he knew the paths to cross;

By wily turns, by desperate bounds,

Had baffled Percy’s best bloodhounds;

In Eske or Liddell, fords were none,

But he would ride them, one by one;

Alike to him was time or tide,

December’s snow, or July’s pride;

Alike to him was tide or time,

Moonless midnight, or matin prime;

Steady of heart, and stout of hand,

As ever drove prey from Cumberland;

Five times outlawed had be been,

By England’s King, and Scotland’s Queen.

XXII

“Sir William of Deloraine, good at need,

Mount thee on the wightest steed;

Spare not to spur, nor stint to ride,

Until thou come to fair Tweedside;

And in Melrose’s holy pile

Seek thou the Monk of St. Mary’s aisle.

Greet the Father well from me;

Say that the fated hour is come,

And tonight he shall watch with thee,

To win the treasure of the tomb.

For this will be St. Michael’s night,

And, though stars be dim, the moon is bright;

And the Cross, of bloody red,

Will point to the grave of the mighty dead.

XXIII

“What he gives thee, see thou keep;

Stay not thou for food or sleep:

Be it scroll, or be it book,

Into it, Knight, thou must not look;

If thou readest, thou art lorn!

Better hadst thou ne’er been born.”

XXIV

“O swiftly can speed my dapple-grey steed,

Which drinks of the Teviot clear;

Ere break of day,” the Warrior ‘gan say,

“Again will I be here:

And safer by none may thy errand be done,

Than, noble dame, by me;

Letter nor line know I never a one,

Wer’t my neck-verse at Hairibee.”

XXV

Soon in his saddle sate he fast,

And soon the steep descent he past,

Soon cross’d the sounding barbican,

And soon the Teviot side he won.

Eastward the wooded path he rode,

Green hazels o’er his basnet nod;

He passed the Peel of Goldiland,

And cross’d old Borthwick’s roaring strand;

Dimly he view’d the Moat-hill’s mound,

Where Druid shades still flitted round;

In Hawick twinkled many a light;

Behind him soon they set in night;

And soon he spurr’d his courser keen

Beneath the tower of Hazeldean.

XXVI

The clattering hoofs the watchmen mark;

“Stand ho! thou courier of the dark.”

“For Branksome, ho!” the knight rejoin’d,

And left the friendly tower behind.

He turn’d him now from Teviotside,

And, guided by the tinkling rill,

Northward the dark ascent did ride,

And gained the moor at Horsliehill;

Broad on the left before him lay,

For many a mile, the Roman way.

XXVII

A moment now he slack’d his speed,

A moment breathed his panting steed;

Drew saddlegirth and corslet-band,

And loosen’d in the sheath his brand.

On Minto-crags the moonbeams glint,

Where Barnhill hew’d his bed of flint;

Who flung his outlaw’d limbs to rest,

Where falcons hang their giddy nest,

Mid cliffs, from whence his eagle eye

For many a league his prey could spy;

Cliffs, doubling, on their echoes borne,

The terrors of the robber’s horn.

Cliffs, which, for many a year,

The warbling Doric reed shall hear,

When some sad swain shall teach the grove,

Ambition is no cure for love!

XXVIII

Unchallenged, thence pass’d Deloraine,

To ancient Riddel’s fair domain,

Where Aill, from mountains freed,

Down from the lakes did raving come;

Each wave was creased with tawny foam,

Like the mane of a chestnut steed.

In vain! no torrent, deep or broad,

Might bar the bold mosstrooper’s road.

XXIX

At the first plunge the horse sunk low,

And the water broke o’er the saddlebow;

Above the flaming tide, I ween,

Scarce half the charger’s neck was seen;

For he was barded from counter to tail,

And the rider was armed complete in mail;

Never heavier man and horse

Stemm’d a midnight torrent’s force.

The warrior’s very plume, I say

Was daggled by the dashing spray;

Yet, through good heart, and Our Ladye’s grace,

At length he gain’d the landing place.

XXX

Now Bowden Moor the march-man won,

And sternly shook his plumed head,

As glanced his eye o’er Halidon;

For on his soul the slaughter red

Of that unhallow’d morn arose,

When first the Scott and Carr were foes;

When royal James beheld the fray,

Prize to the victor of the day;

When Home and Douglas, in the van,

Bore down Buccleuch’s retiring clan,

Till gallant Cessford’s heart-blood dear

Reek’d on dark Elliot’s Border spear.

XXXI

In bitter mood he spurred fast,

And soon the hated heath was past;

And far beneath, in lustre wan,

Old Melros’ rose, and fair Tweed ran:

Like some tall rock with lichens grey,

Seem’d dimly huge, the dark Abbaye.

When Harwick he pass’d, had curfew rung,

Now midnight lauds were in Melrose sung.

The sound, upon the fitful gale,

In solemn wise did rise and fail,

Like that wild harp, whose magic tone

Is waken’d by the winds alone.

But when Melrose he reach’d, ‘twas silence all;

He meetly stabled his steed in stall,

And sought the convent’s lonely wall.

Here paused the harp; and with its swell

The Master’s fire and courage fell;

Dejectedly, and low, he bow’d,

And, gazing timid on the crowd,

He seem’d to seek, in every eye,

If they approved his mistrelsy;

And, diffident of present praise,

Somewhat he spoke of former days,

And how old age, and wand’ring long,

Had done his hand and harp some wrong.

The Duchess, and her daughters fair,

And every gentle lady there,

Each after each, in due degree,

Gave praises to his melody;

His hand was true, his voice was clear,

And much they long’d the rest to hear.

Encouraged thus, the Aged Man,

After meet rest, again began.

Table of Contents

I

If thou would’st view fair Melrose aright,

Go visit it by the pale moonlight;