Walter Scott - The Complete Poems of Sir Walter Scott

Margaret of Branksome’s choice should be.

XXX

Alas! fair dames, you hopes are vain!

My harp has lost the enchanting strain;

Its lightness would my age reprove;

My hairs are grey, my limbs are old,

My heart is dead, my veins are cold:

I may not, must not, sing of love.

XXXI

Beneath an oak, moss’d o’er by eld,

The Baron’s Dwarf his courser held,

And held his crested helm and spear:

That Dwarf was scarce an earthly man,

If the tales were true that of him ran

Through all the Border far and near.

‘Twas said, when the Baron a-hunting rode,

Through Reedsdale’s glens, but rarely trod,

He heard a voice cry, “Lost! lost! lost!”

And, like a tennis-ball by racket toss’d,

A leap, of thirty feet and three,

Made from the gorse this elfin shape,

Distorted like some dwarfish ape,

And lighted at Lord Cranstoun’s knee.

‘Tis said that five good miles he rade,

To rid him of his company;

But where he rode one mile, the Dwarf ran four,

And the Dwarf was first at the castle door.

XXXII

Use lessens marvel, it is said:

This elvish Dwarf with the Baron staid;

Little he ate, and less he spoke,

Nor mingled with the menial flock:

And oft apart his arms he toss’d,

And often mutter’d “Lost! lost! lost!”

He was waspish, arch, and litherlie,

But well Lord Carnstoun served he:

And he of his service was full fain;

For once he had been ta’en, or slain,

An it had not been for his ministry.

All between Home and Hermitage,

Talk’d of Lord Cranstoun’s Goblin-Page.

XXXIII

For the Baron went on Pilgrimage,

And took with him this elvish Page,

To Mary’s Chapel of the Lowes;

For there beside our Ladye’s lake,

An offering he had sworn to make,

And he would pay his vows.

But the Ladye of Branksome gather’d a band

Of the best that would ride at her command:

The trysting place was Newark Lee.

Wat of Harden came thither amain,

And thither came John of Thirlestane,

And thither came William of Deloraine;

They were three hundred spears and three.

Through Douglasburn, up Yarrow strem,

Their horses prance, their lances gleam.

They came to St. Mary’s lake ere day;

But the chapel was void, and the Baron away.

They burn’d the chapel for very rage,

And cursed Lord Cranstoun’s Goblin-Page.

XXXIV

And now, in Branksome’s good green wood,

As under the aged oak he stood,

The Baron’s courser pricks his ears,

As if a distant noise he hears.

The Dwarf waves his long lean arm on high,

And signs to the lovers to part and fly;

No time was then to vow or sigh.

Fair Margaret through the hazel grove,

Flew like the startled cushat-dove:

The Dwarf the stirrup held and rein;

Vaulted the Knight on his steed amain,

And, pondering deep that morning’s scene,

Rode eastward through the hawthorns green.

While thus he pour’d the lengthen’d tale

The Minstrel’s voice began to fail:

Full slyly smiled the observant page,

And gave the wither’d hand of age

A goblet crown’d with mighty wine,

The blood of Velez’ scorched vine.

He raised the silver cup on high,

And, while the big drop fill’d his eye

Pray’d God to bless the Duchess long,

And all who cheer’d a son of song.

The attending maidens smiled to see

How long, how deep, how zealously

The precious juice the Minstrel quaff’d;

And he, embolden’d by the draught,

Look’d gaily back to them, and laugh’d.

The cordial nectar of the bowl

Swell’d his old veins, and cheer’d his soul;

A lighter, livelier prelude ran,

Ere thus his tale again began.

Table of Contents

I

And said I that my limbs were old,

And said I that my blood was cold,

And that my kindly fire was fled,

And my poor wither’d heart was dead,

And that I might not sing of love,

How could I to the dearest theme,

That ever warm’d a minstrel’s dream

So foul, so false a recreant prove!

How could I name love’s very name,

Nor wake my heart to notes of flame!

II

In peace, Love tunes the shepherd’s reed;

In war, he mounts the warrior’s steed;

In halls, in gay attire is seen;

In hamlets, dances on the green.

Love rules the court, the camp, the grove,

And men below, and saints above;

For love is heaven, and heaven is love.

III

So thought Lord Cranstoun, as I ween,

While, pondering deep the tender scene,

He rode through Branksome’s hawthorn green.

But the Page shouted wild and shrill,

And scarce his helmet could he don,

When downward from the shady hill

A stately knight came pricking on.

That warrior’s steed, so dapple-gray,

Was dark with sveat, and splashed with clay;

His armor red with many a stain

He seem’d in such a weary plight,

As if he had ridden the livelong night;

For it was William of Deloraine.

IV

But no whit weary did he seem,

When, dancing in the sunny beam,

He mark’d the crane on the Baron’s crest;

For his ready spear was in his rest.

Few were the words, and stern and high,

That mark’d the foemen’s feudal hate;

For question fierce, and proud reply,

Gave signal soon of dire debate.

Their very coursers seem’d to know

That each was other’s mortal foe,

And snorted fire, when wheel’d around

To give each foe his vantage-ground.

V

In rapid round the Baron bent;

He sigh’d a sigh, and pray’d a prayer:

The prayer was to his patron saint,

The sigh was to his ladye fair.

Stout Deloraine nor sigh’d nor pray’d,

Nor saint, nor ladye, call’d to aid;

But he stoop’d his head, and couch’d his spear,

And spurred his steed to full career.

The meeting of these champions proud

Seem’d like the bursting thunder-cloud.

VI

Stern was the dint the Borderer lent!

The stately Baron backwards bent;

Bent backwards to his horse’s tail

And his plumes went scattering on the gale;

The tough ash spear, so stout and true,

Into a thousand flinders flew.

But Cranstoun’s lance, of more avail

Pierc’d through, like silk, the Borderer’s mail;

Through shield, and jack, and acton, past,

Deep in his bosom broke at last.

Still sate the warrior saddle-fast

Till, stumbling in the mortal shock,

Down went the steed, the girthing broke,

Hurl’d on a heap lay man and horse.

The Baron onward pass’d his course;

Nor knew, so giddy rolled his brain,

His foe lay stretch’d upon the plain.

VII

But when he rein’d his courser round,

And saw his foeman on the ground

Lie senseless as the bloody clay,

He badehis page to stanch the wound,

And there beside the warrior stay,

And tend him in his doubtful state,

And lead him to Brauksome castle gate:

His noble mind was inly moved

For the kinsman of the maid he loved.

“This shalt thou do without delay:

No longer here myself may stay;

Unless the swifter I speed away

Short shrift will be at my dying day.”

VIII

Away in speed Lord Cranstoun rode;

The Goblin-Page behind abode;