Walter Scott - The Complete Poems of Sir Walter Scott

He pinch’d, and beat, and overthrew;

Nay, some of them he wellnigh slew.

He tore Dame Maudlin’s silken tire

And, as Sym Hall stood by the fire

He lighted the match of his bandelier,

And wofully scorch’d the hackbuteer.

It may be hardly thought or said,

The mischief that the urchin made,

Till many of the castle guess’d,

That the young Baron was possess’d!

XXII

Well I ween the charm he held

The noble Ladye had soon dispell’d;

But she was deeply busied then

To tend the wounded Deloraine.

Much she wonder’d to find him lie

On the stone threshold stretch’d along;

She thought some spirit of the sky

Had done the bold mosstrooper wrong;

Because, despite her precept dread

Perchance he in the Book had read;

But the broken lance in his bosom stood,

And it was earthly steel and wood.

XXIII

She drew the splinter from the wound,

And with a charm she stanch’d the blood;

She bade the gash be cleans’d and bound:

No longer by his couch she stood;

But she has ta’en the broken lance,

And wash’d it from the clotted gore

And salved the splinter o’er and o’er.

William of Deloraine, in trance

Whene’er she turn’d it round and round,

Twisted as if she gall’d his wound.

Then to her maidens she did say

That he should be whole man and sound

Within the course of a night and day.

Full long she toil’d; for she did rue

Mishap to friend so stout and true.

XXIV

So pass’d the day; the evening fell,

‘Twas near the time of curfew bell;

The air was mild, the wind was calm,

The stream was smooth, the dew was balm;

E’en the rude watchman on the tower

Enjoy’d and bless’d the lovely hour.

Far more fair Margaret lov’d and bless’d

The hour of silence and of rest.

On the high turret sitting lone,

She waked at times the lute’s soft tone;

Touch’d a wild note, and all between

Thought of the bower of hawthorns green.

Her golden hair stream’d free from band,

Her fair cheek rested on her hand

Her blue eyes sought the west afar

For lovers love the western star.

XXV

Is yon the star, o’er Penchryst Pen,

That rises slowly to her ken,

And, spreading broad its wavering light,

Shakes its loose tresses on the night?

Is yon red glare the western star?

O, ‘tis the beacon-blaze of war!

Scarce could she draw her tighten’d breath,

For well she knew the fire of death!

XXVI

The Warder view’d it blazing strong,

And blew his war-note loud and long,

Till, at the high and haughty sound,

Rock, wood, and river rung around.

The blast alarm’d the festal hall,

And startled forth the warriors all;

Far downward, in the castleyard,

Full many a torch and cresset glared;

And helms and plumes, confusedly toss’d,

Were in the blaze half-seen, half-lost;

And spears in wild disorder shook,

Like reeds beside a frozen brook.

XXVII

The Seneschal, whose silver hair

Was redden’d by the torches’ glare,

Stood in the midst with gesture proud,

And issued forth his mandates loud:

“On Penchryst glows a bale of fire,

And three are kindling on Priesthaughswire;

Ride out, ride out,

The foe to scout!

Mount, mount for Branksome, every man!

Thou, Todrig, warn the Johnstone clan

That ever are true and stout;

Ye need not send to Liddesdale,

For when they see the blazing bale,

Elliots and Armstrongs never fail.

Ride, Alton, ride, for death and life!

And warn the Warder of the strife.

Young Gilbert, let our beacon blaze,

Our kin, and clan, and friends to raise.”

XXVIII

Fair Margaret from the turret head

Heard, far below, the coursers’ tread,

While loud the harness rung

As to their seats, with clamor dread,

The ready horsemen sprung:

And trampling hoofs, and iron coat,

And leaders’ voices mingled notes,

And out! and out!

In hasty route,

The horsemen gallop’d forth;

Dispersing to the south to scout,

And east, and west, and north,

To view their coming enemies,

And warn their vassals and allies.

XXIX

The ready page, with hurried hand,

Awaked the need-fire’s slumbering brand,

And ruddy blush’d the heaven:

For a sheet of flame from the turret high

Wav’d like a blood-flag on the sky,

All flaring and uneven;

And soon a score of fires, I ween,

From height, and hill, and cliff, were seen;

Each with warlike tidings fraught,

Each from each the signal caught;

Each after each they glanc’d to sight

As stars arise upon the night.

They gleam d on many a dusky tarn,

Haunted by the lonely earn;

On many a cairn’s grey pyramid,

Where urns of mighty chiefs lie hid;

Till high Dunedin the blazes saw

From Soltra and Dumpender Law,

And Lothian heard the Regent’s order

That all should bowne them for the Border.

XXX

The livelong night in Branksome rang

The ceaseles sound of steel;

The castle-bell, with backward clang

Sent forth the larum peal;

Was frequent heard the heavy jar,

Where massy stone and iron bar

Were piled on echoing keep and tower,

To whelm the foe with deadly shower

Was frequent heard the changing guard,

And watchword from the sleepless ward;

While, wearied by the endless din,

Bloodhound and ban-dog yell’d within.

XXXI

The noble Dame, amid the broil

Shared the grey Seneschal’s high toil,

And spoke of danger with a smile;

Cheer’d the young knights, and council sage

Held with the chiefs of riper age.

No tidings of the foe were brought

Nor of his numbers knew they aught,

Nor what in time of truce he sought.

Some said that there were thousands ten;

And others ween’d that it was nought

But Leven clans, or Tynedale men,

Who came to gather in blackmail;

And Liddesdale, with small avail,

Might drive them lightly back agen.

So pass’d the anxious night away,

And welcome was the peep of day.

Ceas’d the high sound. The listening throng

Applaud the Master of the Song;

And marvel much, in helpless age,

So hard should be his pilgrimage.

Had he no friend, no daughter dear,

His wandering toil to share and cheer;

No son to be his father’s stay,

And guide him on the rugged way?

“Ay, once he had, but he was dead!”

Upon the harp he stoop’d his head,

And busied himself the strings withal

To hide the tear that fain would fall.

In solemn measure, soft and slow,

Arose a father’s notes of woe.

Table of Contents

I

Sweet Teviot! on thy silver tide

The glaring bale-fires blaze no more;

No longer steel-clad warrior ride

Along thy wild and willow’d shore

Where’er thou wind’st, by dale or hill

All, all is peaceful, all is still,

As if thy waves, since Time was born

Since first they roll’d upon the Tweed,

Had only heard the shepherd’s reed,

Nor started at the bugle-horn.

II

Unlike the tide of human time,

Which, though it change in ceaseless flow

Retains each grief, retains each crime

Its earliest course was doom’d to know;