Walter Scott - The Complete Poems of Sir Walter Scott

Grief darken’d on his rugged brow,

Though half disguised with a frown;

And thus, while sorrow bent his head,

His foeman’s epitaph he made.

XXIX

“Now, Richard Musgrave, liest thou here!

I ween, my deadly enemy

For, if I slew thy brother dear,

Thou slew’st a sister’s son to me;

And when I lay in dungeon dark

Of Naworth Castle, long months three,

Till ransom’d for a thousand mark,

Dark Musgrave, it was ‘long of thee.

And, Musgrave, could our fight be tried,

And thou wert now alive as I,

No mortal man should us divide,

Till one, or both of us, did die:

Yet, rest thee God! for well I know

I ne’er shall find a nobler foe.

In all the northern counties here,

Whose word is Snaffle, spur, and spear,

Thou wert the best to follow gear!

‘Twas pleasure, as we look’d behind,

To see how thou the chase could’st wind,

Cheer the dark bloodhound on his way

And with the bugle rouse the fray!

I’d give the lands of Deloraine

Dark Musgrave were alive again.”

XXX

So mourn’d he, till Lord Dacre’s band

Were bowning back to Cumberland.

They rais’d brave Musgrave from the field,

And laid him on his bloody shield;

On levell’d lances, four and four,

By turns, the noble burden bore.

Before, at times, upon the gale,

Was heard the Minstrel s plaintive wail;

Behind, four priests, in sable stole,

Sung requiem for the warrior’s soul:

Around, the horsemen slowly rode;

With trailing pikes the spearmen trode;

And thus the gallant knight they bore

Through Liddesdale to Leven’s shore;

Thence to Holme Coltrame’s lofty nave,

And laid him in his father’s grave.

The harp’s wild notes, though hush’d the song,

The mimic march of death prolong;

Now seems it far, and now a-near,

Now meets, and now eludes the ear;

Now seems some mountainside to sweep,

Now faintly dies in valley deep;

Seems now as if the Minstrel’s wail,

Now the sad requiem, loads the gale;

Last, o’er the warrior’s closing grave,

Rung the full choir in choral stave.

After due pause, they bade him tell,

Why he, who touch’d the harp so well,

Should thus, with ill-rewarded toil,

Wander a poor and thankless soil,

When the more generous Southern land

Would well requite his skillful hand.

The aged Harper howsoe’er

His only friend, his harp, was dear,

Lik’d not to hear it rank’d so high

Above his flowing poesy:

Less lik’d he still that scornful jeer

Mispris’d the land he lov’d so dear;

High was the sound, as thus again

The Bard resum’d his minstrel strain.

Table of Contents

I

Breathes there the man, with soul so dead,

Who never to himself hath said,

This is my own, my native land!

Whose heart hath ne’er within him burn’d,

As home his footsteps he hath turn’d,

From wandering on a foreign strand!

If such there breathe, go, mark him well;

For him no Minstrel raptures swell;

High though his titles, proud his name,

Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;

Despite those titles, power, and pelf,

The wretch, concentred all in self,

Living, shall forfeit fair renown,

And, doubly dying, shall go down

To the vile dust, from whence he sprung,

Unwept, unhonor’d, and unsung.

II

O Caledonia! stern and wild,

Meet nurse for a poetic child!

Land of brown heath and shaggy wood,

Land of the mountain and the flood,

Land of my sires! what mortal hand

Can e’er untie the filial band,

That knits me to thy rugged strand!

Still as I view each wellknown scene,

Think what is now, and what hath been,

Seems as, to me, of all bereft,

Sole friends thy woods and streams were left;

And thus I love them better still,

Even in extremity of ill.

By Yarrow’s stream still let me stray,

Though none should guide my feeble way;

Still feel the breeze down Ettrick break,

Although it chill my wither’d cheek:

Still lay my head by Teviot Stone,

Though there, forgotten and alone,

The Bard may draw his parting groan.

III

Not scorn’d like me! to Branksome Hall

The Minstrels came at festive call;

Trooping they came, from near and far

The jovial priests of mirth and war;

Alike for feast and fight prepar’d,

Battle and banquet both they shar’d.

Of late, before each martial clan,

They blew their death-note in the van,

But now, for every merry mate,

Rose the portcullis’ iron grate;

They sound the pipe, they strike the string,

They dance, they revel, and they sing,

Till the rude turrets shake and ring.

IV

Me lists not at this tide declare

The splendor of the spousal rite,

How muster’d in the chapel fair

Both maid and matron, squire and knight;

Me lists not tell of owches rare,

Of mantles green, and braided hair,

And kirtles furr’d with miniver;

What plumage wav’d the altar round,

How spurs and ringing chainlets sound;

And hard it were for bard to speak

The changeful hue of Margaret’s cheek,

That lovely hue which comes and flies

As awe and shame alternate rise!

V

Some bards have sung the Ladye high

Chapel or altar came not nigh;

Nor durst the rites of spousal grace,

So much she fear’d each holy place.

False slanders these: I trust right well

She wrought not by forbidden spell;

For mighty words and signs have power

O’er sprites in planetary hour:

Yet scarce I praise their venturous part,

Who tamper with such dangerous art.

But this for faithful truth I say,

The Ladye by the altar stood;

Of sable velvet her array,

And on her head a crimson hood

With pearls embroider’d and entwin’d,

Guarded with gold, with ermine lin’d;

A merlin sat upon her wrist

Held by a leash of silken twist.

VI

The spousal rites were ended soon:

‘Twas now the merry hour of noon

And in the lofty arched hall

Was spread the gorgeous festival.

Steward and squire, with heedful haste,

Marshall’d the rank of every guest;

Pages, with ready blade, were there,

The mighty meal to carve and share:

O’er capon, heron-shew, and crane,

And princely peacock s gilded train,

And o’er the boar-head, garnish’d brave,

And cygnet from St. Mary’s wave;

O’er ptarmigan and venison

The priest had spoke his benison.

Then rose the riot and the din,

Above, beneath, without, within!

For, from the lofty balcony,

Rung trumpet, shalm, and psaltery:

Their clanging bowls old warriors quaff’d

Loudly they spoke, and loudly laugh’d;

Whisper’d young knights, in tone more mild,

To ladies fair, and ladies smil’d.

The hooded hawks, high perch’d on beam

The clamor join’d with whistling scream

And flapp’d their wings, and shook their bells

In concert with the staghounds’ yells

Round go the flasks of ruddy wine,

From Bordeaux, Orleans, or the Rhine;

Their tasks the busy sewers ply,

And all is mirth and revelry.

VII

The Goblin Page, omitting still

No opportunity of ill,

Strove now, while blood ran hot and high,

To rouse debate and jealousy;