The Poetical Works of Sir Walter Scott

On Arawaca's desert shore,

In that strange mood which maids approve, Or where La Plata's billows roar,

E'en when they dare not call it love, When oft the sons of vengeful Spain

With every change his features played, Tracked the marauder's steps in vain.

As aspens show the light and shade. These arts, in Indian warfare tried,

VI. Must save him now by Greta's side.

Well Risingham young Redmond knew; IV.

And much he marvelled that the crew, 'Twas then, in hour of utmost need,

Roused to revenge bold Mortham dead, He proved his courage, art, and speed.

Were by that Mortham's foeman led; Now slow he stalked with stealthy pace,

For never felt his soul the wo, Now started forth in rapid race,

That wails a generous foeman low, Oft doubling back in mazy train,

Far less that sense of justice strong, To blind the trace the dews retain;

That wreaks a generous foeman's wrong. Now clombe the rocks projecting high,

But small his leisure now to pause; To baffle the pursuer's eye,

Redmond is first whate'er the cause:

And twicc that Redmond came so near, Now sought the stream, whose brawling sound The echo of his footsteps drowned.

Where Bertram couched like hunted deer, But if the forest verge he nears,

The very boughs his steps displace, There trample steeds and glimmer spears;

Rustled against the ruffian's face, If deeper down the copse he drew,

Who, desperate, twice prepared to start, He heard the rangers' loud halloo,

And plunge his elagger in his heart! Beating each cover while they came,

But Redmond turned a different way, As if to start the sylvan game.

And the bent boughs resumed their sway,

And Bertram held it wise, unseen, 'Twas then-like tiger close beset At every pass with toil and net,

Deeper to plunge in coppice green. Countered, where'er he turns his glare,

Thus, circled in his coil, the snake, By olashing arms and torches' flare,

When roving hunters beat the brake, Who meditates, with furious bound,

Watches with red and glistening eye, To burst on hunter, horse, and hound,

Prepared, if heedless step draw nigh, Twas then that Bertram's soul arose,

With forked tongue and venomed fang Prompting to rush upon his foes:

Instant to dart the deadly pang; But as that crouching tiger, cowed

But if the intruders turn aside, By brandished steel and shouting crowd,

Away his coils unfolded glide, Retreats beneath the jungle's shroud,

And through the deep savannah wind, Bertram suspends his purpose stern,

Some undisturbed retreat to find, And couches in the brake and fern,

VIL Hiding his face, lest foemen spy

But Bertram, as he backward drew,
The sparkle of his swarthy eye.3

And heard the loud pursuit renew,
V.

And Redmond's hollo on the wind,
Then Bertram might the bearing trace

Oft muttered in his savage mind

“ Redmond O'Neale! were thou and I Of the bold youth who led the chase, Who paused to list for every sound,

Alone this day's event to try,

With not a second here to see, Climbed every height to look around,

But the gray cliff and oaken

tree, Then rushing on with naked sword, Each dingle's bosky depths explored.

That voice of thine, that shouts so loud, 'Twas Redmond-by the azure eye;

Should pe'er repeat its summons proud!

No! nor e'er try its melting power 'Twas Redmond-by the locks that fly Disordered from his glowing cheek;

Again in maiden's summer bower.”_ Mien, face, and form, young Redmond speak.

Eluded, now behind him die, A form more active, light, and strong,

Faint and more faint, each hostile cry; Ne'er shot the ranks of war along:

He stands in Scargill wood alone, The modest, yet the manly mien,

Nor hears he now

a harsher tone

Than the hoarse cushat's plaintive ery, Might grace the court of maiden queen; A face more fair you well might find,

Or Greta's sound that murmurs by; For Reumond's knew the sun and wind,

And on the dale, so lone and wild, Nor boasted, from their tinge when free,

The summer sun in quiet smiled. The charm of regularity;

VIII. But every feature had the power

He listened long with anxious heart, To aid the expression of the hour:

Ear bent to hear, and foot to start, Whether gay wit, and humour sly,

And, while his stretched attention glows, Danced laughing in his light-blue eye;

Refused his weary frame repose. Or bended brow, and glance of fire,

'Twas silence all--he laid him down, And kindling cheek, spoke Frin's ire;

Where purple heath profusely strown Or soft and saddened glances show

And throatwort with its azure bell,4 Her ready sympathy with wo;

And moss and thyme his cushion swell. Or in that wayward mood of mind,

There, spent with toil, he listless eyed When various feelings are combined,

The course of Greta's playful tide; When joy and sorrow mingle near,

Beneath her banks now eddying dun, And hope's bright wings are check'd by fear, Now brightly gleaming to the sun, And rising doubts keep transport down,

As, dancing over rock and stone, And anger lends a short-lived frown;

In yellow light her current shone,

XI. Instant his sword was in his hand, As instant sunk the ready brand; Yet, dubious still, opposed he stood To him that issued from the wood: “ Guy Denzil! is it thou?" he said; “ Do we two meet in Scargill shade? Stand back a space!—thy purpose show, Whether thou comest as friend or foe. Report hath said that Denzil's name From Rokeby's band was razed with shame.” “A shame I owe that hot O'Neale, Who told his knight, in peevish zead, of my marauding on the clowns Of Calverley and Bradford downs.—6 I reck not. In a war to strive, Where, save the leaders, none can thrive, Suits ill my mood; and better game Awaits us both, if thou’rt the same Unscrupulous, bold Risingham, Who watched with me in midnight dark, To snatch a deer from Rokeby-park. How think'st thou?"_ Speak thy purpose out; I love not mystery or doubt."

XII.
“ Then list.-Not far there lurk a crew,
Of trusty comrades, stanch and true,
Gleaned from both factions-roundheads, freed
From cant of sermon and of creed;
And cavaliers, whose souls, like mine,
Spurn at the bonds of discipline.
Wiser we judge, by dale and wold,

A warfare of our own to hold,
Than breathe our last on battle-down,
For cloak or surplice, mace or crown.
Our schemes are laid, our purpose set,
A chief and leader lack we yet.-
Thou art a wanderer, it is said,
For Mortham's death thy steps waylaid.
Thy head at price--so say our spies,
Who ranged the valley in disguise
Join then with us; though wild debate
And wrangling rend our infant state,
Each, to an equal loth to bow,
Will yield to chief renowned as thou.”

XII.
“E'en now,” thought Bertram,“ passion-stirred,
I called on hell, and hell has heard!
What lack 1, vengeance to command,
But of stanch comrades such a band!
This Denzil, vowed to every evil,
Might read a lesson to the devil.
Well, be it so! each knave and fool
Shall serve as my revenge's tool.”-
Aloud, “ I take thy proffer, Guy,
But tell me where thy comrades lie.”
“ Not far from hence,” Guy Denzil said;
“ Descend and cross the river's bed,
Where rises yonder cliff so gray.”
“ Do thou,” said Bertram, lead the way."
Then muttered, “ It is best make sure;
Guy Denzil's faith was never pure."-
He followed down the steep descent,

Then through the Greta's streams they went,
And, when they reached the farther shore,
They stood the lonely cliff before.

XIV.
With wonder Bertram heard within
The flinty rock a murmured din;
But when Guy pulled the wilding spray
And brambles from its base away,

CHORUS.

CHORUS

He saw, appearing to the air,

And as I rode by Dalton-hall, A little entrance low and square,

Beneath the turrets high, Like opening cell of hermit lone,

A maiden on the castle wall
Dark winding through the living stone,

Was singing merrily, -
Here entered Denzil, Bertram here,
And loud and louder on their ear,

“O, Brignal banks are fresh and fair, As from the bowels of the earth,

And Greta woods are green; Resounded shouts of boisterous mirth.

I'd rather rove with Edmund there, Of old, the cavern straight and rude

Than reign our English queen.” In slaty rock the peasant hewed;

“ If, maiden, thou would'st wend with me, And Brignal's woods, and Scargill's, wave

To leave both tower and town, E'en now or many a sister cave,?

Thou first must guess what life lead we, Where, far within the darksome rift,

That dwell by dale and down. The wedge and lever ply their thrift.

And if thou canst that riddle read, But war had silenced rural trade,

As read full well you may, And the deserted mine was made

Then to the green-vood shalt thou speed, The banquet hall, and fortress too,

As blith as queen of May.”
Of Denzil and his desperate erew.

CHORUS
There Guilt his anxious revel kepts
There on his sordid pallet slept

Yet sung she, “ Brignal banks are fair,

And Greta woods are green:
Guilt-born Excess, the goblet drained
Still in his slumbering grasp retained;

I'd rather rove with Edmund there,
Regret was there, his
eye still cast

Than reign our English queen, With vain repining on the past;

XVII. Among the feasters waited near,

“I read you, by your bugle horn, Sorrow, aud unrepentant Fear,

And by your palfrey good, And Blasphemy, to frenzy driven,

I read you for a ranger sworn, With his own crimes reproaching heaven;

To keep the king's green-wood.”While Bertram showed, amid the crew,

“ A ranger, lady, winds his horn, The master-fiend that Milton drew.

And 'tis at peep of light;
XV.

His blast is heard at merry morn,
Hark! the loud revel wakes again,

And mine at dead of night.”-
To greet the leader of the train.
Behold the group by the pale lamp,

Yet sung she, “ Brignal banks are fair, That struggles with the earthy damp.

And Greta woods are gay, By what strange features Vice hath known

I would I were with Edmund there,
To single out and mark her own!

To reign his queen of May!
Yet some there are, whose brows retain
Less deeply stamped, her brand and stain.

“ With burnished brand and musquetoos See yon pale stripling! when a boy,

So gallantly you come, A mother's pride, a father's joy!

I read you for a bold dragoon, Now, 'gainst the vault's rude walls reclined, That lists the tuck of drum.” An early image fills his mind:

“I list no more the tuck of drum, The cottage, once his sire's, he sees,

No more the trumpet hear; Embowered upon the banks of Tees;

But when the beetle sounds his hum, He views sweet Winston's woodland scene,

My comrades take the spear. And shares the dance on Gainford-green.

CHORUS. A tear is springing-but the zest

“ And O! though Brignal banks be fair, Of some wild tale, or brutal jest,

And Greta woods be gay, Hath to loud laughter stirred the rest.

Yet mickle must the maiden dare, On him they call, the aptest mate

Would reign my queen of May!
For jovial song and merry feat;

XVIII.
Fast flies his dream-with dauntless air,
As one victorious o'er despair,

“ Maiden! a nameless life I lead, He bids the ruddy cup go round,

A nameless death I'll die; Till sense and sorrow both are drowned,

The fiend whose lantern lights the mead

Were better mate than 1!
And soon in merry wassail he,
The life of all their revelry,

And when I'm with my comrades met,

Beneath the green-wood bough,
Peals his loud song!—The muse has found
Her blossoms on the wildest ground,

What once we were we all forget,

Nor think what we are now. 'Mid noxious weeds at random strewed, Themselves all profitless and rude.

CHORUS, With desperate merriment he sung,

“ Yet Brignal banks are fresh and fair, The cavern to the chorus rung;

And Greta woods are green, Yet mingled with his reckless glee

And you may gather garlands there,
Remorse's bitter agony.

Would grace a summer queen."
XVI.

When Edmund ceased his simple song,
SONG,

Was silence on the sullen throng,
O Brignal banks are wild and fair,

Till waked some ruder mate their glee And Greta woods are green,

With note of coarser minstrelsy. And you may gather garlands there,

But, far apart, in dark divan, Would grace a summer queen.

Denzil and Bertram many a plan,

Of import toul and fierce, designed,
While still on Bertram's grasping mind
The wealth of murdered Mortham bung;
Though ball he feared his daring tongue,
When it stould give his wishes birth,
Might raise a spectre from the earth!

XIX.
At length his wond'rous tale he told,
When scornful smiled his comrade bold;
For, trained in license of a court,
Religion's self was Denzil's sport;
Then judge in what contempt he held
The visionary tales of eld!
His awe for Bertram scarce repressed
The unbeliever's sneering jest.
“ 'Twere hard,” he said, “ for sage or seer
To spell the subject of your fear;
Nor do I boast the art renowned,
Vision and omen to expound.
Yet, faith, if I must needs afford
To spectre watching treasured hoard,
As ban-dog keeps his master's roof,
Bidding the plunderer stand aloof,
This doubt remains—thy goblio gaunt
Hath chosen ill his ghostly haunt;
For why his guard on Mortham hold,
When Rokeby castle hath the gold
Thy patron won on Indian soil,
By stealth, by piracy, and spoil?"

XX. At this he paused-for angry shame Lowered on the brow of Risingham. He blushed to think that he should seem Assertor of an airy dream, And gave his wrath another theme. ** Denzil," he says, “though lowly laid, Wrong not the memory of the dead; For, while he lived, at Mortbam's look rhy very soul, Guy Deozil, shook! And when he taxed thy breach of word To yon fair rose of Allenford, I saw thee crouch like chastened hound, Whose back the huntsman's lash hath found. Nor dare to call his foreign wealth The spoil of piracy or stealtb; He won it bravely with his brand, When Spain waged warfare with our land. 8 Mark too-1 brook no idle jeer, Nor couple Bertram's name with fear; Mine is but half the demon's lot, For I believe, but tremble not. Enough of this. --Say, why this hoard Thou deem'st at Rokeby castle stored! Or think'st that Mortham would bestow His treasure with his faction's foe?"

XXI. Soon quenched was Denzil's ill-timed mirth: Rather he would have seen the earth Give to ten thousand spectres birth, Than venture to awake to flame The deadly wrath of Risingham. Submiss he answered, - - Mortham's mind, Thou know'st, to joy was ill inclined. In youth, 'tis said, a gallant free, A lusty reveller was he; But since returned from over sea, A sullen and a silent mood Hath numbed the current of his blood. Hence he refused each kindly call To Rokeby's hospitable hall,

And our stout knight, at dawn of morn,
Who loved to hear the bugle-horn,
Nor less, when eve his oaks embrowned,
To see the ruddy cup go round,
Took umbrage that a friend so ncar
Refused to share his chase and cheer;
Thus did the kindred barons jar,
Ere they divided in the war.
Yet trust me, friend, Matilda fair
Of Mortham's wealth is destined heir."

XXI.
“ Destined to her! to yon slight maid!
The prize my life had well nigh paid,
When 'gainst Laroche, by Cayo's wave,
I fought, my patron's wealth to save!
Denzil, I knew him long, but ne'er
Knew him that joyous cavalier,
Whom youthfui friends and early fame
Called soul of gallantry and game.
A moody man he sought our crew,
Desperate and dark, whom no one knew,
And rose, as men with us must rise,
By scorning life and all its ties.
On each adventure rash he roved,
As danger for itself he loved;
On his sad brow nor mirth nor wine
Could e'er one wrinkled knot untwine;
III was the omen if he smiled,
For 'twas in peril stern and wild;
But when he laughed, each luckless mato
Might hold our fortune desperate.
Foremost he fought in every broil,
Then scornful turned him from the spoil;
Nay, often strove to bar the way
Between his comrades and their prey;
Preaching, e'en then, to such as we,
Hot with our dear-bought victory,
Of mercy and humanity!

XXUI.
“ I loved him well-his fearless part,
His gallant leading, won my heart.
And, after each victorious fight,
"T'was I that wrangled for his right,
Redeemed his portic of the prey
That greedier mates had torn away;
In field and storm thrice saved his life,
And once amid our comrades' strife,
Yes, I have loved thee! well hath proved
My toil, my danger, how I loved!
Yet will I mourn no more thy fate,
Ingrate in life, in death ingrate.
Rise, if thou canst!” he looked around,
Aud sternly stamped upon the ground-
“Rise, with thy bearing proud and high,
E'en as this morn it met mine eye,
And give me, if thou dar'st, the lie!”
He paused-then, calm and passion-freed,
Bade Denzil with his tale proceed.

XXIV.
« Bertram, to thee I need not tell
What thou hast cause to wot so well,
How superstition's nets were twined
Around the lord of Mortham's mind;
But since he drove thee from his tower,
A maid he found in Greta's bower,
Whose speech, like David's harp, bad sway
To charm his evil fiend away.
I know not if her features moved,
Remembrance of the wife he loved;
But he would gaze upon her eye,
Till his mood softened to a sigh.

He, whom no living mortal sought
To question of bis secret thought,
Now, every thought and care confessed
To his fair niece's faithful breast;
Nor was there aught of rich or rare,
ln earth, in ocean, or in air,
But it must deck Matilda's hair.
Her love still bound him unto life;
But then avoke the civil strife,
And menials bore, by his commands,
Three coffers with their iron bands,
From Mortham's vault at midnight deep,
To her lone bower in Rokeby-keep,
Ponderous with gold and plate of pride,
His gift, if he io battle died."-

XXV.
" Then Denzil, as I guess, lays train,
These iron-banded chests to gain;
Else, wherefore should he hover here,
Where many á peril waits him near,
For all his feats of war and peace,
For plundered boors and harts of greece?"
Since through the hamlets as he fared,
What hearth has Guy's marauding spared,
Or where the chase that hath not rung.
With Denzil's bow at midnight strung?”
"1 hold my wont-my rangers go,
E'en now to track a milk-white doe. 10
By Rokeby-hall she takes her lair,
la Greta wood she harbours fair,
And when my huntsman marks her way,
What think'st thou, Bertram, of the prey?
Were Rokeby's daughter in our power,
We rate her rapsom at her dower!”

XXVI.
« 'Tis well!-there's vengeance in the thought!
Matilda is by Wilfrid sought,
And hot-brained Redmond, too, 'tis said,
Pays lover's homage to the maid.
Bertram she scorned—if met by chance,
She turned from me her shuddering glance,
Like a nice dame, that will not brook
On what she hates and loathes to look;
She told to Mortham, she could ne'er
Behold me without secret fear,
Foreboding evil; she may rue
To find her prophecy fall true!
The war has weeded Rokeby's train,
Few followers in his halls remain;
If thy scheme miss, then, briet and bold,
We are enow to storm the hold,
Bear off the plunder and the dame,
And leave the castle all' in flame."

XXVII.
“ Still art thou valour's venturous son!
Yet ponder first the risk to run;
The menials of the castle, true,
And stubbora to their charge, though few
The wall to scale—the moat to cross-
The wicket-grate the inner fosse"-

Fool! if we blench for toys like these,
On what fair guerdon can we seize?
Our hardiest venture, to explore
Some wretched peasant's fenceless door,
And the best prize we bear away,
The earnings of his sordid day.
—“Awhile thy hasty taunt forbear:
La sight of road more sure and fair,
Thou would'st not choose, in blindfold wrath,
Or wantonness, a desperate path?

• Deer in season.

List then:-for vantage or assault,
From gilded vane to dungeon vault,
Each path of Rokeby-house I knov:
There is one postern dark and low,
That issues at a secret spot,
By most neglected or forgot.
Now, could

a spial of our train
On fair pretext admittance gain,
That sally-port might be unbarred;
Then, vain were battlement and ward!"

XXVIII.
“Now speak'st thou well;-to me the
If force or art shall urge the game;
Indifferent if like fox I wind,
Or spring like tiger on the hind. -
But hark! our merry-men so gay
Troll forth another roundelay."

SONG,
“A weary lot is thine, fair maid,

A weary lot is thine!
To pull the thorn thy brow to braid,

And press the rue for wine!
A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien,

A feather of the blue,
A doublet of the Lincoln green, -
No more of me you knew,

My love!
No more of me you knew.
« This morn is merry June, I trow,

The rose is budding fain,
But sbe shall bloom in winter snow,

Ere we two meet again.”
He turned his charger as he spake,"

Upon the river shore,
He gave his bridle reios a shake,
Said, “Adieu for evermore,

My love!
And adieu for evermore.

XXIX.
“ What youth is this your band among,
The best for minstrelsy and song?
In his wild notes seem aptly met
A strain of pleasure and regret."-
“ Edmund of Winston is his name;
The hamlet sounded with the fame

Of early hopes his childhood gave,
Now centered all in Brigual cave!
I watch him well-his wayward course
Shows oft a tincture of remorse:
Some early love-shaft grazed his heart,
And of the scar will ache and smart.
Yet is he useful;-of the rest
By fits the darling and the jest,
His harp, his story, and his lay,
Oft aid the idle hours away;
When unemployed, each fiery mate
Is ripe for mutinous debate.
He tuned his strings e'en now—again
He wakes them, with a blither strain."

XXX.

SONG.ALLEN-A-DALE, Allen-a-Dale has no faggot for burning, Allen-a-Dale has no furrow for turning, Allen-a-Dale has no fleece for the spinning, Yet Allen-a-Dale has red gold for the winning: Come, read me my riddle! come, hearken my taie And tell me the craft of bold Allen-a-Dale. The baron of Ravensworth 12 prances in pride, And he views his domains upon Arkindale side, The mere for his net, and the land for his game, The chase for the wild, and the park for the tame;

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The Poetical Works of Sir Walter Scott: With a Sketch of His Life