The Poetical Works of Sir Walter Scott

Yet the fish of the lake, and the deer of the valc, To Odin's son, and Sifia's spouse, are iess free to lord Dacre than Allan-a-Dale! Near Startforth high they paid their vowi,

Remembered Thor's victorious fame, A..0-Dale was ne'er belted a knight, T'nough his spur be as sharp, and his blade be as And gave the dell the thunderer's name. bright;

II.
Allen-a-Dale is no baron or lord,

Yet scald or kemper erred, I ween,
Yet twenty tall yeomen will draw at his word; Who gave that soft and quiet scebe,
And the best of our nobles his bonnet will vail, With all its varied light and shade,
Who at Rere-cross on Stanmorel3 meets Allen- And every little sunny glade,
a-Dale.

And the blith brook that strolls along
Allen-a-Dale to bis wooing is come;

Its pebbled bed with summer song, The mother, she asked of his household and home; To the grim god of blood and scar, " Tko the castle of Richmond stands fair on the The grisly king of Dorthern war. hill;

O better were its banks assigned My hall,” quoth bold 'Allen, “shows gallanter To spirits of a gentler kind! still;

For, where the thicket-groups recede, 'Tis the blue vault of heaven, with its crescent so And the rathe primrose decks the mead, pale,

The velvet grass seems carpet meet And with all its bright spangles!” said Allen-a- For the light fairies' lively feet. Dale.

Yon tufted knoll, with daisies strown, The father was steel, and the mother was stone;

Might make proud Oberon a throne, They lifted the latch, and they bade him begone: Puck should brood o'er his frolic sly;,

While, hidden in the thicket pigh, But loud on the morrow, their wail and their cry! He had laughed on the lass with his bonny black and where profuse the wood-veitch clingo

Round ash and elm in verdant rings, eye, And she fled to the forest to hear a love-tale,

Its pale and azure pencilled flower
And the youth it was told by was Allen-a-Dale.

Should canopy Titania's bower.
XXXI.

III. " Thou seest that, whether sad or gay,

Here rise no cliffs the vale to shade, Love miogles ever in his lay.

But skirting every sunny glade, But when his boyish wayward fit

In fair variety of greep Is o'er, he hatb address and wit;

The woodland lends its sylvan screen. O! 'tis a brain of fire, can ape

Houry, yet haughty, frowns the oak, Each dialect, each various shape."

Its boughs by weight of ages broke; “ Nay, then, to aid thy project, Gay

And towers erect, in sable spire, Soft! who comes here?"_My trusty spy, The pine-tree scatbed by lightning fire; Speak, Hamlin! hast thou lodged our deer?"14 The drooping ash and birch, between, "I bare-but two fair stags are near;

Hang their fair tresses o'er the green, I watched her as she slowly strayed

And all beneath at random grow, From Eglistone up Thorsgill glade:

Each coppice dwarf of varied show, But Wilfrid Wycliffe sought her side,

Or round the stems profusely twined, And then young Redmond in bis pride

Fling summer odours on the wind. Shot down to meet them on their way;

Such varied group Urbino's hand Much, as it seemed, was theirs to say:

Round him of Tarsus nobly planned, There's time to pitch both toil and net,

What time he bade proud Athens own Before their path be homeward set.”

On Mars's mount the God unknown! A hurried and a whispered speech

Then gray Philosophy stood nigh, Did Bertram's will to Denzil teach,

Though bent by age, in spirit bigh; Who, turning to the robber band,

There rose the scar seamed veteran's spear, Bade four the bravest take the brand.

There Grecian Beauty bent to hear,
Wbile childhood at her foot was placed,

Or clung delighted to her waist.
1.

IV. When Denmark's raven soared on high,

“And rest we here,” Matilda said, Triumpbant through Northumbrian sky,

And sate her in the varying shade. Till, hovering near, ber fatal croak

“ Chance-met, we well may steal an hour, Bade Reged's Britons dread the yoke,!

To friendship due from fortune's power. And the broad shadow of her wing

Thou, Wilfrid, ever kind, must lend Blackened each cataract and spring,

Thy counsel to thy sister friend; Where Tees in tumult leaves his source, And Redmond, thou, at my bebest, Thundering o'er Caldron and High-Force;2 No farther urge thy desperate quest, Beneath the shade the Northmen came,

For to my care a charge is left, Fixed on each vale a Runic name, 3

Dangerous to one of aid bereft, Reared high their altars' rugged stone,

Well nigh an orphan, and alone, And gave their gods the land they won.

Captive her sire, her house o’erthrown.” Then, Balder, one bleak garth was thine, Wilfrid, with wonted kindness graced, And one sweet brooklet's silver line,

Beside her on the turf she placed; Aod Woden's croft did title gain

Then paused, with downcast look and eye, From the stern father of the slain!

Nor bade young Redmond seat him nigh. But to the monarch of the mace,

Her conscious diffidence he saw, That beld in fight the foremost place,

Drew backward as in modest awe,

CANTO IV.

And sate a little space removed,
Unmarked to gaze on her he loved.

V.
Wreathed in its dark-brown rings, her hair
Half hid Matilda's forehead fair,
Half hid and half revealed to view
Her full dark eye of hazel hue.
The rose, with faint and feeble streak,
So slightly tinged the maiden's cheek,
That
you

had said her hue was pale; But if she faced the summer gale, Or spoke, or sung, or quicker moved, Or heard the praise of those she loved, Or when of interest was expressed Aught that waked feeling in her breast, The mantling blood in ready play Rivalled the blush of rising day. There was a soft and pensive grace, A cast of thought upon her face, 'That suited well the forehead high, The eye-lash dark and downcast eye; The mild expression spoke a mind In duty firm, composed, resigned; 'Tis that which Roman art has given, To mark their maiden queen of heaven. In hours of sport, that mood gave way To Fancy's light and frolic play; And when the dance, or tale, or song, In harmless mirth sped timc along, Full oft her doating sire would call His Maud the merriest of them all. But days of war, and civil crime, Allowed but ill such festal time, And her soft pensiveness of brow Had deepened into sadness now. In Marston field her father ta’en, Her friends dispersed, brave Mortham slain, While every ill her soul foretold, From Oswald's thirst of power and gold, And boding thoughts that she must part With a soft vision of her heart, All lowered around the lovely maid, To darken her dejection's shade.

VI. Who has not heard—while Erin yet Strove 'gainst the Saxons' iron bitWho has not heard how brave O'Neale In English blood imbrued his steel, Against St. George's cross blazed high The banners of his tanistry, To fiery Essex gave the soil, And reigned a prince in Ulster's soil! But chief arose his victor pride, When that brave marshal fought and died. 8 And Avon-Duff to ocean bore His billows, red with Saxon gore. 'Twas first in that disastrous fight, Rokeby and Mortham proved their might. There had they fallen amongst the rest, But pity touched a chieftain's breast; The tanist he to great O'Neale, 6 He checked his followers' bloody zeal, To quarter took the kinsmen bold, And bore them to his mountain hold, Gave them each sylvan joy to know, Slieve-Donard's cliffs and woods could show; Shared with them Erin's festal cheer, Showed them the chase of wolf and deer, And, when a fitting time was come, Safe and unransomed sent them home, Loaded with many a gift, to prove A generous foe's respect and love.

VII. Years sped away. On Rokeby's head Some touch of early snow was shed; Calm he enjoyed, by Greta's wave, The peace which James the peaceful gave, While Mortham, far beyond the main, Waged his fierce wars on Indian Spain. It chanced upon a wintry night, That whitened Stanmore's stormy height, The chase was o'er, the stag was killed, In Rokeby-hall the cups were filled, And, by the huge stone chimney, sate The knight, in hospitable state. Moonless the sky, the hour was late, When a loud summons shook the gate, And sore for entrance and for aid A voice of foreign accent prayed; The porter answered to the call, And instant rushed into the hall A man, whose aspect and attire Startled the circle by the fire.

VIII.
His plaited hair in elf-locks spread?
Around his bare and matted head;
On leg and thigh, close stretched and trim
His vesture showed the sinewy limb:
In saffron died, a linen vest
Was frequent folded round his breast;
A mantle long and loose he wore,
Shaggy with ice, and stained with gore.
He clasped a burthen to his heart,
And, resting on a knotted dart,
The snow from hair and beard he shook,
And round him gazed with wildered look;
Then up the hall, with staggering pace,
He hastened by the blaze to place,
Half lifeless from the bitter air,
His load, a boy of beauty rare.
To Rokeby, next, he louted low,
Then stood erect his tale to show,
With wild majestic port and tone,
Like envoy of some barbarous throne::
“ Sir Richard, lord of Rokeby, hear!
Turlough O'Neale salutes thee dear;
He graces thee, and to thy care
Young Redmond gives, his grandson fair,
He bids thee breed him as thy son,
For Turlough's days of joy are done;
And other lords have seized his land,
And faint and feeble is his hand,
And all the glory of Tyrone
Is like a morning vapour flown.
To bind the duty on thy soul,
He bids thee thiok of Erin's bowl.
If any wrong the young O'Neale,
He bids thee think on Erin's steel.
To Mortham first this charge was due,
But, in his absence, honours you.
Now is my master's message by,
And Ferraught will contented die.”

IX.
His look grew fixed, his cheek grew pale
He sunk when he had told his tale;
For, hid beneath his mantle wide,
A mortal wound was in his side.
Vain was all aid

in terror wild,
And sorrow, screamed the orphan child.
Poor Ferraught raised his wistful eyes,
And faintly strove to sooth his cries;
All reckless of his dying pain,
He blest, and blest him o'er again!

And kissed the little hands outspread,

How at his fall the bugle rung, And kissed and crossed the infant head,

Till rock and green-wood answer flung, And, in his native tongue and phrase,

Then blesses her, that man can find Prayed to each saint to watch his days;

A pastime of such savage kind! Then all his strength together drew,

XII. The charge to Rokeby to renew.

But Redmond knew to weave his tale When half was faltered from his breast,

So well with praise of wood and dale, And half by dying signs expressed,

And knew so well each point to trave, " Bless thee, O'Neil?” he faintly said,

Gives living interest to the chase,
And thus the faithful spirit Aed.

And knew so well o'er all to throw
X.

His spirit's wild romantic glow,
Twas long ere soothing might prevail

That, while she blamed, and while she feared, Upon the child to end the tale;

She loved each venturous tale she heard. And then he said, that from his home

Oft, too, when drifted snow and rain His grandsire had been forced to roam,

To bower and hall their steps restrain, Which had not been if Redmond's hand

Together they explored the page Had but had strength to draw the brand,

Of glowing bard or gifted sage;. The brand of Lenaugh More the red,

Oft, placed the evening fire beside, That hung beside the gray wolf's head.

The minstrel art alternate tried, Twas from his broken phrase descried,

While gladsome harp and lively lay His foster-father was his guide, 9

Bade winter-night fit fast away: Who, in bis charge, from Ulster bore

Thus from their childhond blending still Letters, and gifts a goodly store;

Their sport, their study, and their skill, But ruffians met them in the wood,

A union of the soul they prove, Ferraught in battle boldly stood,

But must not think that it was love. Till wounded and o’erpowered at length, But, though they dared not, envious Fame And stripped of all, his failing strength

Soon dared to give that union Dame; Just bore him here—and then the child

and when so often, side by side, Renewed again his moaning wild.

From year to year the pair she eyed,

She sometimes blamed the good old knight, XI.

As dull of ear and dim of sight, The tear, down childhood's cheek that flows,

Sometimes his purpose would declare, Is like the dew-drop on the rose;

That young O'Neale should wed his heir. When next the summer breeze comes by,

XIV.
And waves the bush, the flower is dry;

The suit of Wilfrid rent disguise
Won by their care, the orphan child
Soon on his new protectors smiled,

And bandage from the lovers' eyes;
With dimpled cheek and eye so fair,

'Twas plain that Oswald, for his son, Through his thick curls of flaxen hair.

Had Rokeby's favour well nigh won. But blithest laughed that cheek and eye,

Now must they meet with change of cheer,

With mutual looks of shame and fear;
When Rokeby's little maid was nigh;
Twas his, with elder brother's pride,

Now must Matilda stray apart,

To school her disobedient heart;
Matilda's tottering steps to guide;
His native lays in Irish tongue,

And Redmond now alone must rue
To sooth her infant ear, he sung,

The love he never can subdue.

But factions rose, and Rokeby sware,
And primrose twined with daisy fair,

No rebel's son should wed his heir;
To form a chaplet for her hair.
By lawn, by grove, by brooklet's strand,

And Redmond, nurtured while a child
The children still were hand in hand,

In many a bard's traditions wild,

Now sought the lonely wood or stream, And good sir Richard smiling eyed

To eherish there a happier dream,
The early knot so kindly tied.

Of maiden won by sword or lance,
XII.

As in the regions of romance;
But summer months bring wilding shoot

And count the heroes of his line, From bud to bloom, from bloom to fruit;

Great Nial of the pledges nine, o Aod years draw on our human span,

Shane-Dymas wild, and Geraldine, 12 From child to boy, from boy to man;

And Connan-More, who vowed his race And soon in Rokeby's woods is seen

For ever to the fight and chase, A gallant boy in hunter's green.

And cursed him, of his lineage born, He loves to wake the felon boar,

Should sheathe the sword to reap the corn, In his dark haunt on Greta's shore,

Or leave the mountain and the wold, And loves, against the deer so dun,

To shroud himself in castle hold. To draw the shaft, or lift the gun;

From such examples hope he drew, Yet more he loves, in autumn prime,

And brightened as the trumpet blew. The hazel's spreading boughs to climb,

XV. And down its clustered stores to hail,

If brides were won by heart and blade, Where young Matilda holds her veil.

Redmond had both his cause to aid, And she, whose veil receives the shower,

And all beside of nurture rare Is altered too, anıl knows her power;

That might beseem a baron's heir. Assumes a monitress's pride,

Turlough O'Neale, in Erin's strife, Her Redmond's dangerous sports to chide, On Rokeby's lord bestowed his life, Yet listens still to hear him tell

And well did Rokeby's generous knight How the grim wild-boar fought and fell,

Young Redmond for the deed requite.

Nor was his liberal care and cost
Upon the gallant stripling lost:
Seek the North Riding broad and wide,
Like Redmond none could steed bestride;
From Tynemouth search to Cumberland,
Like Redmond none could wield a brand;
And then, of humour kind and free,
And bearing him to each degree
With frank and fearless courtesy,
There never youth was formed to steal
Upon the heart like brave O'Neale.

XVI.
Sir Richard loved him as his son,
And when the days of peace were done,
And to the gales of war he gave
The banner of his sires to wave,
Redmond, distinguished by his care,
He chose that honoured flag to bear, is
And named his page, the next degree
In that old time to chivalry.14
In five pitched fields he well maintained
The honoured place his worth obtained,
And high was Redmond's youthful name
Blazed in the roll of martial fame.
Had fortune smiled on Marston fight,
The eve had seen him dubbed a knight;
Twice, 'mid the battle's doubtful strife,
Of Rokeby's lord he saved the life;
But when he saw him prisoner mnade,
He kissed, and then resigned his blade,
And yielded him an easy, prey
To those who led the knight away,
Resolved Matilda's sire should prove,
la prison, as in fight, his love.

XVII.
When lovers meet in adverse hour,
Tis like a sun-glimpse through a shower,
A watery ray an instant seen
The darkly closing clouds between.
As Redmond on the turf reclined,
The past and present filled his mind;
“It was not thus,” Affection said,
“I dreamed of my return, dear maid!
Not thus, when, from thy trembling hand,
I took the banner and the brand,
When round me, as the bugles blew,
Their blades three hundred warriors drew,
And, while the standard I unrolled,
Clashed their bright arms with clamour bold.
Where is that banner now?-its pride
Lies whelmed in Ouze's sullen tide!
Where now these warriors?-in their gore,
They cumber Marston's dismal moor!
And what avails a useless brand,
Held by a captive's shackled band,
That only would his life retain,
To aid thy sire to bear his chain!”
Thus Redmond to himself apart,
Nor lighter was his rival's heart;
For Wilfrid, while bis generous soul
Disdained to profit by control,
By many a sign could mark too plain,
Save with such aid, his hopes were vain.
But now Matilda's accents stole
On the dark visions of their soul,
And bade their mournful musing fly,
Like mist before the zephyr's sigh.

XVIII. “ I need not to my friends recal How Mortham shunned my father's hall;

A man of silence and of wo, Yet ever anxious to bestow On my poor self whate'er could prove A kinsman's confidence and love. My feeble aid could sometimes chase The clouds of sorrow for a space, But, oftener, fixed beyond my power, I marked his deep despondence lower. One dismal cause, by all unguessed, His fearful confidence confessed; And twice it was my hap to see Examples of that agony, Which for a season can o'erstrain And wreck the structure of the brain. He had the awful power to know The approaching mental overthrow, And while his mind had courage yet To struggle with the dreadful fit, The victim writhed against its throes, Like wretch beneath a murderer's blow.. This malady I well could mark, Sprung from some direful cause and dark; But still he kept its source concealed, Till arming for the civil field; Then in my charge he bade me hold A treasure huge of gems and gold, With this disjointed dismal scroll That tells the secret of his soul, In such wild words as oft betray A mind by anguish forced astray.

XIX.

MORTHAM'S HISTORY. “ Matilda! thou hast seen me start, As if a dagger thrilled my heart, When it has happ'd some casual phrase Waked memory of my former days. Believe, that few can backward cast Their thoughts with pleasure on the past. But I!-my youth was rash and vain, Aud blood and rage my manhood stain, And my gray hairs must now descend To my cold grave without a friend! E'en thou, Matilda, wilt disown Thy kinsman, when his guilt is known. And must I lift the bloody veil, That hides my dark and fatal tale? I must-I will-pale phantom, cease! Leave me one little hour in peace! Thus haunted, think'st thou I have skill Thine own commission to fulfil? Or, while thou point'st with gesture fierce, Thy blighted cheek, thy bloody hearse, How can I paint thee as thou wert, So fair in face, so warm in heart!

XX. “Yes, she was fair! Matilda, thou Hast a soft sadness on thy brow; But her's was like the sunny glow, That laughs on earth and all below! We wedded secret—there was need Differing in country and in creed; And when to Mortham's tower she came, We mentioned not her race and name, Until thy sire, who fought afar, Should turn him home from foreign war, On whose kind influence we relied To sooth her father's ire and pridc. Few months we lived retired, unknown To all but one dear friend alone, One darling friend—I spare his shame, I will not write the villain's name!,

My trespasses I might forget,
And sue in vengeance for the debt
Due by a brother worm to me,
Ungrateful to God's clemency,
That spared me penitential time,
Nor cut me off amid my crime.

XXI.
“A kindly smile to all she lent,
But on her husband's friend 'twas bent
So kind, that, from its harmless glee,
The wretch misconstrued villany.
Repulsed in his presumptuous love,
A vengeful snare the traitor wove.
Alone we sate-the flask had flowed,
My blood with heat unwonted glowed,
When through the alleyed walk we spied
With hurried step my Edith glide,
Cowering beneath the verdant screen,
As one unwilling to be seen.
Words cannot paint the fiendish smile
That curled the traitor's cheek the while!
Fiercely 1 questioned of the cause;
He made a cold and artful pause,
Then prayed it might not chafe my mood-
There was a gallant in the wood!'
We had been shooting at the deer;
My cross-bow (evil chance) was near.
That ready weapon of my wrath
I caught, and, hastening up the path,
Io the yew-grove my wife I found,
A stranger's arms her neck had bound!
I marked his heart-the bow I drew-
I loosed the shaft--'twas more than true!
I found my Edith's dying charms
Locked in her murdered brother's arms!
He came in secret to inquire
Her state, and reconcile her sire.

XXII.
“All fled my rage--the villain first,
Whose craft my jealousy bad nursed;
He sought in far and foreign clime
To 'scape the vengeance of his crime.
The manner of the slaughter done
Was known to few, my guilt to none:
Some tale my faithful steward framed
I know not what--of shaft misaimed;
And even from those the act who knew,
He hid the hand from which it flew.
Untouched by human laws I stood,
But God had heard the cry of blood!
There is a blank upon my mind,
A fearful vision ill-defined,
Of raving till my flesh was torn,
Of dungeon bolts and fetters worn
And when I waked to wo more mild,
And questioned of my infant child--
(Have I not written, that she bare
À boy, like summer morning fair?
With looks confused my menials tell,
That armell men in Mortham dell
Beset the nu se's evening way,
And bore her, with her charge, away.
My faithless friend, and done but he,
Could profit by this villany:
Him, then, I sought, with purpose dread
Of treble vengeance on his head!
He 'scaped me but my bosom's wound
Some fait relief from wandering found,
And over distant land and sea
I bore my load of misery.

XXIII.
“Twas then that fate my footsteps led
Among a daring crew and dread,
With whom full oft my hated life
I ventured in such desperate strife,
That e'en my fierce associates saw
My frantic deeds with doubt and awe.
Much then I learned, and much can show,
Of human guilt and human wo,
Yet ne'er have, in my wanderings, known
A wretch, whose sorrows matched my own!
It chanced, that after battle fray,
Upon the bloody field we lay;
The yellow moon her lustre shed
Upon the wounded and the dead,
While, sense in toil and wassail drowned,
My ruffian comrades slept around.
There came a voice-its silver tone
Was soft, Matilda, as thine own-
• Ah wretch!' it said, ' what makest thou hero,
While unavenged my bloody bier,
While unprotected lives mine heir,
Without a father's name and care!'

XXIV.
“ I heared obeyed—and homeward drew;
The fiercest of our desperate crew
I brought, at time of need, to aid
My purposed vengeance, long delayed.
But, humble be my thanks to heaven,
That better hopes and thoughts has given,
And by our Lord's dear prayer has taught
Mercy by mercy must be bought!
Let me in misery rejoice--
I've seen bis face-l've heard his voice
I claimed of him my only child
As he disowned the theft, he smiled!
That very calm and callous look,
That fiendish sneer his visage took,
As when he said, in scornful mood,
• There is a gallant in the wood!'
-1 did not slay him as he stood-
All praise be to my Maker given!
Long-sufferance is one path to heaven.”

XXV.
Thus far the woful tale was heard,
When something in the thicket stirred.
Up Redmond sprang; the villain Guy
(For he it was that surked so nigh)
Drew back-he durst not cross his steel
A moment's space with brave O'Neale,
For all the treasured gold that rests
In Mortham's iron-banded chests.
Redmond resumed his seat;-he said,
Some roe was rustling in the shade.
Bertram laughed grimly, when he saw
His timorous comrade backward draws
“ A trusty mate art thou, to fear
A single arm, and aid so near!
Yet have I seen thee mark a deer
Give me thy carabine-I'll show
An art that thou wilt gladly know,
How thou mayest safely quella foe.”

XXVI.
On hands and knees fierce Bertram drew
The spreading birch and hazels through,
Till he had Redmond full in view.
The gun he levelled-mark like this

Was Bertram never known to miss,
When fair opposed to him there sate
An object of his mortal bate.
That day young Redmond's death had seen,
But twice Matilda came between

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