Scott's Lady of the Lake
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CANTO SIXTH
THE GUARD ROOM
IThe sun, awakening, through the smoky airOf the dark city casts a sullen glance,Rousing each caitiff323 to his task of care,Of sinful man the sad inheritance;Summoning revelers from the lagging dance,Scaring the prowling robber to his den;Gilding on battled tower the warder’s lance,And warning student pale to leave his pen,And yield his drowsy eyes to the kind nurse of men.What various scenes, and, oh! what scenes of woe,Are witness’d by that red and struggling beam!The fever’d patient, from his pallet low,Through crowded hospital beholds its stream;The ruin’d maiden trembles at its gleam,The debtor wakes to thought of gyve and jail,The lovelorn wretch starts from tormenting dream;The wakeful mother, by the glimmering pale,Trims her sick infant’s couch, and soothes his feeble wail. IIAt dawn the towers of Stirling rangWith soldier step and weapon clang,While drums, with rolling note, foretellRelief to weary sentinel.Through narrow loop and casement barr’d,The sunbeams sought the Court of Guard,And, struggling with the smoky air,Deaden’d the torches’ yellow glare.In comfortless alliance shoneThe lights through arch of blacken’d stone,And show’d wild shapes in garb of war,Faces deform’d with beard and scar,All haggard from the midnight watch,And fever’d with the stern debauch;For the oak table’s massive board,Flooded with wine, with fragments stored,And beakers drain’d, and cups o’erthrown,Show’d in what sport the night had flown.Some, weary, snored on floor and bench;Some labor’d still their thirst to quench;Some, chill’d with watching, spread their handsO’er the huge chimney’s dying brands,While round them, or beside them flung,At every step their harness324 rung.IIIThese drew not for their fields the sword,Like tenants of a feudal lord,Nor own’d the patriarchal claimOf Chieftain in their leader’s name;Adventurers325 they, from far who roved,To live by battle which they loved.There the Italian’s clouded face,The swarthy Spaniard’s there you trace;The mountain-loving Switzer326 thereMore freely breathed in mountain air;The Fleming327 there despised the soil,That paid so ill the laborer’s toil;Their rolls show’d French and German name;And merry England’s exiles came,To share, with ill-conceal’d disdain,Of Scotland’s pay the scanty gain.All brave in arms, well train’d to wieldThe heavy halberd, brand, and shield;In camps licentious, wild, and bold;In pillage fierce and uncontroll’d;And now, by holytide328 and feast,From rules of discipline released.IVThey held debate of bloody fray,Fought ’twixt Loch Katrine and Achray.Fierce was their speech, and, ’mid their words,Their hands oft grappled to their swords;Nor sunk their tone to spare the earOf wounded comrades groaning near,Whose mangled limbs, and bodies gored,Bore token of the mountain sword,Though, neighboring to the Court of Guard,Their prayers and feverish wails were heard;Sad burden to the ruffian joke,And savage oath by fury spoke! —At length up started John of Brent,A yeoman from the banks of Trent;A stranger to respect or fear,In peace a chaser329 of the deer,In host330 a hardy mutineer,But still the boldest of the crew,When deed of danger was to do.He grieved, that day, their games cut short,And marr’d the dicer’s brawling sport,And shouted loud, “Renew the bowl!And, while a merry catch I troll,Let each the buxom chorus bear,Like brethren of the brand and spear.” VSOLDIER’S SONGOur vicar still preaches that Peter and Poule331Laid a swinging332 long curse on the bonny brown bowl,That there’s wrath and despair in the jolly black-jack,333And the seven deadly sins in a flagon of sack;334Yet whoop, Barnaby! off with thy liquor,Drink upsees out,335 and a fig for the vicar!Our vicar he calls it damnation to sipThe ripe ruddy dew of a woman’s dear lip,Says, that Beelzebub336 lurks in her kerchief so sly,And Apollyon337 shoots darts from her merry black eye;Yet whoop, Jack! kiss Gillian the quicker,Till she bloom like a rose, and a fig for the vicar!Our vicar thus preaches – and why should he not?For the dues of his cure are the placket and pot;338And ’tis right of his office poor laymen to lurch,Who infringe the domains of our good Mother Church.Yet whoop, bully-boys! off with your liquor,Sweet Marjorie’s the word, and a fig for the vicar!VIThe warder’s challenge, heard without,Stayed in mid-roar the merry shout.A soldier to the portal went, —“Here is old Bertram, sirs, of Ghent;And, – beat for jubilee the drum! —A maid and minstrel with him come.”Bertram, a Fleming, gray and scarr’d,Was entering now the Court of Guard,A harper with him, and in plaidAll muffled close, a mountain maid,Who backward shrunk to ’scape the viewOf the loose scene and boisterous crew.“What news?” they roar’d. – “I only know,From noon till eve we fought with foeAs wild and as untamableAs the rude mountains where they dwell;On both sides store of blood is lost,Nor much success can either boast.” —“But whence thy captives, friend? such spoilAs theirs must needs reward thy toil.Old dost thou wax, and wars grow sharp;Thou now hast glee-maiden and harp!Get thee an ape, and trudge the land,The leader of a juggler band.” —VII“No, comrade; – no such fortune mine.After the fight, these sought our line,That aged Harper and the girl,And, having audience of the Earl,Mar bade I should purvey them steed,And bring them hitherward with speed.Forbear your mirth and rude alarm,For none shall do them shame or harm.” —“Hear ye his boast?” cried John of Brent,Ever to strife and jangling bent;“Shall he strike doe beside our lodge,And yet the jealous niggard grudgeTo pay the forester his fee?I’ll have my share, howe’er it be,Despite of Moray, Mar, or thee.”Bertram his forward step withstood;And, burning in his vengeful mood,Old Allan, though unfit for strife,Laid hand upon his dagger knife;But Ellen boldly stepp’d between,And dropp’d at once the tartan screen: —So, from his morning cloud, appearsThe sun of May, through summer tears.The savage soldiery, amazed,As on descended angel gazed;Even hardy Brent, abash’d and tamed,Stood half admiring, half ashamed.VIIIBoldly she spoke, – “Soldiers, attend!My father was the soldier’s friend;Cheer’d him in camps, in marches led,And with him in the battle bled.Not from the valiant, or the strong,Should exile’s daughter suffer wrong.” —Answer’d De Brent, most forward stillIn every feat or good or ill, —“I shame me of the part I play’d;And thou an outlaw’s child, poor maid!An outlaw I by forest laws,And merry Needwood339 knows the cause.Poor Rose, – if Rose be living now,” —He wiped his iron eye and brow, —“Must bear such age, I think, as thou. —Hear ye, my mates; – I go to callThe Captain of our watch to hall:There lies my halberd on the floor;And he that steps my halberd o’er,To do the maid injurious part,My shaft shall quiver in his heart! —Beware loose speech, or jesting rough:Ye all know John de Brent. Enough.”IXTheir Captain came, a gallant young, —Of Tullibardine’s340 house he sprung, —Nor wore he yet the spurs of knight;Gay was his mien, his humor light,And, though by courtesy controll’d,Forward his speech, his bearing bold.The high-born maiden ill could brookThe scanning of his curious lookAnd dauntless eye; – and yet, in sooth,Young Lewis was a generous youth;But Ellen’s lovely face and mien,Ill suited to the garb and scene,Might lightly bear construction strange,And give loose fancy scope to range.“Welcome to Stirling towers, fair maid!Come ye to seek a champion’s aid,On palfrey white, with harper hoar,Like errant damosel341 of yore?Does thy high quest342 a knight require,Or may the venture suit a squire?” —Her dark eye flash’d; – she paused and sigh’d, —“Oh, what have I to do with pride! —Through scenes of sorrow, shame, and strife,A suppliant for a father’s life,I crave an audience of the King.Behold, to back my suit, a ring,The royal pledge of grateful claims,Given by the Monarch to Fitz-James.”XThe signet ring young Lewis took,With deep respect and alter’d look;And said, – “This ring our duties own;And pardon, if to worth unknown,In semblance mean, obscurely veil’d,Lady, in aught my folly fail’d.Soon as the day flings wide his gates,The King shall know what suitor waits.Please you, meanwhile, in fitting bowerRepose you till his waking hour;Female attendance shall obeyYour hest, for service or array.Permit I marshal you the way.”But, ere she followed, with the graceAnd open bounty of her race,She bade her slender purse be sharedAmong the soldiers of the guard.The rest with thanks their guerdon took;But Brent, with shy and awkward look,On the reluctant maiden’s holdForced bluntly back the proffer’d gold; —“Forgive a haughty English heart,And oh, forget its ruder part!The vacant purse shall be my share,Which in my barret cap I’ll bear,Perchance, in jeopardy of war,Where gayer crests may keep afar.”With thanks – ’twas all she could – the maidHis rugged courtesy repaid.XIWhen Ellen forth with Lewis went,Allan made suit to John of Brent: —“My lady safe, oh, let your graceGive me to see my master’s face!His minstrel I, – to share his doomBound from the cradle to the tomb.Tenth in descent, since first my siresWaked for his noble house their lyres,Nor one of all the race was knownBut prized its weal above their own.With the Chief’s birth begins our care;Our harp must soothe the infant heir,Teach the youth tales of fight, and graceHis earliest feat of field or chase;In peace, in war, our rank we keep,We cheer his board, we soothe his sleep,Nor leave him till we pour our verse —A doleful tribute! – o’er his hearse.Then let me share his captive lot;It is my right – deny it not!” —“Little we reck,” said John of Brent,“We Southern men, of long descent;Nor wot we how a name – a word —Makes clansmen vassals to a lord:Yet kind my noble landlord’s part, —God bless the house of Beaudesert!And, but I loved to drive the deer,More than to guide the laboring steer,I had not dwelt an outcast here.Come, good old Minstrel, follow me;Thy Lord and Chieftain shalt thou see.”XIIThen, from a rusted iron hook,A bunch of ponderous keys he took,Lighted a torch, and Allan ledThrough grated arch and passage dread.Portals they pass’d, where, deep within,Spoke prisoner’s moan, and fetters’ din;Through rugged vaults, where, loosely stored,Lay wheel, and ax, and headsman’s sword,And many an hideous engine grim,For wrenching joint, and crushing limb,By artist form’d, who deemed it shameAnd sin to give their work a name.They halted at a low-brow’d porch,And Brent to Allan gave the torch,While bolt and chain he backward roll’d,And made the bar unhasp its hold.They enter’d: – ’twas a prison roomOf stern security and gloom,Yet not a dungeon; for the dayThrough lofty gratings found its way,And rude and antique garnitureDeck’d the sad walls and oaken floor;Such as the rugged days of oldDeem’d fit for captive noble’s hold.343“Here,” said De Brent, “thou mayst remainTill the Leech344 visit him again.Strict is his charge, the warders tell,To tend the noble prisoner well.”Retiring then, the bolt he drew,And the lock’s murmurs growl’d anew.Roused at the sound, from lowly bedA captive feebly raised his head;The wondering Minstrel look’d, and knew —Not his dear lord, but Roderick Dhu!For, come from where Clan-Alpine fought,They, erring, deem’d the Chief he sought.XIIIAs the tall ship, whose lofty prore345Shall never stem the billows more,Deserted by her gallant band,Amid the breakers lies astrand,346So, on his couch, lay Roderick Dhu!And oft his fever’d limbs he threwIn toss abrupt, as when her sidesLie rocking in the advancing tides,That shake her frame with ceaseless beat,Yet cannot heave her from the seat; —Oh, how unlike her course on sea!Or his free step on hill and lea! —Soon as the Minstrel he could scan,“What of thy lady? – of my clan? —My mother? – Douglas? – tell me all.Have they been ruin’d in my fall?Ah, yes! or wherefore art thou here?Yet speak, – speak boldly, – do not fear.” —(For Allan, who his mood well knew,Was choked with grief and terror too.)"Who fought – who fled? – Old man, be brief; —Some might – for they had lost their Chief.Who basely live? – who bravely died?" —“Oh, calm thee, Chief!” the Minstrel cried;“Ellen is safe;” – “For that, thank Heaven!” —“And hopes are for the Douglas given; —The lady Margaret, too, is well;And, for thy clan, – on field or fell,Has never harp of minstrel toldOf combat fought so true and bold.Thy stately Pine is yet unbent,Though many a goodly bough is rent.”XIVThe Chieftain rear’d his form on high,And fever’s fire was in his eye;But ghastly, pale, and livid streaksChecker’d his swarthy brow and cheeks.– “Hark, Minstrel! I have heard thee play,With measure bold, on festal day,In yon lone isle, … again where ne’erShall harper play, or warrior hear!That stirring air that peals on high,O’er Dermid’s347 race our victory. —Strike it! – and then, (for well thou canst,)Free from thy minstrel spirit glanced,Fling me the picture of the fight,When met my clan the Saxon might.I’ll listen, till my fancy hearsThe clang of swords, the crash of spears!These grates, these walls, shall vanish then,For the fair field of fighting men,And my free spirit burst away,As if it soar’d from battle fray.”The trembling Bard with awe obey’d, —Slow on the harp his hand he laid;But soon remembrance of the sightHe witness’d from the mountain’s height,With what old Bertram told at night,Awaken’d the full power of song,And bore him in career along; —As shallop launch’d on river’s tide,That slow and fearful leaves the side,But, when it feels the middle stream,Drives downward swift as lightning’s beam.XVBATTLE OF BEAL’ AN DUINE“The Minstrel came once more to viewThe eastern ridge of Benvenue,For ere he parted, he would sayFarewell to lovely Loch Achray —Where shall he find, in foreign land,So lone a lake, so sweet a strand!There is no breeze upon the fern,Nor ripple on the lake,Upon her eyry nods the erne,348The deer has sought the brake;The small birds will not sing aloud,The springing trout lies still,So darkly glooms yon thunder cloud,That swathes, as with a purple shroud,Benledi’s distant hill.Is it the thunder’s solemn soundThat mutters deep and dread,Or echoes from the groaning groundThe warrior’s measured tread?Is it the lightning’s quivering glanceThat on the thicket streams,Or do they flash on spear and lanceThe sun’s retiring beams?I see the dagger crest of Mar,I see the Moray’s silver star,Wave o’er the cloud of Saxon war,That up the lake comes winding far!To hero bound for battle strife,Or bard of martial lay,’Twere worth ten years of peaceful life,One glance at their array!”XVI“Their light arm’d archers far and nearSurvey’d the tangled ground;Their center ranks, with pike and spear,A twilight forest frown’d;Their barbed349 horsemen, in the rear,The stern battalia350 crown’d.No cymbal clash’d, no clarion rang,Still were the pipe and drum;Save heavy tread, and armor’s clang,The sullen march was dumb.There breathed no wind their crests to shake,Or wave their flags abroad;Scarce the frail aspen seem’d to quake,That shadow’d o’er their road.Their vaward351 scouts no tidings bring,Can rouse no lurking foe,Nor spy a trace of living thing,Save when they stirr’d the roe;The host moves like a deep-sea wave,Where rise no rocks its pride to brave,High swelling, dark, and slow.The lake is pass’d, and now they gainA narrow and a broken plain,Before the Trosachs’ rugged jaws;And here the horse and spearmen pause.While, to explore the dangerous glen,Dive through the pass the archer men.”XVII“At once there rose so wild a yellWithin that dark and narrow dell,As all the fiends, from heaven that fell,Had peal’d the banner cry of hell!Forth from the pass in tumult driven,Like chaff before the wind of heaven,The archery appear;For life! for life! their plight they ply —And shriek, and shout, and battle cry,And plaids and bonnets waving high,And broadswords flashing to the sky,Are maddening in the rear.Onward they drive, in dreadful race,Pursuers and pursued;Before that tide of flight and chase,How shall it keep its rooted place,The spearmen’s twilight wood? —‘Down, down,’ cried Mar, ‘your lances down!Bear back both friend and foe!’ —Like reeds before the tempest’s frown,That serried grove of lances brownAt once lay level’d low;And closely shouldering side to side,The bristling ranks the onset bide. —‘We’ll quell the savage mountaineer,As their Tinchel352 cows the game!They come as fleet as forest deer,We’ll drive them back as tame.’ ” —XVIII“Bearing before them, in their course,The relics of the archer force,Like wave with crest of sparkling foam,Right onward did Clan-Alpine come.Above the tide, each broadsword brightWas brandishing like beam of light,Each targe was dark below;And with the ocean’s mighty swing,When heaving to the tempest’s wing,They hurl’d them on the foe.I heard the lance’s shivering crash,As when the whirlwind rends the ash;I heard the broadsword’s deadly clang,As if an hundred anvils rang!But Moray wheel’d his rearward rankOf horsemen on Clan-Alpine’s flank,– ‘My banner man, advance!I see,’ he cried, ‘their column shake. —Now, gallants! for your ladies’ sake,Upon them with the lance!’ —The horsemen dash’d among the rout,As deer break through the broom;Their steeds are stout, their swords are out,They soon make lightsome room.Clan-Alpine’s best are backward borne —Where, where was Roderick then?One blast upon his bugle hornWere worth a thousand men.And refluent353 through the pass of fearThe battle’s tide was pour’d;Vanish’d the Saxon’s struggling spear,Vanish’d the mountain sword.As Bracklinn’s chasm, so black and steep,Receives her roaring linn,As the dark caverns of the deepSuck the dark whirlpool in,So did the deep and darksome passDevour the battle’s mingled mass:None linger now upon the plain,Save those who ne’er shall fight again.”XIX“Now westward rolls the battle’s din,That deep and doubling pass within.– Minstrel, away! the work of fateIs bearing on: its issue wait,Where the rude Trosachs’ dread defileOpens on Katrine’s lake and isle.Gray Benvenue I soon repass’d,Loch Katrine lay beneath me cast.The sun is set; – the clouds are met,The lowering scowl of heavenAn inky hue of livid blueTo the deep lake has given;Strange gusts of wind from mountain glenSwept o’er the lake, then sunk agen.I heeded not the eddying surge,Mine eye but saw the Trosachs’ gorge,Mine ear but heard that sullen sound,Which like an earthquake shook the ground,And spoke the stern and desperate strifeThat parts not but with parting life,Seeming, to minstrel ear, to tollThe dirge of many a passing soul.Nearer it comes – the dim-wood glenThe martial flood disgorged agen,But not in mingled tide;The plaided warriors of the NorthHigh on the mountain thunder forthAnd overhang its side;While by the lake below appearsThe dark’ning cloud of Saxon spears.At weary bay each shatter’d band,Eying their foemen, sternly stand;Their banners stream like tatter’d sail,That flings its fragments to the gale,And broken arms and disarrayMark’d the fell havoc of the day.”XX“Viewing the mountain’s ridge askance,The Saxon stood in sullen trance,Till Moray pointed with his lance,And cried – ‘Behold yon isle! —See! none are left to guard its strand,But women weak, that wring the hand:’Tis there of yore the robber bandTheir booty wont to pile; —My purse, with bonnet pieces354 store,To him will swim a bowshot o’er,And loose a shallop from the shore.Lightly we’ll tame the war wolf then,Lords of his mate, and brood, and den.’ —Forth from the ranks a spearman sprung,On earth his casque and corselet rung,He plunged him in the wave: —All saw the deed – the purpose knew,And to their clamors BenvenueA mingled echo gave;The Saxons shout, their mate to cheer,The helpless females scream for fear,And yells for rage the mountaineer.’Twas then, as by the outcry riven,Pour’d down at once the lowering heaven;A whirlwind swept Loch Katrine’s breast,Her billows rear’d their snowy crest.Well for the swimmer swell’d they high,To mar the Highland marksman’s eye;For round him shower’d, ’mid rain and hail,The vengeful arrows of the Gael. —In vain – He nears the isle – and lo!His hand is on a shallop’s bow.– Just then a flash of lightning came,It tinged the waves and strand with flame; —I mark’d Duncraggan’s widow’d dame —Behind an oak I saw her stand,A naked dirk gleam’d in her hand:It darken’d, – but, amid the moanOf waves, I heard a dying groan;Another flash! – the spearman floatsA weltering corse beside the boats,And the stern matron o’er him stood,Her hand and dagger streaming blood.”XXI“‘Revenge! revenge!’ the Saxons cried —The Gael’s exulting shout replied.Despite the elemental rage,Again they hurried to engage;But, ere they closed in desperate fight,Bloody with spurring came a knight,Sprung from his horse, and, from a crag,Waved ’twixt the hosts a milk-white flag.Clarion and trumpet by his sideRung forth a truce note high and wide,While, in the Monarch’s name, afarAn herald’s voice forbade the war,For Bothwell’s lord, and Roderick bold,Were both, he said, in captive hold.”– But here the lay made sudden stand,The harp escaped the Minstrel’s hand! —Oft had he stolen a glance, to spyHow Roderick brook’d his minstrelsy:At first, the Chieftain, to the chime,With lifted hand, kept feeble time;That motion ceased, – yet feeling strongVaried his look as changed the song;At length, no more his deafen’d earThe minstrel melody can hear;His face grows sharp, – his hands are clench’d,As if some pang his heartstrings wrench’d;Set are his teeth, his fading eyeIs sternly fix’d on vacancy;Thus, motionless, and moanless, drewHis parting breath, stout Roderick Dhu! —Old Allan-Bane look’d on aghast,While grim and still his spirit pass’d:But when he saw that life was fled,He pour’d his wailing o’er the dead. XXIILAMENT“And art them cold and lowly laid,Thy foeman’s dread, thy people’s aid,Breadalbane’s355 boast, Clan-Alpine’s shade!For thee shall none a requiem say? —For thee, – who loved the Minstrel’s lay,For thee, of Bothwell’s house the stay,The shelter of her exiled line?E’en in this prison house of thine,I’ll wail for Alpine’s honor’d Pine!“What groans shall yonder valleys fill!What shrieks of grief shall rend yon hill!What tears of burning rage shall thrill,When mourns thy tribe thy battles done,Thy fall before the race was won,Thy sword ungirt ere set of sun!There breathes not clansman of thy line,But would have given his life for thine. —Oh, woe for Alpine’s honor’d Pine!“Sad was thy lot on mortal stage! —The captive thrush may brook the cage,The prison’d eagle dies for rage.Brave spirit, do not scorn my strain!And, when its notes awake again,Even she, so long beloved in vain,Shall with my harp her voice combine,And mix her woe and tears with mine,To wail Clan-Alpine’s honor’d Pine.” —XXIIIEllen, the while, with bursting heart,Remain’d in lordly bower apart,Where play’d, with many-colored gleams,Through storied356 pane the rising beams.In vain on gilded roof they fall,And lighten’d up a tapestried wall,And for her use a menial trainA rich collation spread in vain.The banquet proud, the chamber gay,Scarce drew one curious glance astray;Or if she look’d, ’twas but to say,With better omen dawn’d the dayIn that lone isle, where waved on highThe dun deer’s hide for canopy;Where oft her noble father sharedThe simple meal her care prepared,While Lufra, crouching by her side,Her station claim’d with jealous pride,And Douglas, bent on woodland game,Spoke of the chase to Malcolm Græme,Whose answer, oft at random made,The wandering of his thoughts betray’d. —Those who such simple joys have known,Are taught to prize them when they’re gone.But sudden, see, she lifts her head!The window seeks with cautious tread.What distant music has the powerTo win her in this woeful hour!’Twas from a turret that o’erhungHer latticed bower, the strain was sung.XXIVLAY OF THE IMPRISONEDHUNTSMAN“My hawk is tired of perch and hood,My idle greyhound loathes his food,My horse is weary of his stall,And I am sick of captive thrall.I wish I were, as I have been,Hunting the hart in forest green,With bended bow and bloodhound free,For that’s the life is meet for me.“I hate to learn the ebb of time,From yon dull steeple’s drowsy chime,Or mark it as the sunbeams crawl,Inch after inch, along the wall.The lark was wont my matins ring,The sable rook my vespers sing;These towers, although a king’s they be,Have not a hall of joy for me.“No more at dawning morn I rise,And sun myself in Ellen’s eyes,Drive the fleet deer the forest through,And homeward wend with evening dew;A blithesome welcome blithely meet,And lay my trophies at her feet,While fled the eve on wing of glee, —That life is lost to love and me!”XXVThe heart-sick lay was hardly said,The list’ner had not turn’d her head,It trickled still, the starting tear,When light a footstep struck her ear,And Snowdoun’s graceful Knight was near.She turn’d the hastier, lest againThe prisoner should renew his strain.“Oh, welcome, brave Fitz-James!” she said;”How may an almost orphan maidPay the deep debt” – “Oh, say not so!To me no gratitude you owe.Not mine, alas! the boon to give,And bid thy noble father live;I can but be thy guide, sweet maid,With Scotland’s King thy suit to aid.No tyrant he, though ire and prideMay lay his better mood aside.Come, Ellen, come! ’tis more than time —He holds his court at morning prime.”With beating heart, and bosom wrung,As to a brother’s arm she clung.Gently he dried the falling tear,And gently whisper’d hope and cheer;Her faltering steps half led, half stayed,357Through gallery fair and high arcade,Till, at his touch, its wings of prideA portal arch unfolded wide.XXVIWithin ’twas brilliant all and light,A thronging scene of figures bright;It glow’d on Ellen’s dazzled sight,As when the setting sun has givenTen thousand hues to summer even,And from their tissue, fancy framesAërial358 knights and fairy dames.Still by Fitz-James her footing staid;A few faint steps she forward made,Then slow her drooping head she raised,And fearful round the presence359 gazed;For him she sought, who own’d this state,The dreaded Prince, whose will was fate! —She gazed on many a princely port,Might well have ruled a royal court;On many a splendid garb she gazed,Then turn’d bewilder’d and amazed,For all stood bare; and, in the room,Fitz-James alone wore cap and plume.To him each lady’s look was lent;On him each courtier’s eye was bent;Midst furs, and silks, and jewels sheen,He stood, in simple Lincoln green,The center of the glittering ring, —And Snowdoun’s Knight360 is Scotland’s King.XXVIIAs wreath of snow, on mountain breast,Slides from the rock that gave it rest,Poor Ellen glided from her stay,And at the Monarch’s feet she lay;No word her choking voice commands, —She show’d the ring – she clasp’d her hands.Oh! not a moment could he brook,The generous Prince, that suppliant look!Gently he raised her; and, the while,Check’d with a glance the circle’s smile;Graceful, but grave, her brow he kiss’d,And bade her terrors be dismiss’d: —“Yes, Fair; the wandering poor Fitz-JamesThe fealty of Scotland claims.To him thy woes, thy wishes, bring;He will redeem his signet ring.Ask naught for Douglas; yestereven,His Prince and he have much forgiven:Wrong hath he had from slanderous tongue —I, from his rebel kinsmen, wrong.We would not, to the vulgar crowd,Yield what they craved with clamor loud;Calmly we heard and judged his cause,Our council aided, and our laws.I stanch’d thy father’s death-feud sternWith stout De Vaux and gray Glencairn;And Bothwell’s Lord henceforth we ownThe friend and bulwark of our Throne. —But, lovely infidel, how now?What clouds thy misbelieving brow?Lord James of Douglas, lend thine aid;Thou must confirm this doubting maid.”XXVIIIThen forth the noble Douglas sprung,And on his neck his daughter hung.The Monarch drank, that happy hour,The sweetest, holiest draught of Power, —When it can say, with godlike voice,Arise, sad Virtue, and rejoice!Yet would not James the general eyeOn Nature’s raptures long should pry;He stepp’d between – “Nay, Douglas, nay,Steal not my proselyte away!The riddle ’tis my right to read,That brought this happy chance to speed.361Yes, Ellen, when disguised I strayIn life’s more low but happier way,’Tis under name which veils my power;Nor falsely veils – for Stirling’s towerOf yore the name of Snowdoun claims,And Normans call me James Fitz-James.Thus watch I o’er insulted laws,Thus learn to right the injured cause.” —Then, in a tone apart and low, —“Ah, little traitress! none must knowWhat idle dream, what lighter thought,What vanity full dearly bought,Join’d to thine eye’s dark witchcraft, drewMy spellbound steps to Benvenue,In dangerous hour, and all but gaveThy Monarch’s life to mountain glaive!” —Aloud he spoke, – “Thou still dost holdThat little talisman of gold,Pledge of my faith, Fitz-James’s ring —What seeks fair Ellen of the King?”XXIXFull well the conscious maiden guess’dHe probed the weakness of her breast;But, with that consciousness, there cameA lightening of her fears for Græme,And more she deem’d the Monarch’s ireKindled ’gainst him, who, for her sire,Rebellious broadsword boldly drew;And, to her generous feeling true,She craved the grace of Roderick Dhu.“Forbear thy suit: – the King of kingsAlone can stay life’s parting wings.I know his heart, I know his hand,Have shared his cheer, and proved his brand; —My fairest earldom would I giveTo bid Clan-Alpine’s Chieftain live! —Hast thou no other boon to crave?No other captive friend to save?”Blushing, she turn’d her from the King,And to the Douglas gave the ring,As if she wish’d her sire to speakThe suit that stain’d her glowing cheek. —“Nay, then, my pledge has lost its force,And stubborn Justice holds her course. —Malcolm, come forth!” – and, at the word,Down kneel’d the Græme to Scotland’s Lord.“For thee, rash youth, no suppliant sues,From thee may Vengeance claim her dues,Who, nurtured underneath our smile,Hast paid our care by treacherous wile,And sought, amid thy faithful clan,A refuge for an outlaw’d man,Dishonoring thus thy loyal name. —Fetters and warder for the Græme!” —His chain of gold the King unstrung,The links o’er Malcolm’s neck he flung,Then gently drew the glittering band,And laid the clasp on Ellen’s hand.Harp of the North, farewell! The hills grow dark,On purple peaks a deeper shade descending;In twilight copse the glowworm lights her spark,The deer, half seen, are to the covert wending.Resume thy wizard elm! the fountain lending,And the wild breeze, thy wilder minstrelsy;Thy numbers sweet with Nature’s vespers blending,With distant echo from the fold and lea,And herd-boy’s evening pipe, and hum of housing362 bee.Yet, once again, farewell, thou Minstrel Harp!Yet, once again, forgive my feeble sway!And little reck I of the censure sharpMay idly cavil at an idle lay.Much have I owed thy strains on life’s long way,Through secret woes the world has never known,When on the weary night dawn’d wearier day,And bitterer was the grief devour’d alone.That I o’erlived such woes, Enchantress! is thine own.Hark! as my lingering footsteps slow retire,Some Spirit of the Air has waked thy string!’Tis now a seraph bold, with touch of fire —’Tis now the brush of Fairy’s frolic wing.Receding now, the dying numbers ringFainter and fainter down the rugged dell,And now the mountain breezes scarcely bringA wandering witch note of the distant spell —And now, ’tis silent all! – Enchantress, fare thee well!