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XVII.

"O good Saint Thomas, hear," he pray'd, "my patron It was the noble Moringer to climb the hill beSaint art thou,

gan,

man;

A traitor robs me of my land even while I pay my And stood before the bolted gate a woe and weary
Vow!
My wife he brings to infamy that was so pure of" Now help me, every saint in heaven that can corn-
passion take,

name,

And I am far in foreign land, and must endure the To gain the entrance of my hall this wofu. match to shame." break."

XVIII.

It was the good Saint Thomas, then, who heard his His very knock it sounded sad, his call was sad and pilgrim's prayer, slow, And sent a sleep so deep and dead that it o'erpower'd For heart and head, and voice and hand, were heavy his care; all with woe; Ile waked in fair Bohemian land outstretch'd beside And to the warder thus he spoke; "Friend, to thy a rill, High on the right a castle stood, low on the left a A pilgrim from Saint Thomas-land craves harbour for a day.

mill.

XIX.

Lady say,

The Moringer he started up as one from spell un- "I've wander'd many a weary step, my strength is bound, wellnigh done, And dizzy with surprise and joy gazed wildly all And if she turn me from her gate I'll see no morrow's around; sun; "I know my fathers' ancient towers, the mill, the I pray, for sweet Saint Thomas' sake, a pilgrim's bed stream I know, and dole, Now blessed be my patron Saint who cheer'd his And for the sake of Moringer's, her once-loved huspilgrim's woe!

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IX.

band's soul."

He leant upon his pilgrim staff, and to the mill he It was the stalwart warder then he came his dame drew,

before,

"A pilgrim, worn and travel-toil'd, stands at the castle-door;

So alter'd was his goodly form that none their master knew; The Baron to the miller said, "Good friend, for And prays, for sweet Saint Thomas' sake, for harbour charity, and for dole, Tell a poor palmer in your land what tidings may And for the sake of Moringer, thy noble husband's there be?"

soul."

XXI.

The miller answered him again, "He knew of little The Lady's gentle heart was moved, "Do up the gate," she said,

news,

Save that the Lady of the land did a new bridegroom" And bid the wanderer welcome be to banquet and choose; to bed; Her husband died in distant land, such is the constant And since he names my husband's name, so that he word, lists to stay, His death sits heavy on our souls, he was a worthy These towers shall be his harbourage a twelvemonth Lord. and a day."

XXII.

"Of him I held the little mill which wins me living It was the stalwart warder then undid the portal free, broad, God rest the Baron in his grave, he still was kind to It was the noble Moringer that o'er the threshold me! strode;

And when Saint Martin's tide comes round, and" And have thou thanks, kind heaven," he said, millers take their toll, "though from a man of sin,

The priest that prays for Moringer shall have both That the true lord stands here once more his castle cope and stole."

gate within."

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It was the noble Moringer that dropp'd amid the wine He kneel'd before the Moringer, and down his wea.

A bridal ring of burning gold so costly and so fine:

pon threw;

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"My oath and knightly faith are broke," these were the words he said,

"O father, see yonder! see yonder!" he says;
66 My boy, upon what doest thou fearfully gaze?"-

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"Then take, my liege, thy vassal's sword, and take "O, 'tis the Erl-King with his crown and his shroud." thy vassal's head." No, my son, it is but a dark wreath of the cloud." (The Erl-King speaks.)

XLII.

The noble Moringer he smiled, and then aloud did say, "He gathers wisdom that hath roam'd seven twelvemonths and a day;

"O come and go with me, thou loveliest child; By many a gay sport shall thy time be beguiled; My mother keeps for thee full many a fair toy,

My daughter now hath fifteen years, fame speaks her And many a fine flower shall she pluck for my boy." sweet and fair,

I give her for the bride you lose, and name her for "O, father, my father, and did you not hear my heir.

XLIII.

"The young bridegroom hath youthful bride, the old

bridegroom the old,

The Erl-King whisper so low in my ear?"-
"Be still, my heart's darling-my child, be at ease;
It was but the wild blast as it sung thro' the trees."
Erl-King.

Whose faith was kept till term and tide so punctually "O wilt thou go with me, thou loveliest boy?
were told;
My daughter shall tend thee with care and with joy;
But blessings on the warder kind that oped my She shall bear thee so lightly thro' wet and thro' wild,

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And press thee, and kiss thee, and sing to my child."

"O father, my father, and saw you not plain,

The Erl-King's pale daughter glide past thro' the
rain?"-

"O yes, my loved treasure, I knew it full soon;
It was the grey willow that danced to the moon."

"O come and go with me, no longer delay,
Or else, silly child, I will drag thee away."
"O father! O father! now, now keep your hold,
The Erl-King has seized me-his grasp is so cold!"

Sore trembled the father; he spurr'd thro' the wild,
Clasping close to his bosom his shuddering child;
He reaches his dwelling in doubt and in dread,
But, clasp'd to his bosom, the infant was dead!"

tempting a version of that ballad, as it has been translated by
Lewis.
W.S."-Life, vol. i. p. 378.

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END OF BALLADS FROM THE GERMAN

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In awful ruins Etna thunders nigh,
And sends in pitchy whirlwinds to the sky
Black clouds of smoke, which, still as they aspire,
From their dark sides there bursts the glowing fire;
At other times huge balls of fire are toss'd,
That lick the stars, and in the smoke are lost:
Sometimes the mount, with vast convulsions torn,
Emits huge rocks, which instantly are borne
With loud explosions to the starry skies,
The stones made liquid as the huge mass flies,
Then back again with greater weight recoils,
While Etna thundering from the bottom boils.

in the shape of an apothecary's blue-buskined wife, &c. &c. These lines, and another short piece' On the Setting Sun,' were lately found wrapped up in a cover, inscribed by Dr. Adam, ' Walter Scott, July 1783."

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Loud o'er my head though awful thunders roll,
And vivid lightnings flash from pole to pole,
Yet 'tis thy voice, my God, that bids them fly,
Thy arm directs those lightnings through the sky.
Then let the good thy mighty name revere,
And harden'd sinners thy just vengeance fear.

On the Setting Sun.

1783.

THOSE evening clouds, that setting ray, And beauteous tints, serve to display

Their great Creator's praise; Then let the short-lived thing call'd man, Whose life's comprised within a span, To him his homage raise.

We often praise the evening clouds,
And tints so gay and bold,
But seldom think upon our God,
Who tinged these clouds with gold!'

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1810, were written in 1797, on occasion of the Poet's disappointment in love.

The violet in her green-wood bower,

Where birchen boughs with hazels mingle, May boast itself the fairest flower

In glen, or copse, or forest dingle.

Though fair her gems of azure hue,
Beneath the dew-drop's weight reclining;
I've seen an eye of lovelier blue,

More sweet through wat'ry lustre shining.

The summer sun that dew shall dry,

Ere yet the day be past its morrow;

Nor longer in my false love's eye

Remain'd the tear of parting sorrow.

To a Lady.

WITH FLOWERS FROM A ROMAN WALL.

1797.

WRITTEN in 1797, on an excursion from Gillsland, in Cumberland. See Life, vol. i., p. 365.

Take these flowers which, purple waving,
On the ruin'd rampart grew,

Where, the sons of freedom braving,
Rome's imperial standards flew.

Warriors from the breach of danger
Pluck no longer laurels there;
They but yield the passing stranger
Wild-flower wreathes for Beauty's hair,

Fragments.

(1.) Bath well Castle.

1799.

THE following fragment of a ballad written at Bothwell Castle, in the autumn of 1799, was first printed in the Life of Sir Walter Scott, vol. ii., p. 28.

When fruitful Clydesdale's apple-bowers
Are mellowing in the noon;

When sighs round Pembroke's ruin'd towers
The sultry breath of June;

1 Sir Aylmer de Valence, Earl of Pembroke, Edward the First's Governor of Scotland, usually resided at Bothwell Cas

When Clyde, despite his sheltering wood,
Must leave his channel dry;
And vainly o'er the limpid flood
The angler guides his fly;

If chance by Bothwell's lovely brses
A wanderer thou hast been,
Or hid thee from the summer's blaze
In Blantyre's bowers of green,

Full where the copsewood opens wild
Thy pilgrim step hath staid,
Where Bothwell's towers, in ruin piled,
O'erlook the verdant glade;

And many a tale of love and fear
Hath mingled with the scene-
Of Bothwell's banks that bloom'd so dear,
And Bothwell's bonny Jean.

O, if with rugged minstrel lays Unsated be thy ear,

And thou of deeds of other days Another tale wilt hear.

Then all beneath the spreading beech, Flung careless on the lea,

The Gothic muse the tale shall teach Of Bothwell's sisters three.

Wight Wallace stood on Deckmont head,
He blew his bugle round,

Till the wild bull in Cadyow wood
Has started at the sound.

St. George's cross, o'er Bothwell hung,
Was waving far and wide,
And from the lofty turret flung

Its crimson blaze on Clyde;

And rising at the bugle blast

That marked the Scottish foe, Old England's yeomen muster'd fast, And bent the Norman bow.

Tall in the midst Sir Aylmer' rose, Proud Pembroke's Earl was heWhile"

(2.) The Shepherd's Tale.

"ANOTHER imperfect ballad, in which he had meant to blend together two legends familiar to every reader tle, the ruins of which attest the magnificence of the inva der.-ED.

9 Life of Scott, vol. ii., p. 31.

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