The Lay of the Last Minstrel.

CANTO SIXTH.

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 foosteps 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 well-known 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 streams 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;2
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 prepared,
Battle and banquet both they shared.

1The Lady of the Lake has nothing so good as the address to Scotland."-MCINTOSH.

2 The preceding four lines now form the inscription on the monument of Sir Walter Scott in the market-place of Selkirk.-See Life, vol. x. p. 257.

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 waved 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 entwined,
Guarded with gold, with ermine lined;
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,

* The line "Still lay my head," &c., was not in the first edition.-ED.

4 See Appendix, Note 3 X.

s Ibid. Note 3 Y.

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 smiled.

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 stag-hounds' 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;
Till Conrad, Lord of Wolfenstein,
By nature fierce, and warm with wine,
And now in humor highly cross'd,
About some steeds his band had lost,
High words to words succeeding still,
Smote, with his gauntlet, stout Hunthill;
A hot and hardy Rutherford,
Whom men call Dickon Draw-the-sword.
He took it on the page's saye,
Hunthill had driven these steeds away.
Then Howard, Home, and Douglas rose,
The kindling discord to compose:
Stern Rutherford right little said,
But bit his glove, and shook his head.—
A fortnight thence, in Inglewood,
Stout Conrade, cold, and drench'd in blood,
His bosom gored with many a wound,
Was by a woodman's lyme-dog found;
Unknown the manner of his death,

Gone was his brand, both sword and sheath;
But ever from that time, 'twas said,
That Dickon wore a Cologne blade.

VIII.

The dwarf, who fear'd his master's eye
Might his foul treachery espie,
Now sought the castle buttery,
Where many a yeoman, bold and free,
Revell'd as merrily and well

As those that sat in lordly selle.
Watt Tinlinn, there, did frankly raise
The pledge to Arthur Fire-the-Braes;
And he, as by his breeding bound,
To Howard's merry-men sent it round.
To quit them, on the English side,
Red Roland Forster loudly cried,
"A deep carouse to yon fair bride!"
At every pledge, from vat and pail,
Foam'd forth in floods the nut-brown ale;
While shout the riders every one:
Such day of mirth ne'er cheer'd their clan,
Since old Buccleuch the name did gain,
When in the cleuch the buck was ta'en.

IX.

The wily page, with vengeful thought,
Remember'd him of Tinlinn's yew,
And swore, it should be dearly bought

That ever he the arrow drew.
First, he the yeoman did molest,
With bitter gibe and taunting jest;
Told, how he fled at Solway strife,
And how Hob Armstrong cheer'd his wife;
Then, shunning still his powerful arm,
At unawares he wrought him harm;
From trencher stole his choicest cheer,
Dash'd from his lips his can of beer;
Then, to his knee sly creeping on,
With bodkin pierced him to the bone:
The venom'd wound, and festering joint,
Long after rued that bodkin's point.
The startled yeoman swore and spurn'd,
And board and flagons overturn'd.'
Riot and clamor wild began;
Back to the hall the Urchin ran;

the chapel, and the description of the subsequent feast, in which the hounds and hawks are not the least important per sonages of the drama, are again happy imitations of those authors from whose rich but unpolished ore Mr. Scott has wrought much of his most exquisite imagery and description. A society, such as that assembled in Branxholm Castle, inflamed with national prejudices, and heated with wine, seems to have contained in itself sufficient seeds of spontaneous disorder; but the goblin page is well introduced, as applying a torch to this mass of combustibles. Quarrels, highly characteristic of Bor der manners, both in their cause and the manner in which they are supported, ensue, as well among the lordly guests, as the yeomen assembled in the buttery."-Critical Review, 1805

Took in a darkling nook his post,
And grinn'd and mutter'd, "Lost! lost! lost!"

X.

By this, the Dame, lest farther fray
Should mar the concord of the day,
Had bid the Minstrels tune their lay.
And first stepp'd forth old Albert Græme,
The Minstrel of that ancient name:'
Was none who struck the harp so well,
Within the Land Debateable;
Well friended, too, his hardy kin,
Whoever lost, were sure to win;

They sought the beeves that made their broth,
In Scotland and in England both.
In homely guise, as nature bade,
His simple song the Borderer said.

XI.

ALBERT GRÆME.

It was an English ladye bright,

(The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,)❜ And she would marry a Scottish knight, For Love will still be lord of all.

Blithely they saw the rising sun,

When he shone fair on Carlisle wall; But they were sad ere day was done, Though Love was still the lord of all.

Her sire gave brooch and jewel fine,

When the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall; Her brother gave but a flask of wine, For ire that Love was lord of all.

For she had lands, both meadow and lea,
Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,
And he swore her death, ere he would see
A Scottish knight the lord of all!

XII.

That wine she had not tasted well,

(The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,) When dead, in her true love's arms, she fell, For Love was still the lord of all!

He pierced her brother to the heart,

Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall:

So perish all would true love part,

That Love may still be lord of all!

And then he took the cross divine,

(Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,) 1 See Appendix, Note 4 D.

2"It is the author's object, in these songs, to exemplify the different styles of ballad narrative which prevailed in this island at different periods, or in different conditions of society. The first (ALBERT's) is conducted upon the rude and simple modes of the old Border ditties, and produces its effect by the

And died for her sake in Palestine, So Love was still the lord of all.

Now all ye lovers, that faithful prove,

(The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,) Pray for their souls who died for love, For Love shall still be lord of all!

XIIL

As ended Albert's simple lay,

Arose a bard of loftier port; For sonnet, rhyme, and roundelay,

Renown'd in haughty Henry's court: There rung thy harp, unrivall'd long, Fitztraver of the silver song!

The gentle Surrey loved his lyre

Who has not heard of Surrey's fame? His was the hero's soul of fire,

And his the bard's immortal name,
And his was love, exalted high
By all the glow of chivalry.

XIV.

They sought, together, climes afar,
And oft, within some olive grove,
When even came with twinkling star,

They sung of Surrey's absent love.
His step the Italian peasant stay'd,

And deem'd, that spirits from on high, Round where some hermit saint was laid, Were breathing heavenly melody; So sweet did harp and voice combine, To praise the name of Geraldine.

XV.

Fitztraver! O what tongue may say

The pangs thy faithful bosom knew, When Surrey, of the deathless lay,

Ungrateful Tudor's sentence slew?
Regardless of the tyrant's frown,

His harp call'd wrath and vengeance down.
He left, for Naworth's iron towers,
Windsor's green glades, and courtly bowers,
And faithful to his patron's name,
With Howard still Fitztraver came;
Lord William's foremost favorite he,
And chief of all his minstrelsy.

XVI. FITZTRAVER.

'Twas All-soul's eve, and Surrey's heart beat high;

He heard the midnight bell with anxious start, direct and concise narrative of a tragical occurrence."-JEF

FREY.

* See Appendix, Note 4 E.

4 Ibid. Note 4 F.

First Edit." So sweet their harp and voices join." "The second song, that of Fitztraver, the bard of the so

The chiefs of the Fakingr, or Scandinavian pirates, as

The gory bridal bed, the plunder'd shrine, The murder'd Surrey's blood, the tears of Geraldine!

XXI.

Both Scots, and Southern chiefs, prolong
Applauses of Fitztraver's song;
These hated Henry's name as death,
And those still held the ancient faith.-
Then, from his seat, with lofty air,
Rose Harold, bard of brave St. Clair;
St. Clair, who, feasting high at Home,
Had with that lord to battle come.
Harold was born where restless seas
Howl round the storm-swept Orcades;'
Where erst St. Clairs held princely sway]
O'er isle and islet, strait and bay;-
Still nods their palace to its fall,

Thy pride and sorrow, fair Kirkwall!-
Thence oft he mark'd fierce Pentland rave,
As if grim Odin rode her wave;
And watch'd, the whilst, with visage pale,
And throbbing heart, the struggling sail;
For all of wonderful and wild
Had rapture for the lonely child.

XXII.

And much of wild and wonderful
In these rude isles might fancy cull;
For thither came, in times afar,
Stern Lochlin's sons of roving war,
The Norsemen, train'd to spoil and blood,
Skill'd to prepare the raven's food;
Kings of the main their leaders brave,
Their barks the dragons of the wave.
And there, in many a stormy vale,
The Scald had told his wondrous tale;
And many a Runic column high
Had witness'd grim idolatry.
And thus had Harold, in his youth,
Learn'd many a Saga's rhyme uncouth,-
Of that Sea-Snake, tremendous curl'd,
Whose monstrous circle girds the world;
Of those dread Maids," whose hideous yell
Maddens the battle's bloody swell;
Of Chiefs, who, guided through the gloom
By the pale death-lights of the tomb,
Ransack'd the graves of warriors old,
Their falchions wrench'd from corpses' hold,
Waked the deaf tomb with war's alarms,
And bade the dead arise to arms!

With war and wonder all on flame,

To Roslin's bowers young Harold came,
Where, by sweet glen and greenwood tree,
He learn'd a milder minstrelsy;
Yet something of the Northern spell
Mix'd with the softer numbers well.

XXIII.

HAROLD.1

O listen, listen, ladies gay!

No haughty feat of arms I tell; Soft is the note, and sad the lay,

That mourns the lovely Rosabelle.'

-"Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew! And, gentle ladye, deign to stay! Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch,

Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day.

"The blackening wave is edged with white:
To inch and rock the sea-mews fly;
The fishers have heard the Water-Sprite,
Whose screams forbode that wreck is nigh.

"Last night the gifted Seer did view

A wet shroud swathed round ladye gay; Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch:

Why cross the gloomy firth to-day ?"

""Tis not because Lord Lindesay's heir
To-night at Roslin leads the ball,
But that my ladye-mother there
Sits lonely in her castle-hall.

""Tis not because the ring they ride,

And Lindesay at the ring rides well, But that my sire the wine will chide, If 'tis not fill'd by Rosabelle."

O'er Roslin all that dreary night,

A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam; 'Twas broader than the watch-fire's light,

And redder than the bright moon-beam.

1 "The third song is intended to represent that wild style of composition which prevailed among the bards of the Northern Continent, somewhat softened and adorned by the Minstrel's residence in the south. We prefer it, upon the whole, to either of the two former, and shall give it entire to our readers, who will probably be struck with the poetical effect of the dramatic form into which it is thrown, and of the indirect description by which every thing is most expressively told, without one word of distinct narrative."-JEFFREY.

This was a family name in the house of St. Clair. Henry St. Clair, the second of the line, married Rosabelle, fourth daughter of the Earl of Stratherne.

It glared on Roslin's castled rock,
It ruddied all the copse-wood glen;
'Twas seen from Dryden's groves of oak,
And seen from cavern'd Hawthornden.

Seem'd all on fire that chapel proud,

Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffin'd lie, Each Baron, for a sable shroud, Sheathed in his iron panoply.

Seem'd all on fire within, around,
Deep sacristy' and altar's pale;
Shone every pillar foliage-bound,
And glimmer'd all the dead men's mail

Blazed battlement and pinnet high,

Blazed every rose-carved buttress fairSo still they blaze, when fate is nigh The lordly line of high St. Clair.

There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold Lie buried within that proud chapelle; Each one the holy vault doth hold

But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle !

And each St. Clair was buried there,

With candle, with book, and with knell; But the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds sung, The dirge of lovely Rosabelle.

XXIV.

So sweet was Harold's piteous lay,1o

Scarce mark'd the guests the darken'd hall, Though, long before the sinking day,

A wondrous shade involved them all:

It was not eddying mist or fog,
Drain'd by the sun from fen or bog;
Of no eclipse had sagęs told;

And yet, as it came on apace,

Each one could scarce his neighbor's face, Could scarce his own stretch'd hand behold. A secret horror check'd the feast,

10I observe a great poetic climax, designed, doubtless, in the two last of these songs from the first."-ANNA SEWARD. "We (G. Ellis and J. H. Frere) entertain some doubts about the propriety of dwelling so long on the minstrel songs in the last canto. I say we doubt, because we are not aware of your having ancient authority for such a practice; but though the attempt was a bold one, inasmuch as it is not usual to add a whole canto to a story which is already finished, we are far from wishing that you had left it unattempted."Ellis to Scott. "The sixth canto is altogether redundant; for the poem should certainly have closed with the union of the lovers, when the interest, if any, was at an end. But what could I do? I had my book and my page still on my bands, and must get rid of them at all events. Manage them as I would, their catastrophe must have been insufficient to occupy an entire canto; so I was fain to eke it out with the songs of the minstrels."-Scott to Miss Seward-Life, vol. ii. pp. 218, 222,