The miller answered him again, “He knew of little The Lady's gentle heart was moved, "Do up the news, gate," she said, and to bed; Save that the Lady of the land did a new bride- "And bid the wanderer welcome be to banquet groom choose; And since he names my husband's name, so that he lists to stay, Her husband died in distant land, such is the constant word, His death sits heavy on our souls, he was a worthy These towers shall be his harborage a twelveLord. month and a day." “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 It was the noble Moringer that o'er the threshold to me! And when Saint Martin's tide comes round, and millers take their toll, The priest that prays for Moringer shall have both cope and stole." XXIII. It was the noble Moringer to climb the hill began, And stood before the bolted gate a woe and weary man; "Now help me, every saint in heaven that can compassion take, strode; "And have thou thanks, kind heaven," he said, "though from a man of sin, That the true lord stands here once more his castle-gate within.” XXIX. Then up the halls paced Moringer, his step was sad It sat full heavy on his heart, none seem'd their To gain the entrance of my hall this woeful match Short space he sat, but ne'er to him seem'd little to break." XXIV. space so long. XXX. His very knock it sounded sad, his call was sad Now spent was day, and feasting o'er, and come and slow, For heart and head, and voice and hand, were heavy all with woe; was evening hour, The time was nigh when new-made brides retire to nuptial bower; And to the warder thus he spoke: "Friend, to thy "Our castle's wont," a brides-man said, "hath been Lady say, both firm and long, A pilgrim from Saint Thomas-land craves harbor No guest to harbor in our halls till he shall chant for a day. XXV. a song." XXXI. "I've wander'd many a weary step, my strength Then spoke the youthful bridegroom there as he is wellnigh done, And for the sake of Moringer, thy noble husband's And by my side as fair a bride with all her charms The golden cup he took again, and bore it to the I give her for the bride you lose, and name her for bride; Lady," he said, "your reverend guest sends this, my heir. The ring hath caught the Lady's eye, she views it But blessings on the warder kind that oped my close and near, Then you might hear her shriek aloud, "The Mor castle gate, For had I come at morrow tide, I came a day too inger is here!" late." The Erl-Bing.' FROM THE GERMAN OF Goethe, (The Erl-King is a goblin that haunts the Black Forest in Thuringia.-To be read by a candle particularly long in the snuff.) O, WHO rides by night thro' the woodland so wild? And close the boy nestles within his loved arm, "O father, see yonder! see yonder!" he says; (The Erl-King speaks.) "O come and go with me, thou loveliest child; "O, father, my father, and did you not hear The Erl-King whisper so low in my ear?" 1 1797. W. S."-Life, vol. i. p. 378. "To Miss Christian Rutherford.—I send a gob- ing a version of that ballad, as it has been translated by Lewis lin story. You see I have not altogether lost the faculty of rhyming. I assure you there is no small impudence in attempt END OF BALLADS FROM THE GERMAN. Lyrical and Miscellaneous Pieces, IN THE ORDER OF THEIR COMPOSITION OR PUBLICATION. Juvenile Lines. FROM VIRGIL. 1782.-ETAT. 11. "Scort's autobiography tells us that his translations in verse from Horace and Virgil were often approved by Dr. Adams [Rector of the High School, Edinburgh]. One of these little pieces, written in a weak boyish scrawl, within pencilled marks still visible, had been carefully preserved by his mother; it was found folded up in a cover, inscribed by the old lady— My Walter's first lines, 1782." -LOCKHART, Life of Scott, vol. i. p. 129. In awful ruins Ætna thunders nigh, At other times huge balls of fire are toss'd, up 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." Loud o'er my head though awful thunders roll, On the Setting Sun. 1783. THOSE evening clouds, that setting ray, Their great Creator's praise; To Him his homage raise. We often praise the evening clouds, And tints, so gay and bold, Minstrelsy, 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, Warriors from the breach of danger Fragments. (1.) BOTHWELL 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 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, If chance by Bothwell's lovely braes Full where the copsewood opens wild And many a tale of love and fear Of Bothwell's banks that bloom'd so dear, 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, Till the wild bull in Cadyow wood St. George's cross, o'er Bothwell hung, 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 1799. "ANOTHER imperfect ballad, in which he had meant to blend together two legends familiar to tle, the ruins of which attest the magnificence of the invader. -ED. 2 Life of Scott, vol. ii. p. 31. |