THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. Walter Scott

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СКАЧАТЬ Heardst thou that shameful word and blow

       Brought Roderick’s vengeance on his foe?

       What recked the Chieftain if he stood

       On Highland heath or Holy-Rood?

       He rights such wrong where it is given,

       If it were in the court of heaven.’

       ‘Still was it outrage;—yet, ‘tis true,

       Not then claimed sovereignty his due;

       While Albany with feeble hand

       Held borrowed truncheon of command,

       The young King, mewed in Stirling tower,

       Was stranger to respect and power.

       But then, thy Chieftain’s robber life!—

       Winning mean prey by causeless strife,

       Wrenching from ruined Lowland swain

       His herds and harvest reared in vain,—

       Methinks a soul like thine should scorn

       The spoils from such foul foray borne.’

       VII

      The Gael beheld him grim the while,

       And answered with disdainful smile:

       ‘Saxon, from yonder mountain high,

       I marked thee send delighted eye

       Far to the south and east, where lay,

       Extended in succession gay,

       Deep waving fields and pastures green,

       With gentle slopes and groves between:—

       These fertile plains, that softened vale,

       Were once the birthright of the Gael;

       The stranger came with iron hand,

       And from our fathers reft the land.

       Where dwell we now? See, rudely swell

       Crag over crag, and fell o’er fell.

       Ask we this savage hill we tread

       For fattened steer or household bread,

       Ask we for flocks these shingles dry,

       And well the mountain might reply,—

       “To you, as to your sires of yore,

       Belong the target and claymore!

       I give you shelter in my breast,

       Your own good blades must win the rest.”

       Pent in this fortress of the North,

       Think’st thou we will not sally forth,

       To spoil the spoiler as we may,

       And from the robber rend the prey?

       Ay, by my soul!—While on yon plain

       The Saxon rears one shock of grain,

       While of ten thousand herds there strays

       But one along yon river’s maze,—

       The Gael, of plain and river heir,

       Shall with strong hand redeem his share.

       Where live the mountain Chiefs who hold

       That plundering Lowland field and fold

       Is aught but retribution true?

       Seek other cause ‘gainst Roderick Dhu.’

       VIII

      Answered FitzJames: ‘And, if I sought,

       Think’st thou no other could be brought?

       What deem ye of my path waylaid?

       My life given o’er to ambuscade?’

       ‘As of a meed to rashness due:

       Hadst thou sent warning fair and true,—

       I seek my hound or falcon strayed,

       I seek, good faith, a Highland maid,—

       Free hadst thou been to come and go;

       But secret path marks secret foe.

       Nor yet for this, even as a spy,

       Hadst thou, unheard, been doomed to die,

       Save to fulfil an augury.’

       ‘Well, let it pass; nor will I now

       Fresh cause of enmity avow

       To chafe thy mood and cloud thy brow.

       Enough, I am by promise tied

       To match me with this man of pride:

       Twice have I sought Clan-Alpine’s glen

       In peace; but when I come again,

       I come with banner, brand, and bow,

       As leader seeks his mortal foe.

       For love-lore swain in lady’s bower

       Ne’er panted for the appointed hour

       As I, until before me stand

       This rebel Chieftain and his band!’

       IX

      ‘Have then thy wish!’—He whistled shrill

       And he was answered from the hill;

       Wild as the scream of the curlew,

       From crag to crag the signal flew.

       Instant, through copse and heath, arose

       Bonnets and spears and bended bows

       On right, on left, above, below,

       Sprung up at once the lurking foe;

       From shingles gray their lances start,

       The bracken bush sends forth the dart,

       The rushes and the willow-wand

       Are bristling into axe and brand,

       And every tuft of broom gives life

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