THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. Walter Scott

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СКАЧАТЬ Of yore her eagle wings unfurled.

       And here his course the Chieftain stayed,

       Threw down his target and his plaid,

       And to the Lowland warrior said:

       ‘Bold Saxon! to his promise just,

       Vich-Alpine has discharged his trust.

       This murderous Chief, this ruthless man,

       This head of a rebellious clan,

       Hath led thee safe, through watch and ward,

       Far past Clan-Alpine’s outmost guard.

       Now, man to man, and steel to steel,

       A Chieftain’s vengeance thou shalt feel.

       See, here all vantageless I stand,

       Armed like thyself with single brand;

       For this is Coilantogle ford,

       And thou must keep thee with thy sword.’

       XIII

      The Saxon paused: ‘I ne’er delayed,

       When foeman bade me draw my blade;

       Nay more, brave Chief, I vowed thy death;

       Yet sure thy fair and generous faith,

       And my deep debt for life preserved,

       A better meed have well deserved:

       Can naught but blood our feud atone?

       Are there no means?’—’ No, stranger, none!

       And hear,—to fire thy flagging zeal,—

       The Saxon cause rests on thy steel;

       For thus spoke Fate by prophet bred

       Between the living and the dead:”

       Who spills the foremost foeman’s life,

       His party conquers in the strife.”’

       ‘Then, by my word,’ the Saxon said,

       “The riddle is already read.

       Seek yonder brake beneath the cliff,—

       There lies Red Murdoch, stark and stiff.

       Thus Fate hath solved her prophecy;

       Then yield to Fate, and not to me.

       To James at Stirling let us go,

       When, if thou wilt be still his foe,

       Or if the King shall not agree

       To grant thee grace and favor free,

       I plight mine honor, oath, and word

       That, to thy native strengths restored,

       With each advantage shalt thou stand

       That aids thee now to guard thy land.’

       XIV

      Dark lightning flashed from Roderick’s eye:

       ‘Soars thy presumption, then, so high,

       Because a wretched kern ye slew,

       Homage to name to Roderick Dhu?

       He yields not, he, to man nor Fate!

       Thou add’st but fuel to my hate;—

       My clansman’s blood demands revenge.

       Not yet prepared?—By heaven, I change

       My thought, and hold thy valor light

       As that of some vain carpet knight,

       Who ill deserved my courteous care,

       And whose best boast is but to wear

       A braid of his fair lady’s hair.’ ‘I thank thee,

       Roderick, for the word!

       It nerves my heart, it steels my sword;

       For I have sworn this braid to stain

       In the best blood that warms thy vein.

       Now, truce, farewell! and, rush, begone!—

       Yet think not that by thee alone,

       Proud Chief! can courtesy be shown;

       Though not from copse, or heath, or cairn,

       Start at my whistle clansmen stern,

       Of this small horn one feeble blast

       Would fearful odds against thee cast.

       But fear not — doubt not—which thou wilt—

       We try this quarrel hilt to hilt.’

       Then each at once his falchion drew,

       Each on the ground his scabbard threw

       Each looked to sun and stream and plain

       As what they ne’er might see again;

       Then foot and point and eye opposed,

       In dubious strife they darkly closed.

       XV

      Ill fared it then with Roderick Dhu,

       That on the field his targe he threw,

       Whose brazen studs and tough bull-hide

       Had death so often dashed aside;

       For, trained abroad his arms to wield

       FitzJames’s blade was sword and shield.

       He practised every pass and ward,

       To thrust, to strike, to feint, to guard;

       While less expert, though stronger far,

       The Gael maintained unequal war.

       Three times in closing strife they stood

       And thrice the Saxon blade drank blood;

       No stinted draught, no scanty tide,

       The gushing flood the tartars dyed.

       Fierce Roderick felt the fatal drain,

       And showered his blows like wintry СКАЧАТЬ