THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. Walter Scott

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       Against the winter shower is proof,

       The foe, invulnerable still,

       Foiled his wild rage by steady skill;

       Till, at advantage ta’en, his brand

       Forced Roderick’s weapon from his hand,

       And backward borne upon the lea,

       Brought the proud Chieftain to his knee.

       XVI

      Now yield thee, or by Him who made

       The world, thy heart’s blood dyes my blade!;

       ‘Thy threats, thy mercy, I defy!

       Let recreant yield, who fears to die.’

       Like adder darting from his coil,

       Like wolf that dashes through the toil,

       Like mountain-cat who guards her young,

       Full at FitzJames’s throat he sprung;

       Received, but recked not of a wound,

       And locked his arms his foeman round.

       Now, gallant Saxon, hold thine own!

       No maiden’s hand is round thee thrown!

       That desperate grasp thy frame might feel

       Through bars of brass and triple steel!

       They tug, they strain! down, down they go,

       The Gael above, FitzJames below.

       The Chieftain’s gripe his throat compressed,

       His knee was planted on his breast;

       His clotted locks he backward threw,

       Across his brow his hand he drew,

       From blood and mist to clear his sight,

       Then gleamed aloft his dagger bright!

       But hate and fury ill supplied

       The stream of life’s exhausted tide,

       And all too late the advantage came,

       To turn the odds of deadly game;

       For, while the dagger gleamed on high,

       Reeled soul and sense, reeled brain and eye.

       Down came the blow! but in the heath

       The erring blade found bloodless sheath.

       The struggling foe may now unclasp

       The fainting Chief’s relaxing grasp;

       Unwounded from the dreadful close,

       But breathless all, FitzJames arose.

       XVII

      He faltered thanks to Heaven for life,

       Redeemed, unhoped, from desperate strife;

       Next on his foe his look he cast,

       Whose every gasp appeared his last

       In Roderick’s gore he dipped the braid,—

       ‘Poor Blanche! thy wrongs are dearly paid;

       Yet with thy foe must die, or live,

       The praise that faith and valor give.’

       With that he blew a bugle note,

       Undid the collar from his throat,

       Unbonneted, and by the wave

       Sat down his brow and hands to rave.

       Then faint afar are heard the feet

       Of rushing steeds in gallop fleet;

       The sounds increase, and now are seen

       Four mounted squires in Lincoln green;

       Two who bear lance, and two who lead

       By loosened rein a saddled steed;

       Each onward held his headlong course,

       And by FitzJames reined up his horse,—

       With wonder viewed the bloody spot,—

       ‘Exclaim not, gallants ‘ question not.—

       You, Herbert and Luffness, alight

       And bind the wounds of yonder knight;

       Let the gray palfrey bear his weight,

       We destined for a fairer freight,

       And bring him on to Stirling straight;

       I will before at better speed,

       To seek fresh horse and fitting weed.

       The sun rides high;—I must be boune

       To see the archer-game at noon;

       But lightly Bayard clears the lea.—

       De Vaux and Herries. follow me.

       XVIII

      ‘Stand, Bayard, stand!’—the steed obeyed,

       With arching neck and bended head,

       And glancing eye and quivering ear,

       As if he loved his lord to hear.

       No foot FitzJames in stirrup stayed,

       No grasp upon the saddle laid,

       But wreathed his left hand in the mane,

       And lightly bounded from the plain,

       Turned on the horse his armed heel,

       And stirred his courage with the steel.

       Bounded the fiery steed in air,

       The rider sat erect and fair,

       Then like a bolt from steel crossbow

       Forth launched, along the plain they go.

       They dashed that rapid torrent through,

       And up Carhonie’s hill they flew;

       Still at the gallop pricked the Knight,

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