THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. Walter Scott

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СКАЧАТЬ Was choked with grief and terror too.—

       ‘Who fought?—who fled?—Old man, be brief;—

       Some might,—for they had lost their Chief.

       Who basely live?—who bravely died?’

       ‘O, calm thee, Chief!’ the Minstrel cried,

       ‘Ellen is safe!’ ‘For that thank Heaven!’

       ‘And hopes are for the Douglas given;—

       The Lady Margaret, too, is well;

       And, for thy clan,—on field or fell,

       Has never harp of minstrel told

       Of combat fought so true and bold.

       Thy stately Pine is yet unbent,

       Though many a goodly bough is rent.’

       XIV

      The Chieftain reared his form on high,

       And fever’s fire was in his eye;

       But ghastly, pale, and livid streaks

       Checkered his swarthy brow and cheeks.

       ‘Hark, Minstrel! I have heard thee play,

       With measure bold on festal day,

       In yon lone isle,—again where ne’er

       Shall harper play or warrior hear!—

       That stirring air that peals on high,

       O’er Dermid’s race our victory.—

       Strike it!—and then,—for well thou canst,—

       Free from thy minstrel-spirit glanced,

       Fling me the picture of the fight,

       When met my clan the Saxon might.

       I’ll listen, till my fancy hears

       The clang of swords’ the crash of spears!

       These grates, these walls, shall vanish then

       For the fair field of fighting men,

       And my free spirit burst away,

       As if it soared from battle fray.’

       The trembling Bard with awe obeyed,—

       Slow on the harp his hand he laid;

       But soon remembrance of the sight

       He witnessed from the mountain’s height,

       With what old Bertram told at night,

       Awakened the full power of song,

       And bore him in career along;—

       As shallop launched on river’s tide,

       ‘That slow and fearful leaves the side,

       But, when it feels the middle stream,

       Drives downward swift as lightning’s beam.

       XV

      Battle of Beal’ An Duine.

      ‘The Minstrel came once more to view

       The eastern ridge of Benvenue,

       For ere he parted he would say

       Farewell to lovely loch Achray

       Where shall he find, in foreign land,

       So lone a lake, so sweet a strand!—

       There is no breeze upon the fern,

       No ripple on the lake,

       Upon her eyry nods the erne,

       The deer has sought the brake;

       The small birds will not sing aloud,

       The springing trout lies still,

       So darkly glooms yon thunder-cloud,

       That swathes, as with a purple shroud,

       Benledi’s distant hill.

       Is it the thunder’s solemn sound

       That mutters deep and dread,

       Or echoes from the groaning ground

       The warrior’s measured tread?

       Is it the lightning’s quivering glance

       That on the thicket streams,

       Or do they flash on spear and lance

       The sun’s retiring beams?—

       I see the dagger-crest of Mar,

       I see the Moray’s silver star,

       Wave o’er the cloud of Saxon war,

       That up the lake comes winding far!

      To hero boune for battle-strife,

       Or bard of martial lay,

       ‘Twere worth ten years of peaceful life,

       One glance at their array!

       XVI

      ‘Their light-armed archers far and near

       Surveyed the tangled ground,

       Their centre ranks, with pike and spear,

       A twilight forest frowned,

       Their barded horsemen in the rear

       The stern battalia crowned.

       No cymbal clashed, no clarion rang,

       Still were the pipe and drum;

       Save heavy tread, and armor’s clang,

       The sullen march was dumb.

       There breathed no wind their crests to shake,

       Or wave their flags abroad;

       Scarce the frail aspen seemed to quake

       That shadowed o’er their road.

       Their vaward scouts no tidings bring,

       Can rouse no lurking foe,

       Nor spy a trace of living thing,

       СКАЧАТЬ