Название: THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS OF SIR WALTER SCOTT
Автор: Walter Scott
Издательство: Bookwire
Жанр: Книги для детей: прочее
isbn: 9788027201907
isbn:
Many a valiant knight is here;
But he, the chieftain of them all,
His sword hangs rusting on the wall,
Beside his broken spear.
Bards long shall tell
How Lord Walter fell.
When startled burghers fled afar,
The furies of the Border war;
When the streets of high Dunedin
Saw lances gleam and falchion redden,
And heard the slogan’s deadly yell,
Then the Chef of Branksome fell.
VIII
Can piety the discord heal,
Or stanch the death-feud’s enmity?
Can Christian lore, can patriot zeal,
Can love of blessed charity?
No! vainly to each holy shrine,
In mutual pilgrimage they drew;
Implored, in vain, the grace divine
For chiefs, their own red falchions slew;
While Cessford owns the rule of Carr,
While Ettrick boasts the line of Scott,
The slaughter’d chiefs, the mortal jar,
The havoc of the feudal war,
Shall never, never be forgot!
IX
In sorrow o’er Lord Walter’s bier
The warlike foresters had bent;
And many a flower,and many a tear,
Old Teviot’s maids and matrons lent:
But o’er her warrior’s bloody bier
The Ladye dropp’d nor flowers nor tear!
Vengeance, deep-brooding o’er the slain
Had lock’d the source of softer woe;
And burning pride, and high disdain,
Forbade the rising tear to flow;
Until, amid his sorrowing clan,
Her son lisp’d from the nurse’s knee,
“And if I live to be a man,
My father’s death revenged shall be!”
Then fast the mother’s tears did seek
To dew the infant’s kindling cheek.
X
All loose her negligent attire,
All loose her golden hair,
Hung Margaret o’er her slaughter’d sire,
And wept in wild despair,
But not alone the bitter tear
Had filial grief supplied;
For hopeless love, and anxious fear,
Had lent their mingled tide:
Nor in her mother’s alter’d eye
Dared she to look for sympathy.
Her lover, ‘gainst her father’s clan,
With Carr in arms had stood,
When Mathouse-burn to Melrose ran,
All purple with their blood;
And well she knew, her mother dread,
Before Lord Cranstoun she should wed,
Would see her on her dying bed.
XI
Of noble race the Ladye came
Her father was a clerk of fame,
Of Bethune’s line of Picardie;
He learn’d the art that none may name,
In Padua, far beyond the sea.
Men said, he changed his mortal frame
By feat of magic mystery;
For when, in studious mode, he paced
St. Andrew’s cloister’d hall,
His form no darkening shadow traced
Upon the sunny wall!
XII
And of his skill, as bards avow,
He taught that Ladye fair,
Till to her bidding she could bow
The viewless forms of air.
And now she sits in secret bower,
In old Lord David’s western tower,
And listens to a heavy sound,
That moans the mossy turrets round.
Is it the roar of Teviot’s tide,
That chafes against the scaur’s red side?
Is it the wind that swings the oaks?
Is it the echo from the rocks?
What may it be, the heavy sound,
That moans old Branksome’s turrets round?
XIII
At the sullen, moaning sound,
The bandogs bay and howl;
And, from the turrets round,
Loud whoops the startled owl.
In the hall, both squire and knight
Swore that a storm was near,
And looked forth to view the night,
But the night was still and clear!