THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. Walter Scott

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      “Sir William of Deloraine, good at need,

       Mount thee on the wightest steed;

       Spare not to spur, nor stint to ride,

       Until thou come to fair Tweedside;

       And in Melrose’s holy pile

       Seek thou the Monk of St. Mary’s aisle.

       Greet the Father well from me;

       Say that the fated hour is come,

       And tonight he shall watch with thee,

       To win the treasure of the tomb.

       For this will be St. Michael’s night,

       And, though stars be dim, the moon is bright;

       And the Cross, of bloody red,

       Will point to the grave of the mighty dead.

       XXIII

      “What he gives thee, see thou keep;

       Stay not thou for food or sleep:

       Be it scroll, or be it book,

       Into it, Knight, thou must not look;

       If thou readest, thou art lorn!

       Better hadst thou ne’er been born.”

       XXIV

      “O swiftly can speed my dapple-grey steed,

       Which drinks of the Teviot clear;

       Ere break of day,” the Warrior ‘gan say,

       “Again will I be here:

       And safer by none may thy errand be done,

       Than, noble dame, by me;

       Letter nor line know I never a one,

       Wer’t my neck-verse at Hairibee.”

       XXV

      Soon in his saddle sate he fast,

       And soon the steep descent he past,

       Soon cross’d the sounding barbican,

       And soon the Teviot side he won.

       Eastward the wooded path he rode,

       Green hazels o’er his basnet nod;

       He passed the Peel of Goldiland,

       And cross’d old Borthwick’s roaring strand;

       Dimly he view’d the Moat-hill’s mound,

       Where Druid shades still flitted round;

       In Hawick twinkled many a light;

       Behind him soon they set in night;

       And soon he spurr’d his courser keen

       Beneath the tower of Hazeldean.

       XXVI

      The clattering hoofs the watchmen mark;

       “Stand ho! thou courier of the dark.”

       “For Branksome, ho!” the knight rejoin’d,

       And left the friendly tower behind.

       He turn’d him now from Teviotside,

       And, guided by the tinkling rill,

       Northward the dark ascent did ride,

       And gained the moor at Horsliehill;

       Broad on the left before him lay,

       For many a mile, the Roman way.

       XXVII

      A moment now he slack’d his speed,

       A moment breathed his panting steed;

       Drew saddlegirth and corslet-band,

       And loosen’d in the sheath his brand.

       On Minto-crags the moonbeams glint,

       Where Barnhill hew’d his bed of flint;

       Who flung his outlaw’d limbs to rest,

       Where falcons hang their giddy nest,

       Mid cliffs, from whence his eagle eye

       For many a league his prey could spy;

       Cliffs, doubling, on their echoes borne,

       The terrors of the robber’s horn.

       Cliffs, which, for many a year,

       The warbling Doric reed shall hear,

       When some sad swain shall teach the grove,

       Ambition is no cure for love!

       XXVIII

      Unchallenged, thence pass’d Deloraine,

       To ancient Riddel’s fair domain,

       Where Aill, from mountains freed,

       Down from the lakes did raving come;

       Each wave was creased with tawny foam,

       Like the mane of a chestnut steed.

       In vain! no torrent, deep or broad,

       Might bar the bold mosstrooper’s road.

       XXIX

      At the first plunge the horse sunk low,

       And the water broke o’er the saddlebow;

       Above the flaming tide, I ween,

       Scarce half the charger’s neck was seen;

       For he was barded from counter to tail,

       And the rider was armed complete in mail;

       Never heavier man and horse

       Stemm’d a midnight torrent’s force.

       The warrior’s very plume, I say

       Was daggled by the dashing spray;

       Yet, through good heart, and Our Ladye’s grace,

       At length he gain’d СКАЧАТЬ