THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. Walter Scott

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СКАЧАТЬ XXX

      Now Bowden Moor the march-man won,

       And sternly shook his plumed head,

       As glanced his eye o’er Halidon;

       For on his soul the slaughter red

       Of that unhallow’d morn arose,

       When first the Scott and Carr were foes;

       When royal James beheld the fray,

       Prize to the victor of the day;

       When Home and Douglas, in the van,

       Bore down Buccleuch’s retiring clan,

       Till gallant Cessford’s heart-blood dear

       Reek’d on dark Elliot’s Border spear.

       XXXI

      In bitter mood he spurred fast,

       And soon the hated heath was past;

       And far beneath, in lustre wan,

       Old Melros’ rose, and fair Tweed ran:

       Like some tall rock with lichens grey,

       Seem’d dimly huge, the dark Abbaye.

       When Harwick he pass’d, had curfew rung,

       Now midnight lauds were in Melrose sung.

       The sound, upon the fitful gale,

       In solemn wise did rise and fail,

       Like that wild harp, whose magic tone

       Is waken’d by the winds alone.

       But when Melrose he reach’d, ‘twas silence all;

       He meetly stabled his steed in stall,

       And sought the convent’s lonely wall.

       Here paused the harp; and with its swell

       The Master’s fire and courage fell;

       Dejectedly, and low, he bow’d,

       And, gazing timid on the crowd,

       He seem’d to seek, in every eye,

       If they approved his mistrelsy;

       And, diffident of present praise,

       Somewhat he spoke of former days,

       And how old age, and wand’ring long,

       Had done his hand and harp some wrong.

       The Duchess, and her daughters fair,

       And every gentle lady there,

       Each after each, in due degree,

       Gave praises to his melody;

       His hand was true, his voice was clear,

       And much they long’d the rest to hear.

       Encouraged thus, the Aged Man,

       After meet rest, again began.

Canto II

       Table of Contents

       I

      If thou would’st view fair Melrose aright,

       Go visit it by the pale moonlight;

       For the gay beams of lightsome day

       Gild, but to flout, the ruins grey.

       When the broken arches are black in night,

       And each shafted oriel glimmers white;

       When the cold light’s uncertain shower

       Streams on the ruin’d central tower;

       When buttress and buttress, alternately,

       Seem framed of ebon and ivory;

       When silver edges the imagery,

       And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die;

       When distant Tweed is heard to rave,

       And the owlet to hoot o’er the dead man’s grave,

       Then go, but go alone the while,

       Then view St. David’s ruin’d pile;

       And, home returning, soothly swear,

       Was never scene so sad and fair!

       II

      Short halt did Deloraine make there;

       Little reck’d he of the scene so fair;

       With dagger’s hilt, on the wicket strong,

       He struck full loud, and struck full long.

       The porter hurried to the gate,

       “Who knocks so loud, and knocks so late?”

       “From Branksome I,” the warrior cried;

       And straight the wicket open’d wide:

       For Branksome’s Chiefs had in battle stood,

       To fence the rights of fair Melrose;

       And lands and livings, many a rood,

       Had gifted the shrine for their souls’ repose.

       III

      Bold Deloraine his errand said;

       The porter bent his humble head;

       With torch in hand, and feet unshod,

       And noiseless step, the path he trod,

       The arched cloister, far and wide,

       Rang to the warrior’s clanking stride,

       Till, stooping low his lofty crest,

       He enter’d the cell of the ancient priest,

       And lifted his barred aventayle,

       To hail the Monk of St Mary’s aisle.

       IV

      “The Ladye of Branksome greets thee by me,

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