THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. Walter Scott

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СКАЧАТЬ Held with the chiefs of riper age.

       No tidings of the foe were brought

       Nor of his numbers knew they aught,

       Nor what in time of truce he sought.

       Some said that there were thousands ten;

       And others ween’d that it was nought

       But Leven clans, or Tynedale men,

       Who came to gather in blackmail;

       And Liddesdale, with small avail,

       Might drive them lightly back agen.

       So pass’d the anxious night away,

       And welcome was the peep of day.

       Ceas’d the high sound. The listening throng

       Applaud the Master of the Song;

       And marvel much, in helpless age,

       So hard should be his pilgrimage.

       Had he no friend, no daughter dear,

       His wandering toil to share and cheer;

       No son to be his father’s stay,

       And guide him on the rugged way?

       “Ay, once he had, but he was dead!”

       Upon the harp he stoop’d his head,

       And busied himself the strings withal

       To hide the tear that fain would fall.

       In solemn measure, soft and slow,

       Arose a father’s notes of woe.

Canto IV

       Table of Contents

       I

      Sweet Teviot! on thy silver tide

       The glaring bale-fires blaze no more;

       No longer steel-clad warrior ride

       Along thy wild and willow’d shore

       Where’er thou wind’st, by dale or hill

       All, all is peaceful, all is still,

       As if thy waves, since Time was born

       Since first they roll’d upon the Tweed,

       Had only heard the shepherd’s reed,

       Nor started at the bugle-horn.

       II

      Unlike the tide of human time,

       Which, though it change in ceaseless flow

       Retains each grief, retains each crime

       Its earliest course was doom’d to know;

       And, darker as it downward bears,

       Is stain’d with past and present tears

       Low as that tide has ebb’d with me,

       It still reflects to Memory’s eye

       The hour my brave, my only boy

       Fell by the side of great Dundee.

       Why, when the volleying musket play’d

       Against the bloody Highland blade,

       Why was not I beside him laid!

       Enough, he died the death of fame;

       Enough, he died with conquering Graeme.

       III

      Now over Border dale and fell

       Full wide and far was terror spread;

       For pathless marsh, and mountain cell,

       The peasant left his lowly shed.

       The frighten’d flocks and herds were pent

       Beneath the peel’s rude battlement;

       And maids and matrons dropp’d the tear,

       While ready warriors seiz’d the spear.

       From Branksome’s towers, the watchman’s eye

       Dun wreaths of distant smoke can spy,

       Which, curling in the rising sun,

       Show’d southern ravage was begun.

       IV

      Now loud the heedful gate-ward cried,

       “Prepare ye all for blows and blood!

       Watt Tinlinn, from the Liddel-side

       Comes wading through the flood.

       Full oft the Tynedale snatchers knock

       At his lone gate, and prove the lock;

       It was but last St. Barnabright

       They sieg’d him a whole summer night,

       But fled at morning; well they knew

       In vain he never twang’d the yew.

       Right sharp has been the evening shower

       That drove him from his Liddel tower;

       And, by my faith,” the gate-ward said,

       “I think ‘twill prove a Warden-Raid.”

       V

      While thus he spoke, the bold yeoman

       Enter’d the echoing barbican.

       He led a small and shaggy nag,

       That through a bog, from hag to hag,

       Could bound like any Billhope stag.

       It bore his wife and children twain;

       A half-clothed serf was all their train;

       His wife, stout, ruddy, and dark-brow’d,

       Of silver brooch and bracelet proud,

       Laugh’d to her friends among the crowd.

       He was СКАЧАТЬ