THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. Walter Scott

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СКАЧАТЬ The cup went through among the rest,

       Who drained it merrily;

       Alone the Palmer passed it by,

       Though Selby pressed him courteously.

       This was a sign the feast was o’er,

       It hushed the merry wassail roar,

       The minstrels ceased to sound.

       Soon in the castle nought was heard

       But the slow footstep of the guard,

       Pacing his sober round.

       XXXI

      With early dawn Lord Marmion rose:

       And first the chapel doors unclose;

       Then after morning rites were done

       (A hasty mass from Friar John),

       And knight and squire had broke their fast

       On rich substantial repast,

       Lord Marmion’s bugles blew to horse

       Then came the stirrup-cup in course:

       Between the baron and his host

       No point of courtesy was lost:

       High thanks were by Lord Marmion paid,

       Solemn excuse the captain made,

       Till, filing from the gate, had passed

       That noble train, their lord the last.

       Then loudly rung the trumpet call;

       Thundered the cannon from the wall,

       And shook the Scottish shore:

       Around the castle eddied slow,

       Volumes of smoke as white as snow,

       And hid its turrets hoar;

       Till they rolled forth upon the air,

       And met the river breezes there,

       Which gave again the prospect fair.

Introduction to Canto Second

      TO THE REV. JOHN MARRIOTT, A.M. Ashestiel, Ettrick Forest.

       Table of Contents

      The scenes are desert now, and bare,

       Where flourished once a forest fair

       When these waste glens with copse were lined,

       And peopled with the hart and hind.

       Yon thorn—perchance whose prickly spears

       Have fenced him for three hundred years,

       While fell around his green compeers -

       Yon lonely thorn, would he could tell

       The changes of his parent dell,

       Since he, so grey and stubborn now,

       Waved in each breeze a sapling bough:

       Would he could tell how deep the shade

       A thousand mingled branches made;

       How broad the shadows of the oak,

       How clung the rowan to the rock,

       And through the foliage showed his head,

       With narrow leaves and berries red;

       What pines on every mountain sprung,

       O’er every dell what birches hung,

       In every breeze what aspens shook,

       What alders shaded every brook!

      “Here, in my shade,” methinks he’d say,

       “The mighty stag at noontide lay:

       The wolf I’ve seen, a fiercer game

       (The neighbouring dingle bears his name),

       With lurching step around me prowl,

       And stop, against the moon to howl;

       The mountain-boar, on battle set,

       His tusks upon my stem would whet;

       While doe, and roe, and reddeer good,

       Have bounded by, through gay greenwood.

       Then oft, from Newark’s riven tower,

       Sallied a Scottish monarch’s power:

       A thousand vassals mustered round,

       With horse, and hawk, and horn, and hound;

       And I might see the youth intent,

       Guard every pass with crossbow bent;

       And through the brake the rangers stalk,

       And falc’ners hold the ready hawk;

       And foresters in greenwood trim,

       Lead in the leash the gazehounds grim,

       Attentive as the bratchet’s bay

       From the dark covert drove the prey,

       To slip them as he broke away.

       The startled quarry bounds amain,

       As fast the gallant greyhounds strain;

       Whistles the arrow from the bow,

       Answers the arquebuss below;

       While all the rocking hills reply,

       To hoof-clang, hound, and hunter’s cry,

       And bugles ringing lightsomely.”

      Of such proud huntings many tales

       Yet linger in our lonely dales,

       Up pathless Ettrick and on Yarrow,

       Where erst the outlaw drew his arrow.

       But not more blithe that silvan court,

       Than we have been at humbler sport;

       Though small our pomp, and mean our game

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