THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. Walter Scott

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СКАЧАТЬ Thy burghers rose to man thy wall,

       Than now, in danger, shall be thine,

       Thy dauntless voluntary line;

       For fosse and turret proud to stand,

       Their breasts the bulwarks of the land.

       Thy thousands, trained to martial toil,

       Full red would stain their native soil,

       Ere from thy mural crown there fell

       The slightest knosp or pinnacle.

       And if it come—as come it may,

       Dunedin! that eventful day -

       Renowned for hospitable deed,

       That virtue much with Heaven may plead

       In patriarchal times whose care

       Descending angels deigned to share;

       That claim may wrestle blessings down

       On those who fight for the good town,

       Destined in every age to be

       Refuge of injured royalty;

       Since first, when conquering York arose,

       To Henry meek she gave repose,

       Till late, with wonder, grief, and awe,

       Great Bourbon’s relics, sad she saw.

       Truce to these thoughts!—for, as they rise,

       How gladly I avert mine eyes,

       Bodings, or true or false, to change,

       For Fiction’s fair romantic range,

       Or for tradition’s dubious light,

       That hovers ‘twixt the day and night:

       Dazzling alternately and dim,

       Her wavering lamp I’d rather trim,

       Knights, squires, and lovely dames, to see

       Creation of my fantasy,

       Than gaze abroad on reeky fen,

       And make of mists invading men.

       Who love not more the night of June

       Than dull December’s gloomy noon?

       The moonlight than the fog of frost?

       And can we say which cheats the most?

       But who shall teach my harp to gain

       A sound of the romantic strain,

       Whose Anglo-Norman tones whilere

       Could win the royal Henry’s ear,

       Famed Beauclerc called, for that he loved

       The minstrel, and his lay approved?

       Who shall these lingering notes redeem,

       Decaying on Oblivion’s stream;

       Such notes as from the Breton tongue

       Marie translated, Blondel sung?

       O! born Time’s ravage to repair,

       And make the dying muse thy care;

       Who, when his scythe her hoary foe

       Was poising for the final blow,

       The weapon from his hand could wring,

       And break his glass, and shear his wing,

       And bid, reviving in his strain,

       The gentle poet live again;

       Thou, who canst give to lightest lay

       An unpedantic moral gay,

       Nor less the dullest theme bid flit

       On wings of unexpected wit;

       In letters as in life approved,

       Example honoured and beloved -

       Dear Ellis! to the bard impart

       A lesson of thy magic art,

       To win at once the head and heart -

       At once to charm, instruct, and mend,

       My guide, my pattern, and my friend!

       Such minstrel lesson to bestow

       Be long thy pleasing task—but, oh!

       No more by thy example teach -

       What few can practise, all can preach -

       With even patience to endure

       Lingering disease, and painful cure,

       And boast affliction’s pangs subdued

       By mild and manly fortitude.

       Enough, the lesson has been given:

       Forbid the repetition, Heaven!

       Come, listen, then! for thou hast known,

       And loved the minstrel’s varying tone,

       Who, like his Border sires of old,

       Waked a wild measure rude and bold,

       Till Windsor’s oaks, and Ascot plain,

       With wonder heard the Northern strain.

       Come, listen! bold in thy applause,

       The bard shall scorn pedantic laws;

       And, as the ancient art could stain

       Achievements on the storied pane,

       Irregularly traced and planned,

       But yet so glowing and so grand -

       So shall he strive in changeful hue,

       Field, feast, and combat to renew,

       And loves, and arms, and harpers’ glee,

       And all the pomp of chivalry.

Canto Fifth

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