THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. Walter Scott

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СКАЧАТЬ Fast as ‘tis opened, shuts again.

       That magic strife within the tomb

       May last until the day of doom,

       Unless the adept shall learn to tell

       The very word that clenched the spell,

       When Franchemont locked the treasure cell.

       A hundred years are past and gone,

       And scarce three letters has he won.

       Such general superstition may

       Excuse for old Pitscottie say;

       Whose gossip history has given

       My song the messenger from heaven,

       That warned, in Lithgow, Scotland’s king,

       Nor less the infernal summoning;

       May pass the monk of Durham’s tale,

       Whose demon fought in Gothic mail;

       May pardon plead for Fordun grave,

       Who told of Gifford’s goblin-cave.

       But why such instances to you,

       Who in an instant can renew

       Your treasured hoards of various lore,

       And furnish twenty thousand more?

       Hoards, not like theirs whose volumes rest

       Like treasures in the Franchemont chest,

       While gripple owners still refuse

       To others what they cannot use;

       Give them the priest’s whole century,

       They shall not spell you letters three;

       Their pleasure in the books the same

       The magpie takes in pilfered gem.

       Thy volumes, open as thy heart,

       Delight, amusement, science, art,

       To every ear and eye impart;

       Yet who, of all who thus employ them,

       Can like the owner’s self enjoy them?

       But, hark! I hear the distant drum!

       The day of Flodden Field is come.

       Adieu, dear Heber! life and health,

       And store of literary wealth!

Canto Sixth

       Table of Contents

       The Battle

       I

      While great events were on the gale,

       And each hour brought a varying tale,

       And the demeanour, changed and cold,

       Of Douglas fretted Marmion bold,

       And, like the impatient steed of war

       He snuffed the battle from afar;

       And hopes were none, that back again

       Herald should come from Terouenne,

       Where England’s king in leaguer lay,

       Before decisive battle-day;

       Whilst these things were, the mournful Clare

       Did in the dame’s devotions share:

       For the good countess ceaseless prayed

       To Heaven and saints, her sons to aid,

       And with short interval did pass

       From prayer to book, from book to mass,

       And all in high baronial pride -

       A life both dull and dignified;

       Yet as Lord Marmion nothing pressed

       Upon her intervals of rest,

       Dejected Clara well could bear

       The formal state, the lengthened prayer,

       Though dearest to her wounded heart

       The hours that she might spend apart.

       II

      I said, Tantallon’s dizzy steep

       Hung o’er the margin of the deep.

       Many a rude tower and rampart there

       Repelled the insult of the air,

       Which, when the tempest vexed the sky,

       Half breeze, half spray, came whistling by.

       Above the rest, a turret square

       Did o’er its Gothic entrance bear,

       Of sculpture rude, a stony shield;

       The bloody heart was in the field,

       And in the chief three mullets stood,

       The cognisance of Douglas blood.

       The turret held a narrow stair,

       Which, mounted, gave you access where

       A parapet’s embattled row

       Did seaward round the castle go.

       Sometimes in dizzy steps descending,

       Sometimes in narrow circuit bending,

       Sometimes in platform broad extending,

       Its varying circle did combine

       Bulwark, and bartisan, and line,

       And bastion, tower, and vantage-coign:

       Above the booming ocean leant

       The far projecting battlement;

       The billows burst in ceaseless flow

       Upon the precipice below.

       Where’er Tantallon faced the land,

       Gateworks and walls were strongly manned;

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