THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. Walter Scott

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СКАЧАТЬ That I can tell such scene in words:

       What skilful limner e’er would choose

       To paint the rainbow’s varying hues,

       Unless to mortal it were given

       To dip his brush in dyes of heaven?

       Far less can my weak line declare

       Each changing passion’s shade:

       Bright’ning to rapture from despair,

       Sorrow, surprise, and pity there,

       And joy, with her angelic air,

       And hope, that paints the future fair,

       Their varying hues displayed:

       Each o’er its rival’s ground extending,

       Alternate conquering, shifting, blending.

       Till all, fatigued, the conflict yield,

       And mighty Love retains the field.

       Shortly I tell what then he said,

       By many a tender word delayed,

       And modest blush, and bursting sigh,

       And question kind, and fond reply:-

       VI

       De Wilton’s History.

      “Forget we that disastrous day,

       When senseless in the lists I lay.

       Thence dragged—but how I cannot know,

       For, sense and recollection fled,

       I found me on a pallet low,

       Within my ancient beadsman’s shed.

       Austin—remember’st thou, my Clare,

       How thou didst blush, when the old man,

       When first our infant love began,

       Said we would make a matchless pair?

       Menials and friends and kinsmen fled

       From the degraded traitor’s bed -

       He only held my burning head,

       And tended me for many a day,

       While wounds and fever held their sway

       But far more needful was his care,

       When sense returned to wake despair;

       For I did tear the closing wound,

       And dash me frantic on the ground,

       If e’er I heard the name of Clare.

       At length, to calmer reason brought,

       Much by his kind attendance wrought,

       With him I left my native strand,

       And, in a palmer’s weeds arrayed.

       My hated name and form to shade

       I journeyed many a land;

       No more a lord of rank and birth,

       But mingled with the dregs of earth.

       Oft Austin for my reason feared,

       When I would sit, and deeply brood

       On dark revenge, and deeds of blood,

       Or wild mad schemes upreared.

       My friend at length fell sick, and said,

       God would remove him soon:

       And, while upon his dying bed,

       He begged of me a boon -

       If e’er my deadliest enemy

       Beneath my brand should conquered lie,

       Even then my mercy should awake,

       And spare his life for Austin’s sake.

       VII

      “Still restless as a second Cain,

       To Scotland next my route was ta’en,

       Full well the paths I knew.

       Fame of my fate made various sound,

       That death in pilgrimage I found,

       That I had perished of my wound -

       None cared which tale was true:

       And living eye could never guess

       De Wilton in his palmer’s dress;

       For now that sable slough is shed,

       And trimmed my shaggy beard and head,

       I scarcely know me in the glass.

       A chance most wondrous did provide

       That I should be that baron’s guide -

       I will not name his name! -

       Vengeance to God alone belongs;

       But when I think on all my wrongs,

       My blood is liquid flame!

       And ne’er the time shall I forget,

       When, in a Scottish hostel set,

       Dark looks we did exchange:

       What were his thoughts I cannot tell;

       But in my bosom mustered Hell

       Its plans of dark revenge.

       VIII

      “A word of vulgar augury,

       That broke from me, I scarce knew why,

       Brought on a village tale;

       Which wrought upon his moody sprite,

       And sent him armed forth by night.

       I borrowed steed and mail,

       And weapons, from his sleeping band;

       And, passing from a postern door,

       We met, and countered hand to hand -

       He fell on Gifford Moor.

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