THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. Walter Scott

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СКАЧАТЬ That in the King’s own garden grows;

       And when I place it in my hair,

       Allan, a bard is bound to swear

       He ne’er saw coronet so fair.’

       Then playfully the chaplet wild

       She wreathed in her dark locks, and smiled.

       X

      Her smile, her speech, with winning sway

       Wiled the old Harper’s mood away.

       With such a look as hermits throw,

       When angels stoop to soothe their woe

       He gazed, till fond regret and pride

       Thrilled to a tear, then thus replied:

       ‘Loveliest and best! thou little know’st

       The rank, the honors, thou hast lost!

       O. might I live to see thee grace,

       In Scotland’s court, thy birthright place,

       To see my favorite’s step advance

       The lightest in the courtly dance,

       The cause of every gallant’s sigh,

       And leading star of every eye,

       And theme of every minstrel’s art,

       The Lady of the Bleeding Heart!’

       XI

      ‘Fair dreams are these,’ the maiden cried,—

       Light was her accent, yet she sighed,—

       ‘Yet is this mossy rock to me

       Worth splendid chair and canopy;

       Nor would my footstep spring more gay

       In courtly dance than blithe strathspey,

       Nor half so pleased mine ear incline

       To royal minstrel’s lay as thine.

       And then for suitors proud and high,

       To bend before my conquering eye,—

       Thou, flattering bard! thyself wilt say,

       That grim Sir Roderick owns its sway.

       The Saxon scourge, Clan-Alpine’s pride,

       The terror of Loch Lomond’s side,

       Would, at my suit, thou know’st, delay

       A Lennox foray—for a day.’—

       XII

      The ancient bard her glee repressed:

       ‘Ill hast thou chosen theme for jest!

       For who, through all this western wild,

       Named Black Sir Roderick e’er, and smiled?

       In Holy-Rood a knight he slew;

       I saw, when back the dirk he drew,

       Courtiers give place before the stride

       Of the undaunted homicide;

       And since, though outlawed, hath his hand

       Full sternly kept his mountain land.

      Who else dared give—ah! woe the day,

       That I such hated truth should say!—

       The Douglas, like a stricken deer,

       Disowned by every noble peer,

       Even the rude refuge we have here?

       Alas, this wild marauding

       Chief Alone might hazard our relief,

       And now thy maiden charms expand,

       Looks for his guerdon in thy hand;

       Full soon may dispensation sought,

       To back his suit, from Rome be brought.

       Then, though an exile on the hill,

       Thy father, as the Douglas, still

       Be held in reverence and fear;

       And though to Roderick thou’rt so dear

       That thou mightst guide with silken thread.

       Slave of thy will, this chieftain dread,

       Yet, O loved maid, thy mirth refrain!

       Thy hand is on a lion’s mane.’—

       XIII

      Minstrel,’ the maid replied, and high

       Her father’s soul glanced from her eye,

       ‘My debts to Roderick’s house I know:

       All that a mother could bestow

       To Lady Margaret’s care I owe,

       Since first an orphan in the wild

       She sorrowed o’er her sister’s child;

       To her brave chieftain son, from ire

       Of Scotland’s king who shrouds my sire,

       A deeper, holier debt is owed;

       And, could I pay it with my blood, Allan!

       Sir Roderick should command

       My blood, my life,—but not my hand.

       Rather will Ellen Douglas dwell

       A votaress in Maronnan’s cell;

       Rather through realms beyond the sea,

       Seeking the world’s cold charity

       Where ne’er was spoke a Scottish word,

       And ne’er the name of Douglas heard

       An outcast pilgrim will she rove,

       Than wed the man she cannot love.

       XIV

      ‘Thou shak’st, good friend, thy tresses gray,—

       That pleading look, what can it say

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