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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=519701" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Lay of the Last Minstrel: Canto I</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Introduction.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The way was long, the wind was cold, <br>The Minstrel was infirm and old; <br>His wither'd cheek, and tresses gray, <br>Seem'd to have known a better day; <br>The harp, his sole remaining joy, <br>Was carried by an orphan boy. <br>The last of all the Bards was he, <br>Who sung of Border chivalry; <br>For, welladay! their date was fled, <br>His tuneful brethren all were dead; <br>And he, neglected and oppress'd, <br>Wish'd to be with them, and at rest. <br>No more on prancing palfrey borne, <br>He caroll'd, light as lark at morn; <br>No longer courted and caress'd, <br>High placed in hall, a welcome guest, <br>He pour'd, to lord and lady gay, <br>The unpremeditated lay: <br>Old times were changed, old manners gone; <br>A stranger filled the Stuarts' throne; <br>The bigots of the iron time <br>Had call'd hs harmless art a crime. <br>A wandering Harper, scorn'd and poor, <br>He begg'd his bread from door to door. <br>And timed, to please a peasant's ear, <br>The harp, a king had loved to hear. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">He pass'd where Newark's stately tower <br>Looks out from Yarrow's birchen bower: <br>The Minstrel gazed with wishful eye- <br>No humbler resting-place was nigh, <br>With hesitating step at last, <br>The embattled portal arch he bunny'd, <br>Whose ponderous grate and massy bar <br>Had oft roll'd back the tide of war, <br>But never closed the iron door <br>Against the desolate and poor. <br>The Duchess marked his weary pace, <br>His timid mien, and reverend face, <br>And bade her page the menials tell, <br>That they should tend the old man well: <br>For she had known adversity, <br>Though born in such a high degree; <br>In pride of power, in beauty's bloom, <br>Had wept o'er Monmouth's bloody tomb! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">When kindness had his wants supplied, <br>And the old man was gratified, <br>Began to rise his minstrel pride: <br>And he began to talk anon, <br>Of good Earl Francis, dead and gone, <br>And of Earl Walter, rest him, God! <br>A braver ne'er to battle rode; <br>And how full many a tale he knew, <br>Of the old warriors of Buccleuch: <br>And, would the noble Duchess deign <br>To listen to an old man's strain, <br>Though stiff his hand, his voice though weak, <br>He thought even yet, the sooth to speak, <br>That, if she loved the harp to hear, <br>He could make music to her ear. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The humble boon was soon obtain'd; <br>The Aged Minstrel audience gain'd. <br>But, when he reach'd the room of state, <br>Where she, with all her ladies, sate, <br>Perchance he wished his boon denied: <br>For, when to tune his harp he tried, <br>His trembling hand had lost the ease, <br>Which marks security to please; <br>And scenes, long past, of joy and pain, <br>Came wildering o'er his aged brain- <br>He tried to tune his harp in vain! <br>The pitying Duchess praised its chime, <br>And gave him heart, and gave him time, <br>Till every string's according glee <br>Was blended into harmony. <br>And then, he said, he would full fain <br>He could recall an ancient strain, <br>He never thought to sing again. <br>It was not framed for village churls, <br>But for high dames and mighty carls; <br>He had play'd it to King Charles the Good, <br>When he kept court in Holyrood, <br>And much he wish'd yet fear'd to try <br>The long-forgotten melody. <br>Amid the strings his fingers stray'd, <br>And an uncertain warbling made, <br>And oft he shook his hoary head. <br>But when he caught the measure wild, <br>The old man raised his face, and smiled; <br>And lighten'd up his faded eye, <br>With all a poet's ecstasy! <br>In varying cadence, soft or strong, <br>He swept the sounding chords along: <br>The present scene, the future lot, <br>His toils, his wants, were all forgot: <br>Cold diffidence, and age's frost, <br>In the full tide of song were lost; <br>Each blank in faithless memory void, <br>The poet's glowing thought supplied; <br>And while his harp responsive rung, <br>'Twas thus the Latest Minstrel sung. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Canto I.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The feast was over in Branksome tower, <br>And the Ladye had gone to her secret bower; <br>Her bower that was guarded by word and by spell, <br>Deadly to hear, and deadly to tell- <br>Jesu Maria, shield us well! <br>No living wight, save the Ladye alone, <br>Had dared to cross the threshold stone. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">II <br>The tables were drawn, it was idlesse all; <br>Knight and page, and household squire, <br>Loiter'd through the lofty hall, <br>Or crowded round the ample fire: <br>The staghours, weary with the chase, <br>Lay stretch'd upon the rusy foloor <br>And urged, in dreams, the forest race, <br>From Teviot-stone to Eskdale-moor. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">III <br>Nine-and-twenty knights of fame <br>Hung their shields in Branksome-Hall, <br>Nine-and-twenty squires of name <br>Brought them their steeds to bower from stall; <br>Nine-and-twenty yeomen tall <br>Waited, duteous, on them all; <br>They were all knights of mettle true, <br>Kinsmen to the bold Buccleuch. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">IV <br>Ten of them were sheathed in steel, <br>With belted sword, and spur on heel: <br>They quitted not their harness bright, <br>Neither by day, nor yet by night: <br>They lay down to rest, <br>With corslet laced, <br>Pillow'd on buckler cold and hard; <br>They carved at the meal <br>With gloves of steel, <br>And they drank the red wine through the helmet barr'd. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">V <br>Ten squires, ten yeomen, mail-clad men, <br>Waited the beck of the warders ten; <br>Thirty steeds, both fleet and wight, <br>Stood saddled in stable day and night, <br>Barbed with frontlet of steel, I trow, <br>And with Jedwood-axe at saddlebow; <br>A hundred more fed free in stall:- <br>Such was the custom of Branksome-Hall. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">VI <br>Why do these steeds stand ready dight? <br>Why watch these warriors, arm'd, by night?- <br>They watch, to hear the blood-hound baying? <br>They watch to hear the war-horn braying; <br>To see St. George's red cross streaming, <br>To see the midnight beacon gleaming: <br>They watch, against Southern force and guile, <br>Lest Scroop, or Howard, or Percy's powers, <br>Threaten Branksome's lordly towers, <br>From Warkwork, or Naworth, or merry Carlisle.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">VII <br>Such is the custom of Branksome-Hall- <br>Many a valiant knight is here; <br>But he, the chieftain of them all, <br>His sword hangs rusting on the wall, <br>Beside his broken spear. <br>Bards long shall tell <br>How Lord Walter fell.<br>When startled burghers fled afar, <br>The furies of the Border war; <br>When the streets of high Dunedin <br>Saw lances gleam and falchion redden, <br>And heard the slogan's deadly yell- <br>Then the Chef of Branksome fell. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">VIII <br>Can piety the discord heal, <br>Or stanch the death-feud's enmity? <br>Can Christian lore, can patriot zeal, <br>Can love of blessed charity? <br>No! vainly to each holy shrine, <br>In mutual pilgrimage they drew; <br>Implored, in vain, the grace divine <br>For chiefs, their own red falchions slew; <br>While Cessford owns the rule of Carr, <br>While Ettrick boasts the line of Scott, <br>The slaughter'd chiefs, the mortal jar, <br>The havoc of the feudal war, <br>Shall never, never be forgot! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">IX <br>In sorrow o'er Lord Walter's bier <br>The warlike foresters had bent; <br>And many a flower,and many a tear, <br>Old Teviot's maids and matrons lent: <br>But o'er her warrior's bloody bier <br>The Ladye dropp'd nor flowers nor tear! <br>Vengeance, deep-brooding o'er the slain <br>Had lock'd the source of softer woe; <br>And burning pride, and high disdain, <br>Forbade the rising tear to flow; <br>Until, amid his sorrowing clan, <br>Her son lisp'd from the nurse's knee- <br>'And if I live to be a man, <br>My father's death revenged shall be!'<br>Then fast the mother's tears did seek <br>To dew the infant's kindling cheek. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">X <br>All loose her negligent attire, <br>All loose her golden hair, <br>Hung Margaret o'er her slaughter'd sire, <br>And wept in wild despair, <br>But not alone the bitter tear <br>Had filial grief supplied; <br>For hopeless love, and anxious fear, <br>Had lent their mingled tide: <br>Nor in her mother's alter'd eye <br>Dared she to look for sympathy. <br>Her lover, 'gainst her father's clan, <br>With Carr in arms had stood,<br>When Mathouse-burn to Melrose ran, <br>All purple with their blood; <br>And well she knew, her mother dread, <br>Before Lord Cranstoun she should wed, <br>Would see her on her dying bed. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XI <br>Of noble race the Ladye came <br>Her father was a clerk of fame, <br>Of Bethune's line of Picardie;<br>He learn'd the art that none may name, <br>In Padua, far beyond the sea. <br>Men said, he changed his mortal frame <br>By feat of magic mystery; <br>For when, in studious mode, he paced <br>St. Andrew's cloister'd hall, <br>His form no darkening shadow traced <br>Upon the sunny wall!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XII <br>And of his skill, as bards avow, <br>He taught that Ladye fair, <br>Till to her bidding she could bow <br>The viewless forms of air. <br>And now she sits in secret bower, <br>In old Lord David's western tower, <br>And listens to a heavy sound, <br>That moans the mossy turrets round. <br>Is it the roar of Teviot's tide, <br>That chafes against the scaur's red side? <br>Is it the wind that swings the oaks? <br>Is it the echo from the rocks? <br>What may it be, the heavy sound, <br>That moans old Branksome's turrets round? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XIII <br>At the sullen, moaning sound, <br>The ban-dogs bay and howl; <br>And, from the turrets round, <br>Loud whoops the startled owl. <br>In the hall, both squire and knight <br>Swore that a storm was near, <br>And looked forth to view the night, <br>But the night was still and clear! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XIV <br>From the sound of Teviot's tide, <br>Chafing with the mountain's side, <br>From the groan of the wind-swung oak, <br>From the sullen echo of the rock, <br>From the voice of the coming storm, <br>The Ladye knew it well! <br>It was the Spirit of the Flood that spoke <br>And he called on the Spirit of the Fell. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XV <br>River Spirit <br>'Sleep'st thou, brother?'- </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Mountain Spirit <br>-'Brother, nay- <br>On my hills the moon-beams play. <br>From Craik-cross to Skelfhill-pen, <br>By every rill, in every glen, <br>Merry elves their morris pacing, <br>To aerial minstrelry <br>Emerald rings on brown heath tracing, <br>Trip it deft and merrily. <br>Up, and mark their nimble feet! <br>Up, and list their music sweet!' </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XVI <br>River Spirit <br>'Tears of an imprisoned maiden <br>Mix with my polluted stream; <br>Margaret of Branksome, sorrow-laden, <br>Mourns beneath the moon's pale beam. <br>Tell me, thou, who view'st the stars, <br>When shall cease these feudal jars? <br>What shall be the maiden's fate? <br>Who shall be the maiden's mate?'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XVII <br>Mountain Spirit <br>'Arthur's slow wain his course doth roll <br>In utter darkness round the pole; <br>The Northern Bear lowers black and grim; <br>Orion's studded belt is dim; <br>Twinkling faint, and distant far, <br>Shimmers through mist each planet star; <br>Ill may I read their high decree! <br>But no kind influence deign they shower <br>On Teviot's tide, and Branksome's tower, <br>Till pride be quell'd, and love be free.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XVIII <br>The unearthly voices ceast, <br>And the heavy sound was still; <br>It died on the river's breast, <br>It died on the side of the hill. <br>But round Lord David's tower <br>The sound still floated near; <br>For it rung in the Ladye's bower, <br>And it rung in the Ladye's ear. <br>She raised her stately head, <br>And her heart throbb'd high with pride:- <br>'Your mountains shall bend, <br>And your streams ascend, <br>Ere Margaret be our foeman's bride!'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XIX <br>The Lady sought the lofty hall, <br>Where many a bold retainer lay, <br>And, with jocund din, among them all, <br>Her son pursued his infant play. <br>A fancied moss-trooper, the boy <br>The truncheon of a spear bestrode, <br>And round the hall, right merrily, <br>In mimic foray rode. <br>Even bearded knights, in arms grown old, <br>Share in his frolic gambols bore, <br>Albeit their hearts of rugged mould, <br>Were stubborn as the steel they wore. <br>For the grey warriors prophesied, <br>How the brave boy, in future war, <br>Should tame the Unicorn's pride, <br>Exalt the Crescent and the Star. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XX <br>The Ladye forgot her purpose high, <br>One moment, and no more; <br>One moment gazed with a mother's eye, <br>As she paused at the arched door: <br>Then from amid the armed train, <br>She call'd to her William of Deloraine. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXI <br>A stark moss-trooping Scott was he, <br>As e'er couch'd Border lance by knee; <br>Through Solway sands, through Tarras moss, <br>Blindfold, he knew the paths to cross; <br>By wily turns, by desperate bounds, <br>Had baffled Percy's best blood-hounds;<br>In Eske or Liddell, fords were none, <br>But he would ride them, one by one; <br>Alike to him was time or tide, <br>December's snow, or July's pride; <br>Alike to him was tide or time, <br>Moonless midnight, or matin prime; <br>Steady of heart, and stout of hand, <br>As ever drove prey from Cumberland; <br>Five times outlawed had be been, <br>By England's King, and Scotland's Queen. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXII <br>'Sir William of Deloraine, good at need, <br>Mount thee on the wightest steed; <br>Spare not to spur, nor stint to ride, <br>Until thou come to fair Tweedside; <br>And in Melrose's holy pile <br>Seek thou the Monk of St. Mary's aisle. <br>Greet the Father well from me; <br>Say that the fated hour is come, <br>And to-night he shall watch with thee, <br>To win the treasure of the tomb. <br>For this will be St. Michael's night, <br>And, though stars be dim, the moon is bright; <br>And the Cross, of bloody red, <br>Will point to the grave of the mighty dead. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXIII <br>'What he gives thee, see thou keep; <br>Stay not thou for food or sleep: <br>Be it scroll, or be it book, <br>Into it, Knight, thou must not look; <br>If thou readest, thou art lorn! <br>Better hadst thou ne'er been born.'- </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXIV <br>'O swiftly can speed my dapple-grey steed, <br>Which drinks of the Teviot clear; <br>Ere break of day,' the Warrior 'gan say, <br>'Again will I be here: <br>And safer by none may thy errand be done, <br>Than, noble dame, by me; <br>Letter nor line know I never a one, <br>Wer't my neck-verse at Hairibee.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXV <br>Soon in his saddle sate he fast, <br>And soon the steep descent he past, <br>Soon cross'd the sounding barbican, <br>And soon the Teviot side he won. <br>Eastward the wooded path he rode, <br>Green hazels o'er his basnet nod; <br>He passed the Peel of Goldiland, <br>And cross'd old Borthwick's roaring strand; <br>Dimly he view'd the Moat-hill's mound, <br>Where Druid shades still flitted round; <br>In Hawick twinkled many a light; <br>Behind him soon they set in night; <br>And soon he spurr'd his courser keen <br>Beneath the tower of Hazeldean. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXVI <br>The clattering hoofs the watchmen mark;- <br>'Stand ho! thou courier of the dark.'- <br>'For Branksome, ho!'' the knight rejoin'd, <br>And left the friendly tower behind. <br>He turn'd him now from Teviotside, <br>And, guided by the tinkling rill, <br>Northward the dark ascent did ride, <br>And gained the moor at Horsliehill; <br>Broad on the left before him lay, <br>For many a mile, the Roman way. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXVII <br>A moment now he slack'd his speed, <br>A moment breathed his panting steed; <br>Drew saddle-girth and corslet-band, <br>And loosen'd in the sheath his brand. <br>On Minto-crags the moonbeams glint, <br>Where Barnhill hew'd his bed of flint; <br>Who flung his outlaw'd limbs to rest, <br>Where falcons hang their giddy nest, <br>Mid cliffs, from whence his eagle eye <br>For many a league his prey could spy; <br>Cliffs, doubling, on their echoes borne, <br>The terrors of the robber's horn. <br>Cliffs, which, for many a year, <br>The warbling Doric reed shall hear, <br>When some sad swain shall teach the grove, <br>Ambition is no cure for love! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXVIII <br>Unchallenged, thence pass'd Deloraine, <br>To ancient Riddel's fair domain, <br>Where Aill, from mountains freed, <br>Down from the lakes did raving come; <br>Each wave was creased with tawny foam, <br>Like the mane of a chestnut steed. <br>In vain! no torrent, deep or broad, <br>Might bar the bold moss-trooper's road. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXIX <br>At the first plunge the horse sunk low, <br>And the water broke o'er the saddlebow; <br>Above the flaming tide, I ween, <br>Scarce half the charger's neck was seen; <br>For he was barded from counter to tail, <br>And the rider was armed complete in mail; <br>Never heavier man and horse <br>Stemm'd a midnight torrent's force. <br>The warrior's very plume, I say <br>Was daggled by the dashing spray; <br>Yet, through good heart, and Our Ladye's grace, <br>At length he gain'd the landing place. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXX <br>Now Bowden Moor the march-man won, <br>And sternly shook his plumed head, <br>As glanced his eye o'er Halidon; <br>For on his soul the slaughter red <br>Of that unhallow'd morn arose, <br>When first the Scott and Carr were foes; <br>When royal James beheld the fray, <br>Prize to the victor of the day; <br>When Home and Douglas, in the van, <br>Bore down Buccleuch's retiring clan, <br>Till gallant Cessford's heart-blood dear <br>Reek'd on dark Elliot's Border spear. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXXI <br>In bitter mood he spurred fast, <br>And soon the hated heath was past; <br>And far beneath, in lustre wan, <br>Old Melros' rose, and fair Tweed ran: <br>Like some tall rock with lichens grey, <br>Seem'd dimly huge, the dark Abbaye. <br>When Harwick he pass'd, had curfew rung, <br>Now midnight lauds were in Melrose sung. <br>The sound, upon the fitful gale, <br>In solemn wise did rise and fail, <br>Like that wild harp, whose magic tone <br>Is waken'd by the winds alone. <br>But when Melrose he reach'd, 'twas silence all; <br>He meetly stabled his steed in stall, <br>And sought the convent's lonely wall.<br>Here paused the harp; and with its swell <br>The Master's fire and courage fell; <br>Dejectedly, and low, he bow'd, <br>And, gazing timid on the crowd, <br>He seem'd to seek, in every eye, <br>If they approved his mistrelsy; <br>And, diffident of present praise, <br>Somewhat he spoke of former days, <br>And how old age, and wand'ring long, <br>Had done his hand and harp some wrong. <br>The Duchess, and her daughters fair, <br>And every gentle lady there, <br>Each after each, in due degree, <br>Gave praises to his melody; <br>His hand was true, his voice was clear, <br>And much they long'd the rest to hear. <br>Encouraged thus, the Aged Man, <br>After meet rest, again began.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Sir+Walter+Scott">Sir Walter Scott</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=519701" data-title="The Lay of the Last Minstrel: Canto I de Sir Walter Scott" data-description="Introduction.

The way was long, the wind was cold, 
The Minstrel was infirm and old; 
His wither'd cheek, and tresses gray, 
Seem'd to have known a better day; 
The harp, his sole remaining joy, 
Was carried by an orphan boy. 
The last of all the..."></div>
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