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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=519705" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Lay of the Last Minstrel: Canto V.</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I<br>Call it not vain;-they do not err, <br>Who say, that when the Poet dies, <br>Mute Nature mourns her worshipper, <br>And celebrates his obsequies: <br>Who say, tall cliff and cavern lone <br>For the departed Bard make moan; <br>That mountains weep in crystal rill; <br>That flowers in tears of balm distill; <br>Through his lov'd groves that breezes sigh, <br>And oaks, in deeper groan, reply; <br>And rivers teach their rushing wave <br>To murmur dirges round his grave </div><div style="margin:10px 0">II <br>Not that, in sooth, o'er mortal urn <br>Those things inanimate can mourn; <br>But that the stream, the wood, the gale <br>Is vocal with the plaintive wail <br>Of those, who, else forgotten long, <br>Liv'd in the poet's faithful song, <br>And with the poet's parting breath, <br>Whose memory feels a second death. <br>The Maid's pale shade, who wails her lot, <br>That love, true love, should be forgot, <br>From rose and hawthorn shakes the tear <br>Upon the gentle Minstrel's bier: <br>The phantom Knight, his glory fled, <br>Mourns o'er the field he heap'd with dead; <br>Mounts the wild blast that sweeps amain, <br>And shrieks along the battle-plain. <br>The Chief, whose antique crownlet long <br>Still sparkled in the feudal song, <br>Now, from the mountain's misty throne, <br>Sees, in the thanedom once his own, <br>His ashes undistinguish'd lie, <br>His place, his power, his memory die: <br>His groans the lonely caverns fill, <br>His tears of rage impel the rill: <br>All mourn the Minstrel's harp unstrung, <br>Their name unknown, their praise unsung. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">III <br>Scarcely the hot assault was staid, <br>The terms of truce were scarcely made, <br>When they could spy, from Branksome's towers, <br>The advancing march of martial powers. <br>Thick clouds of dust afar appear'd, <br>And trampling steeds were faintly heard; <br>Bright spears, above the columns dun, <br>Glanced momentary to the sun; <br>And feudal banners fair display'd <br>The bands that moved to Branksome's aid. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">IV <br>Vails not to tell each hardy clan, <br>From the fair Middle Marches came; <br>The Bloody Heart blaz'd in the van, <br>Announcing Douglas, dreaded name! <br>Vails not to tell what steeds did spurn, <br>Where the Seven Spears of Wedderburne <br>Their men in battle-order set; <br>And Swinton laid the lance in rest, <br>That tamed of yore the sparkling crest <br>Of Clarence's Plantagenet. <br>Nor list I say what hundreds more, <br>From the rich Merse and Lammermore, <br>And Tweed's fair borders to the war, <br>Beneath the crest of Old Dunbar. <br>And Hepburn's mingled banners come, <br>Down the steep mountain glittering far <br>And shouting still, 'A Home! a Home!'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">V <br>Now squire and knight, from Branksome sent, <br>On many a courteous message went; <br>To every chief and lord they paid <br>Meet thanks for prompt and powerful aid: <br>And told them,-how a truce was made. <br>And how a day of fight was ta'en <br>'Twixt Musgrave and stout Deloraine; <br>And how the Ladye pray'd them dear, <br>That all would stay the fight to see, <br>And deign, in love and courtesy, <br>To taste of Branksome cheer. <br>Nor, while they bade to feast each Scot, <br>Were England's noble Lords forgot <br>Himself, the hoary Seneschal <br>Rode forth, in seemly terms to call <br>Those gallant foes to Branksome Hall. <br>Accepted Howard, than whom knight <br>Was never dubb'd more bold in fight; <br>Nor, when from war and armor free, <br>More fam'd for stately courtesy: <br>But angry Dacre rather chose <br>In his pavilion to repose. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">VI <br>Now, noble Dame, perchance you ask <br>How these two hostile armies met? <br>Deeming it were no easy task <br>To keep the truce which here was set; <br>Where martial spirits, all on fire, <br>Breathed only blood and mortal ire. <br>By mutual inroads, mutual blows, <br>By habit, and by nation, foes, <br>They met on Teviot's strand; <br>They met and sate them mingled down, <br>Without a threat, without a frown, <br>As brothers meet in foreign land: <br>The hands the spear that lately grasp'd, <br>Still in the mailed gauntlet clasp'd, <br>Were interchang'd in greeting dear; <br>Visors were raised, and faces shown, <br>And many a friend, to friend made known, <br>Partook of social cheer. <br>Some drove the jolly bowl about; <br>With dice and draughts some chas'd the day; <br>And some, with many a merry shout, <br>In riot revelry, and rout, <br>Pursued the foot-ball play. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">VII <br>Yet, be it known, had bugles blown, <br>Or sign of war been seen, <br>Those bands so fair together rang'd, <br>Those hands, so frankly interchang'd, <br>Had dyed with gore the green: <br>The merry shout by Teviot-side <br>Had sunk in war-cries wild and wide, <br>And in the groan of death; <br>And whingers, now in friendship bare <br>The social meal to part and share, <br>Had found a bloody sheath. <br>'Twixt truce and war, such sudden change <br>Was not infrequent, nor held strange, <br>In the old Border-day: <br>But yet on Branksome's towers and town, <br>In peaceful merriment, sunk down <br>The sun's declining ray. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">VIII <br>The blithsome signs of wassel gay <br>Decay'd not with the dying day: <br>Soon through the lattic'd windows tall <br>Of lofty Branksome's lordly hall, <br>Divided square by shafts of stone, <br>Huge flakes of ruddy lustre shone <br>Nor less the gilded rafters rang <br>With merry harp and beakers' clang: <br>And frequent, on the darkening plain, <br>Loud hollo, whoop, or whistle ran, <br>As bands, their stragglers to regain <br>Give the shrill watchword of their clan;<br>And revellers, o'er their bowls, proclaim <br>Douglas or Dacre's conquering name. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">IX <br>Less frequent heard, and fainter still <br>At length the various clamors died: <br>And you might hear, from Branksome hill <br>No sound but Teviot's rushing tide; <br>Save when the changing sentinel <br>The challenge of his watch could tell; <br>And save where, through the dark profound, <br>The clanging axe and hammer's sound <br>Rung from the nether lawn; <br>For many a busy hand toil'd there, <br>Strong pales to shape, and beams to square, <br>The lists' dread barriers to prepare <br>Against the morrow's dawn. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">X <br>Margaret from hall did soon retreat, <br>Despite the Dame's reproving eye; <br>Nor mark'd she as she left her seat, <br>Full many a stifled sigh; <br>For many a noble warrior strove <br>To win the Flower of Teviot's love, <br>And many a bold ally. <br>With throbbing head and anxious heart, <br>All in her lonely bower apart, <br>In broken sleep she lay: <br>Betimes from silken couch she rose <br>While yet the banner'd hosts repose, <br>She view'd the dawning day: <br>Of all the hundreds sunk to rest <br>First woke the loveliest and the best. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XI <br>She gaz'd upon the inner court, <br>Which in the tower's tall shadow lay; <br>Where coursers' clang, and stamp, and snort <br>Had rung the livelong yesterday; <br>Now still as death; till stalking slow - <br>The jingling spurs announc'd his tread - <br>A stately warrior pass'd below; <br>But when he rais'd his plumed head - <br>Bless'd Mary! can it be? <br>Secure, as if in Ousenam bowers, <br>He walks through Branksome's hostile towers <br>With fearless step and free. <br>She dar'd not sign, she dar'd not speak - <br>Oh! if one page's slumbers break, <br>His blood the price must pay! <br>Not all the pearls Queen Mary wears <br>Not Margaret's yet more precious tears, <br>Shall buy his life a day. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XII <br>Yet was his hazard small; for well <br>You may bethink you of the spell <br>Of that sly urchin page; <br>This to his lord he did impart, <br>And made him seem, by glamour art, <br>A knight from Hermitage. <br>Unchalleng'd thus, the warder's post, <br>The court, unchalleng'd, thus he cross'd, <br>For all the vassalage: <br>But O! what magic's quaint disguise <br>Could blind fair Margaret s azure eyes! <br>She started from her seat; <br>While with surprise and fear she strove, <br>And both could scarcely master love - <br>Lord Henry's at her feet. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XIII <br>Oft have I mus'd what purpose bad <br>That foul malicious urchin had <br>To bring this meeting round; <br>For happy love's a heavenly sight, <br>And by a vile malignant sprite <br>In such no joy is found; <br>And oft I've deem'd perchance he thought <br>Their erring passion might have wrought <br>Sorrow, and sin, and shame; <br>And death to Cranstoun's gallant Knight <br>And to the gentle ladye bright <br>Disgrace and loss of fame. <br>But earthly spirit could not tell <br>The heart of them that lov'd so well. <br>True love's the gift which God has given <br>To man alone beneath the heaven: <br>It is not fantasy's hot fire, <br>Whose wishes, soon as granted, fly; <br>It liveth not in fierce desire, <br>With dead desire it doth not die; <br>It is the secret sympathy, <br>The silver link, the silken tie, <br>Which heart to heart, and mind to mind <br>In body and in soul can bind. <br>Now leave we Margaret and her Knight, <br>To tell you of the approaching fight. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XIV <br>Their warning blasts the bugles blew, <br>The pipe's shrill port arous'd each clan; <br>In haste, the deadly strife to view, <br>The trooping warriors eager ran: <br>Thick round the lists their lances stood <br>Like blasted pines in Ettric wood; <br>To Branksome many a look they threw, <br>The combatants' approach to view, <br>And bandied many a word of boast <br>About the knight each favor'd most. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XV <br>Meantime, full anxious was the Dame; <br>For now arose disputed claim <br>Of who should fight for Deloraine, <br>'Twixt Harden and 'twixt Thirlestaine <br>They 'gan to reckon kin and rent, <br>And frowning brow on brow was bent; <br>But yet not long the strife-for, lo! <br>Himself, the Knight of Deloraine, <br>Strong, as it seem'd, and free from pain <br>In armor sheath'd from top to toe, <br>Appear'd and crav'd the combat due. <br>The Dame her charm successful knew, <br>And the fierce chiefs their claims withdrew. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XVI <br>When for the lists they sought the plain, <br>The stately Ladye's silken rein <br>Did noble Howard hold; <br>Unarmed by her side he walk'd, <br>And much, in courteous phrase, they talk'd <br>Of feats of arms of old. <br>Costly his garb; his Flemish ruff <br>Fell o'er his doublet, shap'd of buff, <br>With satin slash'd and lin'd; <br>Tawny his boot, and gold his spur, <br>His cloak was all of Poland fur, <br>His hose with silver twin'd; <br>His Bilboa blade, by Marchmen felt, <br>Hung in a broad and studded belt; <br>Hence, in rude phrase, the Borderers still <br>Call'd noble Howard, Belted Will. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XVII <br>Behind Lord Howard and the Dame, <br>Fair Margaret on her palfrey came, <br>Whose foot-cloth swept the ground: <br>White was her wimple, and her veil, <br>And her loose locks a chaplet pale <br>Of whitest roses bound; <br>The lordly Angus, by her side, <br>In courtesy to cheer her tried; <br>Without his aid, her hand in vain <br>Had strove to guide her broider'd rein. <br>He deem'd she shudder'd at the sight <br>Of warriors met for mortal fight; <br>But cause of terror, all unguess'd, <br>Was fluttering in her gentle breast, <br>When, in their chairs of crimson plac'd, <br>The Dame and she the barriers grac'd. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XVIII <br>Prize of the field, the young Buccleuch, <br>An English knight led forth to view; <br>Scarce rued the boy his present plight, <br>So much he long'd to see the fight. <br>Within the lists, in knightly pride, <br>High Home and haughty Dacre ride; <br>Their leading staffs of steel they wield <br>As marshals of the mortal field; <br>While to each knight their care assign'd <br>Like vantage of the sun and wind. <br>Then heralds hoarse did loud proclaim, <br>In King and Queen and Warden's name <br>That none, while lasts the strife, <br>Should dare, by look, or sign, or word, <br>Aid to a champion to afford, <br>On peril of his life; <br>And not a breath the silence broke, <br>Till thus the alternate Heralds spoke: </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XIX <br>English Herald <br>'Here standeth Richard of Musgrave, <br>Good knight and true, and freely born, <br>Amends from Deloraine to crave, <br>For foul despiteous scathe and scorn. <br>He sayeth that William of Deloraine <br>Is traitor false by Border laws; <br>This with his sword he will maintain, <br>So help him God, and his good cause!' </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XX <br>Scottish Herald <br>'Here standeth William of Deloraine, <br>Good knight and true, of noble strain, <br>Who sayeth that foul treason's stain, <br>Since he bore arms, ne'er soil'd his coat; <br>And that, so help him God above! <br>He will on Musgrave's body prove, <br>He lies most foully in his throat.' </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Lord Dacre <br>'Forward, brave champions, to the fight! <br>Sound trumpets!' -</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Lord Home <br>- 'God defend the right!' - <br>Then, Teviot! how thine echoes rang, <br>When bugle-sound and trumpet-clang <br>Let loose the martial foes, <br>And in mid list, with shield pois'd high, <br>And measur'd step and wary eye, <br>The combatants did close. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXI <br>Ill would it suit your gentle ear, <br>Ye lovely listeners, to hear <br>How to the axe the helms did sound, <br>And blood pour'd down from many a wound; <br>For desperate was the strife and long, <br>And either warrior fierce and strong. <br>But, were each dame a listening knight, <br>I well could tell how warriors fight! <br>For I have seen war's lightning flashing, <br>Seen the claymore with bayonet clashing, <br>Seen through red blood the war-horse dashing, <br>And scorn'd, amid the reeling strife, <br>To yield a step for death or life. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXII <br>'Tis done, 'tis done! that fatal blow <br>Has stretch d him on the bloody plain; <br>He strives to rise-brave Musgrave, no! <br>Thence never shalt thou rise again! <br>He chokes in blood! some friendly hand <br>Undo the visor's barred band, <br>Unfix the gorget's iron clasp, <br>And give him room for life to gasp! <br>O, bootless aid! haste, holy Friar, <br>Haste, ere the sinner shall expire! <br>Of all his guilt let him be shriven, <br>And smooth his path from earth to heaven! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXIII <br>In haste the holy Friar sped <br>His naked foot was dyed with red <br>As through the lists he ran; <br>Unmindful of the shouts on high, <br>That hail'd the conqueror's victory, <br>He rais'd the dying man; <br>Loose wav'd his silver beard and hair, <br>As o'er him he kneel'd down in prayer; <br>And still the crucifix on high <br>He holds before his darkening eye; <br>And still he bends an anxious ear <br>His faltering penitence to hear; <br>Still props him from the bloody sod, <br>Still, even when soul and body part, <br>Pours ghostly comfort on his heart, <br>And bids him trust in God. <br>Unheard he prays; the death pang's o'er! <br>Richard of Musgrave breathes no more. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXIV <br>As if exhausted in the fight, <br>Or musing o'er the piteous sight, <br>The silent victor stands; <br>His beaver did he not unclasp, <br>Mark'd not the shouts, felt not the grasp <br>Of gratulating hands. <br>When lo! strange cries of wild surprise, <br>Mingled with seeming terror, rise <br>Among the Scottish bands; <br>And all amid the throng'd array, <br>In panic haste gave open way <br>To a half-naked ghastly man <br>Who downward from the castle ran: <br>He cross'd the barriers at a bound, <br>And wild and haggard look'd around, <br>As dizzy, and in pain; <br>And all, upon the armed ground <br>Knew William of Deloraine! <br>Each ladye sprung from seat with speed; <br>Vaulted each marshal from his steed; <br>'And who art thou,' they cried, <br>'Who hast this battle fought and won?' <br>His plumed helm was soon undone - <br>'Cranstoun of Teviot-side! <br>For this fair prize I've fought and won.' <br>And to the Ladye led her son. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXV <br>Full oft the rescued boy she kiss'd, <br>And often press'd him to her breast; <br>For, under all her dauntless show, <br>Her heart had throbb'd at every blow; <br>Yet not Lord Cranstoun deign'd she greet, <br>Though low he kneeled at her feet. <br>Me lists not tell what words were made, <br>What Douglas, Home, and Howard said - <br>For Howard was a generous foe - <br>And how the clan united pray'd <br>The Ladye would the feud forego, <br>And deign to bless the nuptial hour <br>Of Cranstoun's Lord and Teviot's Flower. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXVI <br>She look'd to river, look'd to hill, <br>Thought on the Spirit's prophecy, <br>Then broke her silence stern and still - <br>'Not you, but Fate, has vanquish'd me; <br>Their influence kindly stars may shower <br>On Teviot's tide and Branksome's tower, <br>For pride is quell'd, and love is free.' <br>She took fair Margaret by the hand, <br>Who, breathless, trembling, scarce might stand; <br>That hand to Cranstoun's lord gave she: <br>'As I am true to thee and thine, <br>Do thou be true to me and mine! <br>This clasp of love our bond shall be; <br>For this is your betrothing day, <br>And all these noble lords shall stay <br>To grace it with their company.' </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXVII <br>All as they left the listed plain <br>Much of the story she did gain <br>How Cranstoun fought with Deloraine <br>And of his page, and of the Book <br>Which from the wounded knight he took; <br>And how he sought her castle high, <br>That morn, by help of gramarye; <br>How, in Sir William's armor dight, <br>Stolen by his page, while slept the knight, <br>He took on him the single fight. <br>But half his tale he left unsaid <br>And linger'd till he join'd the maid. <br>Car'd not the Ladye to betray <br>Her mystic arts in view of day; <br>But well she thought, ere midnight came <br>Of that strange page the pride to tame <br>From his foul hands the Book to save, <br>And send it back to Michael's grave. <br>Needs not to tell each tender word <br>'Twixt Margaret and twixt Cranstoun s lord; <br>Nor how she told of former woes, <br>And how her bosom fell and rose, <br>While he and Musgrave bandied blows <br>Needs not these lovers' joys to tell: <br>One day, fair maids, you'll know them well. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXVIII <br>William of Deloraine some chance <br>Had waken'd from his deathlike trance; <br>And taught that, in the listed plain <br>Another, in his arms and shield <br>Against fierce Musgrave axe did wield <br>Under the name of Deloraine. <br>Hence to the field unarm'd he ran, <br>And hence his presence scar'd the clan, <br>Who held him for some fleeting wraith <br>And not a man of blood and breath. <br>Not much this new ally he lov'd, <br>Yet, when he saw what hap had prov'd <br>He greeted him right heartilie: <br>He would not waken old debate, <br>For he was void of rancorous hate, <br>Though rude, and scant of courtesy; <br>In raids he spilt but seldom blood, <br>Unless when men-at-arms withstood, <br>Or, as was meet, for deadly feud <br>He ne'er bore grudge for stalwart blow, <br>Ta'en in fair fight from gallant foe: <br>And so 'twas seen of him, e'en now, <br>When on dead Musgrave he look d down; <br>Grief darken'd on his rugged brow, <br>Though half disguised with a frown; <br>And thus, while sorrow bent his head, <br>His foeman's epitaph he made. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXIX <br>'Now, Richard Musgrave, liest thou here! <br>I ween, my deadly enemy <br>For, if I slew thy brother dear, <br>Thou slew'st a sister's son to me; <br>And when I lay in dungeon dark <br>Of Naworth Castle, long months three, <br>Till ransom'd for a thousand mark, <br>Dark Musgrave, it was 'long of thee. <br>And, Musgrave, could our fight be tried, <br>And thou wert now alive as I, <br>No mortal man should us divide, <br>Till one, or both of us, did die: <br>Yet, rest thee God! for well I know <br>I ne'er shall find a nobler foe. <br>In all the northern counties here, <br>Whose word is Snaffle, spur, and spear, <br>Thou wert the best to follow gear! <br>'Twas pleasure, as we look'd behind, <br>To see how thou the chase could'st wind, <br>Cheer the dark blood-hound on his way <br>And with the bugle rouse the fray! <br>I'd give the lands of Deloraine <br>Dark Musgrave were alive again.' </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXX <br>So mourn'd he, till Lord Dacre's band <br>Were bowning back to Cumberland. <br>They rais'd brave Musgrave from the field, <br>And laid him on his bloody shield; <br>On levell'd lances, four and four, <br>By turns, the noble burden bore. <br>Before, at times, upon the gale, <br>Was heard the Minstrel s plaintive wail; <br>Behind, four priests, in sable stole, <br>Sung requiem for the warrior's soul: <br>Around, the horsemen slowly rode; <br>With trailing pikes the spearmen trode; <br>And thus the gallant knight they bore <br>Through Liddesdale to Leven's shore; <br>Thence to Holme Coltrame's lofty nave, <br>And laid him in his father's grave. <br>The harp's wild notes, though hush'd the song, <br>The mimic march of death prolong; <br>Now seems it far, and now a-near, <br>Now meets, and now eludes the ear; <br>Now seems some mountainside to sweep, <br>Now faintly dies in valley deep; <br>Seems now as if the Minstrel's wail, <br>Now the sad requiem, loads the gale; <br>Last, o'er the warrior's closing grave, <br>Rung the full choir in choral stave. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">After due pause, they bade him tell, <br>Why he, who touch'd the harp so well, <br>Should thus, with ill-rewarded toil, <br>Wander a poor and thankless soil, <br>When the more generous Southern land <br>Would well requite his skillful hand. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The aged Harper howsoe'er <br>His only friend, his harp, was dear, <br>Lik'd not to hear it rank'd so high <br>Above his flowing poesy: <br>Less lik'd he still that scornful jeer <br>Mispris'd the land he lov'd so dear; <br>High was the sound, as thus again <br>The Bard resum'd his minstrel strain.</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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Call it not vain;-they do not err, 
Who say, that when the Poet dies, 
Mute Nature mourns her worshipper, 
And celebrates his obsequies: 
Who say, tall cliff and cavern lone 
For the departed Bard make moan; 
That mountains weep in crystal rill;..."></div>
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