« 上一頁繼續 »
All that my lady loved I her favourite walk That's gone to the great pond; the trees I learnt
Have many years in store,—but pray to God
You mayn't be left the last of all
Stranger. But sure all changes are not needs for the worse, Well! well! you've one friend more than you're My friend?
aware of. Old Man,
If the Squire's taste don't suit with yours, I warrant Mayhap they mayn't, sir ;-for all that
That's all you'll quarrel with: walk in and taste I like what I've been used to. I remember
His beer, old friend! and see if your old lady
Ere broach'd a better cask. You did not know me, All this from a child up, and now to lose it, 'Tis losing an old friend. There's nothing left
But we're acquainted now. 'Twould not be easy As 'twas;—1 go abroad and only meet
To make you like the outside; but within, With men whose fathers I remember boys;
That is not changed, my friend! you'll always find The brook that used to run before my door,
The same old bounty and old welcome there.
Of the old warriors of Buccleuch;
THE LAST MINSTREL. The way was long, the wind was cold, The Minstrel was infirm and old; His withered cheek, and tresses gray, Seemed to have known a better day; The harp, bis sole remaining joy, Was carried by an orphan boy. The last of all the bards was he, Who sung of Border chivalry. For, well-a-day! their date was fled, His tuneful brethren all were dead; And he, neglected and oppressed, Wished to be with them, and at rest. No more, on prancing palfrey borne, He carolled, light as lark at morn; No longer courted and caressed, High placed in hall, a welcome guest, He poured, to lord and lady gay, The unpremeditated lay: Old times were changed, old manners gone; A stranger filled the Stuarts' throne; The bigots of the iron time Had called his harmless art a crime. A wandering Harper, scorned and poor, He begged his bread from door to door; And tuned, to please a peasant's ear, The harp a king had loved to hear. He passed where Newark's stately tower Looks out from Yarrow's birchen bower: The Minstrel gazed with wishful eyeNo humbler resting-place was nigh. With hesitating step, at last, The embattled portal-arch he passed, Whose ponderous grate and massy bar Had oft rolled back the tide of war, But never closed the iron door Against the desolate and poor. The Duchess marked his weary pace, His timid mien, and reverend face, And bade her page the menials tell, That they should tend the old man well: For she had known adversity, Though born in such a high degree; In pride of power, in beauty's bloom, Hnd wept o'er Monmouth's bloody tomb.
The humble boon was soon obtain'd; The aged Minstrel audience gained. But, when he reached the room of state, Where she, with all her ladies, sate, Perchance he wished his boon denied: For, when to tune his harp he tried, His trembling hand had lost the ease, Which marks security to please; And scenes, long past, of joy and pain, Came wildering o'er his aged brainHe tried to tune his harp in vain. The pitying Duchess praised its chime, And gave him heart, and gave him time, Till every string's according glee Was blended into harmony. And then, he said, he would full fain He could recall an ancient strain, He never thought to sing again. It was not framed for village churls, But for high dames and mighty earls; He had played it to King Charles the Good, When he kept court in Holyrood; And much he wished, yet feared, to try, The long-forgotten melody. Amid the strings his fingers strayed, And an uncertain warbling made, And oft he shook his hoary head. But when he caught the measure wild, The old man raised his face, and smiled; And lightened up his faded eye, With all a poet's ecstacy! In varying cadence, soft or strong, He swept the sounding chords along: The present scene, the future lot, His toils, his wants, were all forgot: Cold diffidence and age's frost, In the full tide of song were lost; Each blank, in faithless memory void, The poet's glowing thought supplied ; And, while his harp responsive rung, 'Twas thus the Latest Minstrel sung.
When kindness had his wants supplied,
Can love of blessed charity?
In old Lord David's western tower, No! vainly to each holy shrine,
And listens to a heavy sound, In mutual pilgrimage they drew;
That moans the mossy turrets round. Implored, in vain, the grace divine
For chiefs, their own red falchions slew : While Cessford owns the rule of Car,
DELORAINE GOES TO THE GRAVE OF While Ettrick boasts the line of Scott,
If thou would'st view fair Melrose aright,
Go visit it by the pale moon-light;
Gild, but to flout, the ruins gray.
When the broken arches are black in night,
And each shafted oriel glimmers white;
When the cold light's uncertain shower
Streams on the ruined central tower;
When buttress and buttress, alternately,
Seem framed of ebon and ivory;
When silver edges the imagery,
And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die; Forbade the rising tear to flow;
When distant Tweed is heard to rave, Until, amid his sorrowing clan,
And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's grave, Her son lisped from the nurse's knee
* Then go-but go alone the while“ And, if I live to be a man,
Then view St. David's ruin'd pile; My father's death revenged shall be!"
And, home returning, soothly swear, Then fast the mother's tears did seek
Was never scene so sad and fair! To dew the infant's kindling cheek.
Short halt did Deloraine make there; All loose her negligent attire,
Little recked he of the scene so fair: All loose her golden hair,
With dagger's liilt, on the wicket strong, Hung Margaret o'er her slaughtered sire,
He struck full loud, and struck full long. And wept in wild despair.
The porter hurried to the gateBut not alone the bitter tear
" Who knocks so loud, and knocks so late?"Had filial grief supplied ;
“ From Branksome I," the warrior cried;
And strait the wicket opened wide ; For hopeless love, and anxious fear,
For Branksome's chiefs had in battle stood, Had lent their mingled tide: Nor in her mother's altered eye
To fence the rights of fair Melrose; Dared she to look for sympathy.
And lands and livings, many a rood,
Had gifted the shrine for their soul's repose. Her lover, 'gainst her father's clan, With Car in arms had stood,
Bold Deloraine his errand said; When Mathouse-burn to Melrose ran,
The porter bent his humble head;
With torch in hand, and feet unshod,
And noiseless step, the path he trod :
The arched cloisters, far and wide,
Rang to the warrior's clanking stride;
Till, stooping low his lofty crest,
He entered the cell of the ancient priest,
And lifted his barred aventayle,
To hail the monk of St. Mary's aisle.
“ The Ladye of Branksome greets thee by me; By feat of magic mystery;
Says, that the fated hour is come, For when, in studious mood, he paced
And that to-night I shall watch with thee, St. Andrew's cloistered hall,
To win the treasure of the tomb."His form no darkening shadow traced
From sackcloth couch the monk arose, Upon the sunny wall!
With toil his stiffened limbs he reared;
A hundred years had flung their snows
On his thin locks and floating beard.
And strangely on the knight looked he,
And his blue eyes gleamed wild and wide; And now she sits in secret bower,
“ And, dar'st thou, warrior! seek to see
What heaven and hell alike would hide?
O fading honours of the dead!
O high ambition, lowly laid!
The moon on the east oriel shone
Through slender shafts of shapely stone,
By foliaged tracery combined;
Thou would'st have thought some fairy's hand
'Twixt poplars straight the ozier wand,
In many a freakish knot, had twined;
Then framed a spell, when the work was doze,
And changed the willow-wreaths to stone.
The silver light, so pale and faint, « Penance, father, will I none;
Shewed many a prophet, and many a saint,
Whose image on the glass was dyed;
Full in the midst, his cross of red
Triumphant Michael brandished,
And trampled the apostate's pride.
The moon-beam kissed the holy pane,
And threw on the pavement a bloody staja.
A Scottish monarch slept below;
Thus spoke the monk, in solemn tone-
“ I was not always a man of woe ;
And their iron clang sounds strange to my ear.
“ In these far climes, it was my lot
To meet the wond'rous Michael Scott;
A wizard of such dreaded fame,
That when, in Salamanca's cave,
Him listed his magic wand to wave,
The bells would ring in Notre Dame!
And, Warrior, I could say to thee
The words that cleft Eildon hills in three,
And bridled the Tweed with a curb of sterke
But to speak them were a deadly sin;
A triple penance must be done.
“ When Michael lay on his dying bed,
His conscience was awakened;
He bethought him of his sinful deed,
And he gave me a sign to come with speed:
I was in Spain when the morning rose,
But I stood by his bed ere evening close.
The words may not again be said,
That he spoke to me, on death-bed laid;
They would rend this Abbaye's massy mase,
And pile it in heaps above his grave.
“ I swore to bury his mighty book,
That never mortal might therein look;
And never to tell where it was hid,
Save at his Chief of Branksome's need;
And when that need was past and o’er,
Again the volume to restore.
I buried him on St. Michael's night,
When the bell tolled one, and the moon was b
And I dug his chamber among the dead,
When the floor of the chancel was stained red.
Chat his patron's cross might over him wave, His breath came thick, his head swam round,
When this strange scene of death he saw.
Bewildered and unnerved he stood, It was a night of woe and dread,
And the priest prayed fervently, and loud: When Michael in the tomb I laid!
With eyes averted prayed he; strange sounds along the chancel past,
He might not endure the sight to see, Che banners waved without a blast".
Of the man he had loved so brotherly. -Still spoke the monk, when the bell tolled one!tell you, that a braver man
And when the priest his death-prayer had prayed, Chan William of Deloraine, good at need,
Thus unto Deloraine he said :Against a foe ne'er spurred a steed:
“ Now speed thee what thou hast to do, Yet somewhat was he chilled with dread,
Or, warrior, we may dearly rue ; And his hair did bristle upon his head.
For those, thou may'st not look upon,
Are gathering fast round the yawning stone!"4 Lo, warrior! now, the cross of red
Then Deloraine, in terror, took Points to the grave of the mighty dead;
From the cold hand the mighty book, Within it burns a wonderous light,
With iron clasped, and with iron bound: l'o chase the spirits that love the night:
He thought, as he took it, the dead man frowned; That lamp shall burn unquenchably,
But the glare of the sepulchral light,
Perchance, had dazzled the warrior's sight.
When the huge stone had sunk o'er the tomb, He pointed to a secret nook ;
The night returned in double gloom, An iron bar the warrior took;
For the moon had gone down, and the stars were few; And the monk made a sign, with his withered hand, And as the knight and priest withdrew, The grave's huge portal to expand.
With wavering steps and dizzy brain,
They hardly might the postern gain.
'Tis said, as through the aisles they past, With bar of iron heaved amain,
They heard strange noises on the blast; Till the toil-drops fell from his brows, like rain.
And through the cloister-galleries small, It was by dint of passing strength,
Which at mid-height thread the chancel wall, That he moved the massy stone at length.
Loud sobs, and laughter louder, ran, I would you had been there to see
And voices unlike the voice of man; How the light broke forth so gloriously,
As if the fiends kept holiday, Streamed upward to the chancel roof,
Because these spells were brought to day.
I cannot tell how the truth may be;
I say the tale as 'twas said to me.
Breathes there the man, with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native land! Before their eyes the wizard lay,
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned, As if he had not been dead a day.
As home his footsteps be hath turned, His hoary beard in silver rolled,
From wandering on a foreign strand ! He seemed some seventy winters old;
If such there breathe, go, mark him well; A palmer's amice wrapped him round,
For him no Minstrel raptures swell; With a wrought Spanish baldric bound,
High though his titles, proud his name, Like a pilgrim from beyond the sea:
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim; His left hand held his book of might;
Despite those titles, power, and pelf, A silver cross was in his right;
The wretch, concentered all in self, The lamp was placed beside his knee:
Living, shall forfeit fair renown, High and majestic was his look,
And, doubly dying, shall go down At which the fellest fiends bad shook,
To the vile dust, from whence he sprung, And all unruffled was his face;
Unwept, unhonoured, and unsung. They trusted his soul bad gotten grace.
O Caledonia! stern and wild, Often had William of Deloraine
Meet nurse for a poetic child! Rode through the battle's bloody plain,
Land of brown heath and shaggy wood, And trampled down the warriors slain,
Land of the mountain and the flood, And neither known remorse or awe;
Land of my sires! what mortal hand Yet now remorse and awe he owned ;
Can e'er untie the filial band,