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Yet well I ken the banks where ama
EPITAPH ranths blow, Have traced the fount whence streams of STOP, Christian passer-by ! — Stop, child nectar flow.
of God, Bloom, O ye amaranths ! bloom for whom And read with gentle breast. Beneath this
ye may, For me ye bloom not! Glide, rich streams, A poet lies, or that which once seem'd he. — away!
0, lift one thought in prayer for S. T. C.; With lips unbrightened, wreathless brow, I That he who many a year with toil of stroll:
breath And would you learn the spells that drowse Found death in life, may here find life in my soul ?
death! Work without Hope draws nectar in a Mercy for praise, to be forgiven for fame sieve,
He asked, and hoped, through Christ. Do And Hope without an object cannot live.
thou the same !
SIR WALTER SCOTT
THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL
[Publ. January, 1805) Dum relego, scripsisse pudet; quia plurima cerno, Me quoque qui feci judice,
| And tuned, to please a peasant's ear,
The barp a king had loved to hear.
RIGHT HONORABLE CHARLES, EARL OF DALKEITH, THIS POEM IS INSCRIBED BY
THE way was long, the wind was cold,
When kindness had his wants supplied,
Came wildering o'er his aged brain -
Land of the mountain and the food,
20 Was blended into harmony.
Land of my sires! what mortal hand And then, he said, he would full fain
Can e'er untie the filial band He could recall an ancient strain
That knits me to thy rugged strand! He never thought to sing again.
Still, as I view each well-known scene, It was not framed for village churls,
Think what is now and what hath been, But for high dames and mighty earls; Seems as to me, of all bereft, He had played it to King Charles the Sole friends thy woods and streams were Good
left; When he kept court in Holyrood;
And thus I love them better still,
By Yarrow's stream still let me stray, 30 Amid the strings his fingers strayed,
Though none should guide my feeble And an uncertain warbling made,
way; And oft he shook his hoary head.
Still feel the breeze down Ettrick break, But when he caught the measure wild, Although it chill my witbered cheek; The old man raised his face and smiled; | Still lay my head by Teviot-stone, And lightened up his faded eye
Though there, forgotten and alone, With all a poet's ecstasy!
The bard may draw his parting groan. In varying cadence, soft or strong, He swept the sounding chords along:
III The present scene, the future lot,
Not scorned like me, to Branksome Hall His toils, his wants, were all forgot;
The minstrels came at festive call; Cold diffidence and age's frost
Trooping they came from near and far, In the full tide of song were lost;
The jovial priests of mirth and war; 40 Each blank, in faithless memory void, Alike for feast and fight prepared, The poet's glowing thought sypplied; Battle and banquet both they shared. And, while his harp responsive rung,
Of late, before each martial clan 'T was thus the LATEST MINSTREL sung. 100 | They blew their death-note in the van,
But now for every merry mate
Rose the portcullis' iron grate;
They sound the pipe, they strike the
They dance, they revel, and they sing, BREATHES there the man, with soul so Till the rude turrets shake and ring.
50 Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned, The splendor of the spousal rite, As home his footsteps he hath turned How mustered in the chapel fair
From wandering on a foreign strand ? Both maid and matron, squire and If such there breathe, go, mark him well;
knight; For him no minstrel raptures swell;
Me lists not tell of owches rare, High though his titles, proud his name, 9 Of mantles green, and braided hair, Boundless bis wealth as wish can claim,- | And kirtles furred with miniver; Despite those titles, power, and pelf, What plumage waved the altar round, The wretch, concentred all in self,
How spurs and ringing chainlets sound: Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And bard it were for bard to speak And, doubly dying, shall go down
The changeful hue of Margaret's cheek, 60 To the vile dust from whence he sprung, That lovely bue which comes and flies, Unwept, unhonoured, and unsung.
| As awe and sbame alternate rise !
Some bards have sung, the Ladye high
The Ladye by the altar stood,
And on her head a crimson hood, With pearls embroidered and entwined, Guarded with gold, with ermine lined; A merlin sat upon her wrist, Held by a leash of silken twist.
VII The Goblin Page, omitting still No opportunity of ill, Strove now, while blood ran hot and high, To rouse debate and jealousy; Till Conrad, Lord of Wolfenstein, By nature fierce, and warm with wine, And now in humor highly crossed About some steeds his band had lost, High words to words succeeding still, Smote with his gauntlet stout Hunthill, 120 A hot and hardy Rutherford, Whom men called Dickon Draw-the-Sword. He took it on the page's saye, Hunthill bad driven these steeds away. Then Howard, Home, and Douglas rose, The kindling discord to compose; Stern Rutherford right little said, But bit bis glove and shook his head. A fortnight thence, in Inglewood, Stout Conrad, cold, and drenched in blood, His bosom gored with many a wound, Was by a woodman's lyme-dog found: Unknown the manner of his death, Gone was his brand, both sword and sheath; But ever from that time, 't was said, That Dickon wore a Cologne blade.
The spousal rites were ended soon; 'T was now the merry hour of noon, And in the lofty arched hall Was spread the gorgeous festival. Steward and squire, with heedful haste, Marshalled the rank of every guest; Pages, with ready blade, were there, The mighty meal to carve and share: O’er capon, heron-shew, and crane, And princely peacock's gilded train, And o'er the boar-head, garnished brave, And cygnet from Saint Mary's wave, O'er ptarmigan and venison, The priest had spoke his benison. Then rose the riot and the din, Above, beneath, without, within ! For, from the lofty balcony, Rung trumpet, shalm, and psaltery: Their clanging bowls old warriors qnaffed, Loudly they spoke and loudly laughed; 100 Whispered young knights, in tone more
mild, To ladies fair, and ladies smiled. The hooded hawks, high perched on
beam, The clamor joined with whistling scream, And flapped their wings and shook their
The dwarf, who feared his master's eye Might his foul treachery espie, Now sought the castle buttery, Where many a yeoman, bold and free, 140 Revelled as merrily and well As those that sat in lordly selle. Watt Tinlinn there did frankly raise The pledge to Arthur Fire-the-Braes; And he, as by his breeding bound, To Howard's merrymen sent it round. To quit them, on the English side, Red Roland Forster loudly cried, 'A deep carouse to yon fair bride!' At every pledge, from vat and pail, 150 Foamed forth in floods the nut-brown ale, While shout the riders every one; Such day of mirth ne'er cheered their clan, Since old Buccleuch the name did gain, When in the cleuch the buck was ta'en.
And he swore her death, ere he would see
A Scottish knight the lord of all !
With bitter gibe and taunting jest;
That wine she had not tasted well,
(The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall) When dead, in her true love's arms, she
fell, For Love was still the lord of all. 210
He pierced her brother to the heart, Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle
wall;— So perish all would true love part,
That Love may still be lord of all !
And then he took the cross divine,
So Love was still the lord of all. Now all ye lovers, that faithful prove, (The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall) 220 Pray for their souls who died for love, For Love shall still be lord of all!
By this, the dame, lest farther fray
Arose a bard of loftier port,
Renowned in haughty Henry's court:
Who has not heard of Surrey's fame ? 230 His was the hero's sonl of fire,
And his the bard's immortal name,
ALBERT GRÆME It was an English ladye bright,
(The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall) And she would marry a Scottish knight,
For Love will still be lord of all.
Blithely they saw the rising sun,
When he shone fair on Carlisle wall: But they were sad ere day was done,
Though Love was still the lord of all.
Her sire gave brooch and jewel fine,
Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall; Her brother gave but a flask of wine, 201
For ire that Love was lord of all. For she had lands both meadow and lea, Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle
Fitztraver, 0, what tongue may say The pangs thy faithful bosom knew,