For evil passions, cherish'd long, Had plough'd them with impressions strong. All that gives gloss to sin, all gay Light folly, past with youth away, But rooted stood, in manhood's hour, The weeds of vice without their flower, And yet the soil in which they grew, Had it been tamed when life was new, Had depth and vigour to bring forth The hardier fruits of virtuous worth. Not that, e'en then, his heart had known The gentler feelings' kindly tone; But lavish waste had been refined To bounty in his chasten'd mind, And lust of gold, that waste to feed, Been lost in love of glory's meed, And, frantic then no more, his pride Had ta'en fair virtue for its guide. Even now, by conscience unrestrain❜d, Clogg'd by gross vice, by slaughter stain'd, Still knew his daring soul to soar, And mastery o'er the mind he bore; For meaner guilt, or heart less hard, Quail'd beneath Bertram's bold regard. And this felt Oswald, while in vain He strove, by many a winding train, To lure his sullen guest to show, Unask'd, the news he long'd to know, While on far other subject hung His heart, than falter'd from his tongue. Yet nought for that his guest did deign To note or spare his secret pain, But still, in stern and stubborn sort, Return'd him answer dark and short, Or started from the theme, to range In loose digression wild and strange, And forced the embarrass'd host to buy, By query close, direct reply. VOL. IV. LAKE CORISKIN. [From The Lord of the Isles, Canto III.] A while their route they silent made, As men who stalk for mountain-deer, 'Saint Mary! what a scene is here! A scene so rude, so wild as this, Ne'er did my wandering footsteps press, No marvel thus the Monarch spake; With its dark ledge of barren stone. Through the rude bosom of the hill, Tells of the outrage still. The wildest glen, but this, can show Nor tree, nor shrub, nor plant, nor flower, The weary eye may ken. For all is rocks at random thrown, Black waves, bare crags, and banks of stone, The summer sun, the spring's sweet dew, And wilder, forward as they wound, Hurl'd headlong in some night of fear, The evening mists, with ceaseless change, And round the skirts their mantle furl'd, Or on the eddying breezes whirl'd, Dispersed in middle air. And oft, condensed, at once they lower, And when return the sun's glad beams, Leap from the mountain's crown. 'This lake,' said Bruce, 'whose barriers drear Are precipices sharp and sheer. Yielding no track for goat or deer, Save the black shelves we tread, How term you its dark waves? and how That to the evening sun uplifts Which seam its shiver'd head?'- (The Maids-tall cliffs with breakers white, When dons the Hag her whiten'd hood- THE EVE OF St. John. The Baron of Smaylho'me rose with day, Without stop or stay, down the rocky way, That leads to Brotherstone. He went not with the bold Buccleuch, His banner broad to rear ; He went not 'gainst the English yew, Yet his plate-jack1 was braced, and his helmet was laced. At his saddle-gerthe was a good steel sperthe, The Baron returned in three days' space, And his looks were sad and sour; He came rot from where Ancram Moor Where the Douglas true, and the bold Buccleuch, Yet was his helmet hacked and hewed, His acton pierced and tore, His axe and his dagge with blood imbrued, — But it was not English gore. He lighted at the Chapellage, He held him close and still; And he whistled thrice for his little foot-page, 'Come thou hither, my little foot-page, Come hither to my knee; Though thou art young, and tender of age, I think thou art true to me. 'Come, tell me all that thou hast seen, And look thou tell me true! Since I from Smaylho'me tower have been, 'My lady, each night, sought the lonely light For, from height to height, the beacons bright Of the English foemen told. The plate-jack is coat armour; the vaunt-brace, or wam brace armour for the body; the sperthe, a battle-axe. |