THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. Walter Scott

Behind him soon they set in night;

       And soon he spurr’d his courser keen

       Beneath the tower of Hazeldean.

       XXVI

      The clattering hoofs the watchmen mark;

       “Stand ho! thou courier of the dark.”

       “For Branksome, ho!” the knight rejoin’d,

       And left the friendly tower behind.

       He turn’d him now from Teviotside,

       And, guided by the tinkling rill,

       Northward the dark ascent did ride,

       And gained the moor at Horsliehill;

       Broad on the left before him lay,

       For many a mile, the Roman way.

       XXVII

      A moment now he slack’d his speed,

       A moment breathed his panting steed;

       Drew saddlegirth and corslet-band,

       And loosen’d in the sheath his brand.

       On Minto-crags the moonbeams glint,

       Where Barnhill hew’d his bed of flint;

       Who flung his outlaw’d limbs to rest,

       Where falcons hang their giddy nest,

       Mid cliffs, from whence his eagle eye

       For many a league his prey could spy;

       Cliffs, doubling, on their echoes borne,

       The terrors of the robber’s horn.

       Cliffs, which, for many a year,

       The warbling Doric reed shall hear,

       When some sad swain shall teach the grove,

       Ambition is no cure for love!

       XXVIII

      Unchallenged, thence pass’d Deloraine,

       To ancient Riddel’s fair domain,

       Where Aill, from mountains freed,

       Down from the lakes did raving come;

       Each wave was creased with tawny foam,

       Like the mane of a chestnut steed.

       In vain! no torrent, deep or broad,

       Might bar the bold mosstrooper’s road.

       XXIX

      At the first plunge the horse sunk low,

       And the water broke o’er the saddlebow;

       Above the flaming tide, I ween,

       Scarce half the charger’s neck was seen;

       For he was barded from counter to tail,

       And the rider was armed complete in mail;

       Never heavier man and horse

       Stemm’d a midnight torrent’s force.

       The warrior’s very plume, I say

       Was daggled by the dashing spray;

       Yet, through good heart, and Our Ladye’s grace,

       At length he gain’d the landing place.

       XXX

      Now Bowden Moor the march-man won,

       And sternly shook his plumed head,

       As glanced his eye o’er Halidon;

       For on his soul the slaughter red

       Of that unhallow’d morn arose,

       When first the Scott and Carr were foes;

       When royal James beheld the fray,

       Prize to the victor of the day;

       When Home and Douglas, in the van,

       Bore down Buccleuch’s retiring clan,

       Till gallant Cessford’s heart-blood dear

       Reek’d on dark Elliot’s Border spear.

       XXXI

      In bitter mood he spurred fast,

       And soon the hated heath was past;

       And far beneath, in lustre wan,

       Old Melros’ rose, and fair Tweed ran:

       Like some tall rock with lichens grey,

       Seem’d dimly huge, the dark Abbaye.

       When Harwick he pass’d, had curfew rung,

       Now midnight lauds were in Melrose sung.

       The sound, upon the fitful gale,

       In solemn wise did rise and fail,

       Like that wild harp, whose magic tone

       Is waken’d by the winds alone.

       But when Melrose he reach’d, ‘twas silence all;

       He meetly stabled his steed in stall,

       And sought the convent’s lonely wall.

       Here paused the harp; and with its swell

       The Master’s fire and courage fell;

       Dejectedly, and low, he bow’d,

       And, gazing timid on the crowd,

       He seem’d to seek, in every eye,

       If they approved his mistrelsy;

       And, diffident of present praise,

       Somewhat he spoke of former days,

       And how old age, and wand’ring long,

       Had done his hand and harp some wrong.

       The Duchess, and her daughters fair,

       And every gentle lady there,

       Each after each, in due degree,

       Gave praises to his melody;

       His hand was true, his voice was clear,

       And much they long’d the rest to hear.

       Encouraged thus, the Aged Man,

       After meet rest, again began.

Canto II

       Table of Contents

       I

      If thou would’st view fair Melrose aright,

       Go visit it by the pale moonlight;

       For the gay beams of lightsome day

       Gild, but to flout, the ruins grey.

       When the broken arches are black in night,

       And each shafted oriel glimmers white;

       When the cold light’s uncertain shower

       Streams on the ruin’d 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;

       When distant Tweed is heard to rave,

       And the owlet to hoot o’er the dead man’s grave,

       Then go, but go alone the while,

       Then view St. David’s ruin’d pile;

       And, home returning, soothly swear,

       Was never scene so sad and fair!

       II

      Short