The Complete Poems of Sir Walter Scott. Walter Scott

And stop, against the moon to howl;

       The mountain-boar, on battle set,

       His tusks upon my stem would whet;

       While doe, and roe, and reddeer good,

       Have bounded by, through gay greenwood.

       Then oft, from Newark’s riven tower,

       Sallied a Scottish monarch’s power:

       A thousand vassals mustered round,

       With horse, and hawk, and horn, and hound;

       And I might see the youth intent,

       Guard every pass with crossbow bent;

       And through the brake the rangers stalk,

       And falc’ners hold the ready hawk;

       And foresters in greenwood trim,

       Lead in the leash the gazehounds grim,

       Attentive as the bratchet’s bay

       From the dark covert drove the prey,

       To slip them as he broke away.

       The startled quarry bounds amain,

       As fast the gallant greyhounds strain;

       Whistles the arrow from the bow,

       Answers the arquebuss below;

       While all the rocking hills reply,

       To hoof-clang, hound, and hunter’s cry,

       And bugles ringing lightsomely.”

      Of such proud huntings many tales

       Yet linger in our lonely dales,

       Up pathless Ettrick and on Yarrow,

       Where erst the outlaw drew his arrow.

       But not more blithe that silvan court,

       Than we have been at humbler sport;

       Though small our pomp, and mean our game

       Our mirth, dear Mariott, was the same.

       Remember’st thou my greyhounds true?

       O’er holt or hill there never flew,

       From slip or leash there never sprang,

       More fleet of foot, or sure of fang.

       Nor dull, between each merry chase,

       Passed by the intermitted space;

       For we had fair resource in store,

       In Classic and in Gothic lore:

       We marked each memorable scene,

       And held poetic talk between;

       Nor hill nor brook we paced along

       But had its legend or its song.

       All silent now—for now are still

       Thy bowers, untenanted Bowhill!

       No longer, from thy mountains dun,

       The yeoman hears the wellknown gun,

       And while his honest heart glows Warm,

       At thought of his paternal farm,

       Round to his mates a brimmer fills,

       And drinks, “The Chieftain of the Hills!”

       No fairy forms, in Yarrow’s bowers,

       Trip o’er the walks, or tend the flowers,

       Fair as the elves whom Janet saw

       By moonlight dance on Carterhaugh;

       No youthful baron’s left to grace

       The forest-sheriff’s lonely chase,

       And ape, in manly step and tone,

       The majesty of Oberon:

       And she is gone, whose lovely face

       Is but her least and lowest grace;

       Though if to sylphid queen ‘twere given

       To show our earth the charms of Heaven,

       She could not glide along the air,

       With form more light, or face more fair.

       No more the widow’s deafened ear

       Grows quick that lady’s step to hear:

       At noontide she expects her not,

       Nor busies her to trim the cot:

       Pensive she turns her humming wheel,

       Or pensive cooks her orphans’ meal;

       Yet blesses, ere she deals their bread,

       The gentle hand by which they’re fed.

      From Yair,—which hills so closely bind,

       Scarce can the Tweed his passage find,

       Though much he fret, and chafe, and toil,

       Till all his eddying currents boil, -

       Her long descended lord is gone,

       And left us by the stream alone.

       And much I miss those sportive boys,

       Companions of my mountain joys,

       Just at the age ‘twixt boy and youth,

       When thought is speech, and speech is truth.

       Close to my side, with what delight

       They pressed to hear of Wallace wight,

       When, pointing to his airy mound,

       I called his ramparts holy ground!

       Kindled their brows to hear me speak;

       And I have smiled, to feel my cheek,

       Despite the difference of our years,

       Return again the glow of theirs.

       Ah, happy boys! such feelings pure,

       They will not, cannot, long endure;

       Condemned to stem the world’s rude tide,

       You may not linger by the side;

       For Fate shall thrust you from the shore,

       And Passion ply the sail and oar.

       Yet cherish the remembrance still,

       Of the lone mountain and the rill;

       For trust, dear boys, the time will come

       When fiercer transport shall be dumb,

       And you will think right frequently,

       But, well I hope, without a sigh,

       On the free hours that we have spent

       Together, on the brown hill’s bent.

      When, musing on companions gone,

       We doubly feel ourselves alone,

       Something, my friend, we yet may gain;

       There is a pleasure in this pain:

       It soothes the love of lonely rest,

       Deep in each gentler heart impressed.

       ‘Tis silent amid worldly toils,

       And stifled soon by mental broils;

       But, in a bosom thus prepared,

       Its still small voice is often heard,

       Whispering a mingled sentiment,

       ‘Twixt resignation and content.

       Oft in my mind such thoughts awake,

       By lone Saint Mary’s silent lake;

       Thou know’st it well,—nor fen, nor sedge,

       Pollute the pure lake’s crystal edge;

       Abrupt and sheer, the mountains sink

       At once upon the level brink;