The Complete Poems of Sir Walter Scott. Walter Scott

to pave, the arch to round,

       There never toiled a mortal arm -

       It all was wrought by word and charm;

       And I have heard my grandsire say,

       That the wild clamour and affray

       Of those dread artisans of hell,

       Who laboured under Hugo’s spell,

       Sounded as loud as ocean’s war

       Among the caverns of Dunbar.

       XX

      “The king Lord Gifford’s castle sought,

       Deep labouring with uncertain thought:

       Even then he mustered all his host,

       To meet upon the western coast:

       For Norse and Danish galleys plied

       Their oars within the frith of Clyde.

       There floated Haco’s banner trim,

       Above Norwayan warriors grim,

       Savage of heart, and large of limb;

       Threatening both continent and isle,

       Bute, Arran, Cunninghame, and Kyle.

       Lord Gifford, deep beneath the ground,

       Heard Alexander’s bugle sound,

       And tarried not his garb to change,

       But, in his wizard habit strange,

       Came forth—a quaint and fearful sight:

       His mantle lined with fox-skins white;

       His high and wrinkled forehead bore

       A pointed cap, such as of yore

       Clerks say that Pharaoh’s Magi wore:

       His shoes were marked with cross and spell,

       Upon his breast a pentacle;

       His zone, of virgin parchment thin,

       Or, as some tell, of dead man’s skin,

       Bore many a planetary sign,

       Combust, and retrograde, and trine;

       And in his hand he held prepared

       A naked sword without a guard.

       XXI

      “Dire dealings with the fiendish race

       Had marked strange lines upon his face:

       Vigil and fast had worn him grim,

       His eyesight dazzled seemed and dim,

       As one unused to upper day;

       Even his own menials with dismay

       Beheld, Sir Knight, the grisly sire,

       In his unwonted wild attire;

       Unwonted, for traditions run,

       He seldom thus beheld the sun.

       ‘I know,’ he said—his voice was hoarse,

       And broken seemed its hollow force -

       ‘I know the cause, although untold,

       Why the king seeks his vassal’s hold:

       Vainly from me my liege would know

       His kingdom’s future weal or woe

       But yet, if strong his arm and heart,

       His courage may do more than art.

       XXII

      “‘Of middle air the demons proud,

       Who ride upon the racking cloud,

       Can read, in fixed or wandering star,

       The issues of events afar;

       But still their sullen aid withhold,

       Save when by mightier force controlled.

       Such late I summoned to my hall;

       And though so potent was the call,

       That scarce the deepest nook of hell

       I deemed a refuge from the spell,

       Yet, obstinate in silence still,

       The haughty demon mocks my skill.

       But thou—who little know’st thy might,

       As born upon that blessed night

       When yawning graves, and dying groan,

       Proclaimed hell’s empire overthrown -

       With untaught valour shalt compel

       Response denied to magic spell.’

       ‘Gramercy,’ quoth our monarch free,

       Place him but front to front with me,

       And by this good and honoured brand,

       The gift of Coeur-de-Lion’s hand,

       Soothly I swear, that, tide what tide,

       The demon shall a buffet bide.’

       His bearing bold the wizard viewed,

       And thus, well pleased, his speech renewed:

       ‘There spoke the blood of Malcolm!—mark:

       Forth pacing hence, at midnight dark,

       The rampart seek, whose circling crown

       Crests the ascent of yonder down:

       A southern entrance shalt thou find;

       There halt, and there thy bugle wind,

       And trust thine elfin foe to see,

       In guise of thy worst enemy:

       Couch then thy lance, and spur thy steed -

       Upon him! and Saint George to speed!

       If he go down, thou soon shalt know

       Whate’er these airy sprites can show;

       If thy heart fail thee in the strife,

       I am no warrant for thy life.’

       XXIII

      “Soon as the midnight bell did ring,

       Alone, and armed, forth rode the king

       To that old camp’s deserted round:

       Sir Knight, you well might mark the mound

       Lefthand the town—the Pictish race,

       The trench, long since, in blood did trace:

       The moor around is brown and bare,

       The space within is green and fair.

       The spot our village children know,

       For there the earliest wildflowers grow;

       But woe betide the wandering wight

       That treads its circle in the night!

       The breadth across, a bowshot clear,

       Gives ample space for full career:

       Opposed to the four points of heaven,

       By four deep gaps are entrance given.

       The southernmost our monarch passed,

       Halted, and blew a gallant blast;

       And on the north, within the ring,

       Appeared the form of England’s king

       Who then, a thousand leagues afar,

       In Palestine waged holy war:

       Yet arms like England’s did he wield,

       Alike the leopards in the shield,

       Alike his Syrian courser’s frame,

       The rider’s length of limb the same:

       Long afterwards did Scotland know,