No More Learning

a miracle! " exclaimed Richard.
"Of Mahound's working, doubtless," said Thomas de Vaux.
"That I should lose my learned Hakim," said Richard, "merely
by absence of his cap and robe, and that I should find him again
in my royal brother Saladin ! »
"Such is oft the fashion of the world," answered the Soldan:
"the tattered robe makes not always the dervish. "
"And it was through thy intercession," said Richard, "that
yonder Knight of the Leopard was saved from death, and by thy
artifice that he revisited my camp in disguise! "
"Even so," replied Saladin: "I was physician enough to know
that unless the wounds of his bleeding honor were stanched, the
days of his life must be few. His disguise was more easily pene-
trated than I had expected from the success of my own. "
"An accident," said King Richard (probably alluding to the
circumstance of his applying his lips to the wound of the sup-
posed Nubian), "let me first know that his skin was artificially
discolored; and that hint once taken, detection became easy, for
his form and person are not to be forgotten. I confidently ex
pect that he will do battle on the morrow. "
"He is full in preparation and high in hope," said the Soldan.
"I have furnished him with weapons and horse, thinking nobly
of him from what I have seen under various disguises. "
"Knows he now," said Richard, "to whom he lies under obli-
gation? »
"He doth," replied the Saracen; "I was obliged to confess
my person when I unfolded my purpose. "
"And confessed he aught to you? " said the King of England.
"Nothing explicit," replied the Soldan; "but from much that
passed between us, I conceive his love is too highly placed to be
happy in its issue,"
"And thou knowest that his daring and insolent passion crossed
thine own wishes? " said Richard.


## p. 13057 (#491) ##########################################

SIR WALTER SCOTT
13057
"I might guess so much," said Saladin; "but his passion had
existed ere my wishes had been formed-and, I must now add,
is likely to survive them. I cannot, in honor, revenge me for
my disappointment on him who had no hand in it. Or if this
high-born dame loved him better than myself, who can say that
she did not justice to a knight of her own religion, who is full
of nobleness? "
"Yet of too mean lineage to mix with the blood of Planta-
genet," said Richard haughtily.
"Such may be your maxims in Frangistan," replied the Sol-
dan. "Our poets of the Eastern countries say that a valiant
camel-driver is worthy to kiss the lip of a fair Queen, when a
cowardly prince is not worthy to salute the hem of her garment.
But with your permission, noble brother, I must take leave of
thee for the present, to receive the Duke of Austria and yonder
Nazarene knight,- much less worthy of hospitality, but who
must yet be suitably entreated, not for their sakes, but for mine
own honor; -for what saith the sage Lokman? Say not that
the food is lost unto thee which is given to the stranger; for if
his body be strengthened and fattened therewithal, not less is
thine own worship and good name cherished and augmented. › »
The Saracen monarch departed from King Richard's tent; and
having indicated to him, rather with signs than with speech,
where the pavilion of the Queen and her attendants was pitched,
he went to receive the Marquis of Montserrat and his attend-
ants, for whom, with less good-will but with equal splendor, the
magnificent Soldan had provided accommodations. The most
ample refreshments, both in the Oriental and after the European
fashion, were spread before the royal and princely guests of
Saladin, each in their own separate pavilion; and so attentive
was the Soldan to the habits and taste of his visitors, that
Grecian slaves were stationed to present them with the goblet,
which is the abomination of the sect of Mohammed. Ere Rich-
ard had finished his meal, the ancient Omrah, who had brought
the Soldan's letter to the Christian camp, entered with a plan
of the ceremonial to be observed on the succeeding day of the
combat. Richard, who knew the taste of his old acquaintance,
invited him to pledge him in a flagon of wine of Schiraz: but
Abdallah gave him to understand, with a rueful aspect, that self-
denial, in the present circumstances, was a matter in which his
life was concerned; for that Saladin, tolerant in many respects,
XXII-817


## p. 13058 (#492) ##########################################

13058
SIR WALTER SCOTT
both observed, and enforced by high penalties, the laws of the
Prophet.
"Nay, then," said Richard, "if he loves not wine, that light-
ener of the human heart, his conversion is not to be hoped for,
and the prediction of the mad priest of Engaddi goes like chaff
down the wind. "
THE LAST MINSTREL
Prelude to the Lay of the Last Minstrel'
THE
HE way was long, the wind was cold,
The Minstrel was infirm and old;
His withered cheek, and tresses gray,
Seemed to have known a better day;
The harp, his sole remaining joy,
Was carried by an orphan boy.
The last of all the Bards was he,
Who sung of Border chivalry:
For, welladay! their date was fled,
His tuneful brethren all were dead;
And he, neglected and oppressed,
Wished to be with them, and at rest.
No more, on prancing palfrey borne,
He caroled light as lark at morn;
No longer, courted and caressed,
High placed in hall, a welcome guest,
He poured, to lord and lady gay,
The unpremeditated lay:
Old times were changed, old manners gone;
A stranger filled the Stuarts' throne;
The bigots of the iron time
Had called his harmless art a crime.
A wandering Harper, scorned and poor,
He begged his bread from door to door;
And tuned, to please a peasant's ear,
The harp a king had loved to hear.
He passed where Newark's stately tower
Looks out from Yarrow's birchen bower:
The Minstrel gazed with wishful eye,-
No humbler resting-place was nigh.
With hesitating step, at last,
The embattled portal arch he passed,


## p. 13059 (#493) ##########################################

SIR WALTER SCOTT
13059
Whose ponderous grate and massy bar
Had oft rolled back the tide of war,
But never closed the iron door
Against the desolate and poor.
The Duchess marked his weary pace,
His timid mien, and reverend face,
And bade her page the menials tell,
That they should tend the old man well:
For she had known adversity,
Though born in such a high degree;
In pride of power, in beauty's bloom,
Had wept o'er Monmouth's bloody tomb!
When kindness had his wants supplied,
And the old man was gratified,
Began to rise his minstrel pride:
And he began to talk anon
Of good Earl Francis, dead and gone;
And of Earl Walter, -rest him God!
A braver ne'er to battle rode; -
And how full many a tale he knew
Of the old warriors of Buccleuch :
And would the noble Duchess deign
To listen to an old man's strain,
Though stiff his hands, his voice though weak,
He thought even yet, the sooth to speak,
That if she loved the harp to hear,
He could make music to her ear.
The humble boon was soon obtained:
The aged Minstrel audience gained.
But when he reached the room of state
Where she, with all her ladies, sate,
Perchance he wished his boon denied:
For when to tune his harp he tried,
His trembling hand had lost the ease
Which marks security to please;
And scenes, long past, of joy and pain,
Came wildering o'er his aged brain,-
He tried to tune his harp in vain!
The pitying Duchess praised its chime,
And gave him heart, and gave him time,
Till every string's according glee
Was blended into harmony.


## p. 13060 (#494) ##########################################

13060
SIR WALTER SCOTT
And then he said, he would full fain
He could recall an ancient strain,
He never thought to sing again.
It was not framed for village churls,
But for high dames and mighty earls;
He had played it to King Charles the Good,
When he kept court in Holyrood;
And much he wished, yet feared, to try
The long-forgotten melody.
Amid the strings his fingers strayed,
And an uncertain warbling made,
And oft he shook his hoary head:
But when he caught the measure wild,
The old man raised his face, and smiled;
And lightened up his faded eye,
With all a poet's ecstasy!
In varying cadence, soft or strong,
He swept the sounding chords along;
The present scene, the future lot,
His toils, his wants, were all forgot;
Cold diffidence, and age's frost,
In the full tide of song were lost;
Each blank in faithless memory void,
The poet's glowing thought supplied;
And while his harp responsive rung,
'Twas thus the LATEST MINSTREL sung.
LOCHINVAR
From Marmion›
H, YOUNG is come out of the west:
"Through all the wide Border his steed was the best;
And save his good broadsword he weapons had none,
He rode all unarmed and he rode all alone.
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar!
He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone;
He swam the Esk River where ford there was none:
But ere he alighted at Netherby gate,
The bride had consented, the gallant came late;


## p. 13061 (#495) ##########################################

SIR WALTER SCOTT
13061
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.
So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall,
Among bride's-men, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all:
Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword,
(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,)
"O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,
Or to dance at our bridal, young, Lord Lochinvar ? "—
"I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied;-
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide!
And now am I come, with this lost love of mine,
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine:
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar. "
-
The bride kissed the goblet: the knight took it up,
He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup.
She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh,
With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye.
He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,-
"Now tread we a measure! " said young Lochinvar.
So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
That never a hall such a galliard did grace:
While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume;
And the bride-maidens whispered, "Twere better by far
To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar. "
One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,
When they reached the hall door, and the charger stood near;
So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,
So light to the saddle before her he sprung!
"She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur:
They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar.
There was mounting 'mong Græmes of the Netherby clan:
Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran;
There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee,
But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see.
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,
Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?


## p. 13062 (#496) ##########################################

13062
SIR WALTER SCOTT
ELLEN DOUGLAS'S BOWER
THE RETREAT OF THE DOUGLAS
From The Lady of the Lake'
T WAS a lodge of ample size,
I'
But strange of structure and device,
Of such materials as around
The workman's hands had readiest found.
Lopped off their boughs, their hoar trunks bared,
And by the hatchet rudely squared,
To give the walls their destined height
The sturdy oak and ash unite;
While moss and clay and leaves combined
To fence each crevice from the wind.
The lighter pine-trees overhead,
Their slender length for rafters spread,
And withered heath and rushes dry
Supplied a russet canopy.
Due westward, fronting to the green,
A rural portico was seen,
Aloft on native pillars borne,
Of mountain fir, with bark unshorn,
Where Ellen's hand had taught to twine
The ivy and the Idæan vine,
The clematis, the favored flower
Which boasts the name of virgin-bower,
And every hardy plant could bear
Loch Katrine's keen and searching air.
An instant in this porch she staid,
And gayly to the stranger said:-
:-
"On heaven and on thy lady call,
And enter the enchanted hall! »
"My hope, my heaven, my trust must be,
My gentle guide, in following thee. "
He crossed the threshold-and a clang
Of angry steel that instant rang.
To his bold brow his spirit rushed;
But soon for vain alarm he blushed,
When on the floor he saw displayed,
Cause of the din, a naked blade.


## p. 13063 (#497) ##########################################

SIR WALTER SCOTT
13063
Dropped from the sheath, that careless flung
Upon a stag's huge antlers swung;-
For all around, the walls to grace,
-
Hung trophies of the fight or chase:
A target there, a bugle here,
A battle-axe, a hunting-spear,
And broadswords, bows, and arrows store,
With the tusked trophies of the boar.
Here grins the wolf as when he died,
And there the wild-cat's brindled hide
The frontlet of the elk adorns,
Or mantles o'er the bison's horns;
Pennons and flags defaced and stained,
That blackening streaks of blood retained,
And deerskins, dappled, dun, and white,
With otter's fur and seal's unite,
In rude and uncouth tapestry all,
To garnish forth the sylvan hall.
The wondering stranger round him gazed,
And next the fallen weapon raised;
Few were the arms whose sinewy strength
Sufficed to stretch it forth at length;
And as the brand he poised and swayed,
"I never knew but one," he said,
"Whose stalwart arm might brook to wield
A blade like this in battle-field. "
-
She sighed, then smiled and took the word:-
"You see the guardian champion's sword:
As light it trembles in his hand
As in my grasp a hazel wand;
My sire's tall form might grace the part
Of Ferragus or Ascabart:
But in the absent giant's hold
Are women now, and menials old. "
-:
The mistress of the mansion came:
Mature of age, a graceful dame,
Whose easy step and stately port
Had well become a princely court;
To whom, though more than kindred knew,
Young Ellen gave a mother's due.
Meet welcome to her guest she made,
And every courteous rite was paid,


## p. 13064 (#498) ##########################################

13064
SIR WALTER SCOTT
•
That hospitality could claim,
Though all unasked his birth and name.
Such then the reverence to a guest,
That fellest foe might join the feast,
And from his deadliest foeman's door
Unquestioned turn, the banquet o'er.
At length his rank the stranger names:—
"The Knight of Snowdoun, James Fitz-James:
Lord of a barren heritage,
Which his brave sires, from age to age,
By their good swords had held with toil;
His sire had fallen in such turmoil,
And he, God wot, was forced to stand
Oft for his right with blade in hand.
This morning, with Lord Moray's train,
He chased a stalwart stag in vain,
Outstripped his comrades, missed the deer,
Lost his good steed, and wandered here. "
Fain would the knight in turn require
The name and state of Ellen's sire.
Well showed the elder lady's mien,
That courts and cities she had seen;
Ellen, though more her looks displayed
The simple grace of sylvan maid,
In speech and gesture, form and face,
Showed she was come of gentle race.
'Twere strange in ruder rank to find
Such looks, such manners, and such mind.
Each hint the Knight of Snowdoun gave,
Dame Margaret heard with silence grave;
Or Ellen, innocently gay,
Turned all inquiry light away:-
"Weird women we! by dale and down
We dwell, afar from tower and town.
We stem the flood, we ride the blast,
On wandering knights our spells we cast;
While viewless minstrels touch the string,
'Tis thus our charmèd rhymes we sing. "
She sung, and still a harp unseen
Filled up the symphony between.
-


## p. 13065 (#499) ##########################################

SIR WALTER SCOTT
13065
SONG
"Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking;
Dream of battled fields no more,
Days of danger, nights of waking.
In our isle's enchanted hall,
Hands unseen thy couch are strewing;
Fairy strains of music fall,
Every sense in slumber dewing.
Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,
Dream of fighting fields no more:
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,
Morn of toil, nor night of waking.
"No rude sound shall reach thine ear,
Armor's clang, nor war-steed champing,
Trump nor pibroch summon here
Mustering clan, or squadron tramping;
Yet the lark's shrill fife may come
At the daybreak from the fallow,
And the bittern sound his drum,
Booming from the sedgy shallow.
Ruder sounds shall none be near,
Guards nor warders challenge here;
Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing,
Shouting clans, or squadrons stamping. "
She paused then, blushing, led the lay
To grace the stranger of the day.
Her mellow notes awhile prolong
The cadence of the flowing song,
Till to her lips in measured frame
The minstrel verse spontaneous came:—
-
SONG CONTINUED
"Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done;
While our slumb'rous spells assail ye,
Dream not, with the rising sun,
Bugles here shall sound reveillé.
Sleep! the deer is in his den;
Sleep! thy hounds are by thee lying;
Sleep! nor dream in yonder glen
How thy gallant steed lay dying.


## p. 13066 (#500) ##########################################

13066
SIR WALTER SCOTT
Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done,
Think not of the rising sun;
For at dawning to assail ye,
Here no bugles sound reveillé. "
The hall was cleared; the stranger's bed
Was there of mountain heather spread,
Where oft a hundred guests had lain,
And dreamed their forest sports again.
But vainly did the heath-flower shed
Its moorland fragrance round his head;
Not Ellen's spell had lulled to rest
The fever of his troubled breast.
In broken dreams the image rose
Of varied perils, pains, and woes:
His steed now flounders in the brake,
Now sinks his barge upon the lake;
Now leader of a broken host,
His standard falls, his honor's lost.
Then from my couch may heavenly might
Chase that worst phantom of the night! —
Again returned the scenes of youth,
Of confident undoubting truth;
Again his soul he interchanged
With friends whose hearts were long estranged.
They come, in dim procession led,
The cold, the faithless, and the dead;
As warm each hand, each brow as gay,
As if they parted yesterday:
And doubt distracts him at the view,-
Oh, were his senses false or true?
Dreamed he of death, or broken vow,
Or is it all a vision now?
At length, with Ellen in a grove
He seemed to walk, and speak of love:
She listened with a blush and sigh,
His suit was warm, his hopes were high,
He sought her yielded hand to clasp,
And a cold gauntlet met his grasp:
The phantom's sex was changed and gone,
Upon its head a helmet shone;
Slowly enlarged to giant size,
With darkened cheek and threatening eyes,


## p. 13067 (#501) ##########################################

SIR WALTER SCOTT
13067
The grisly visage, stern and hoar,
To Ellen still a likeness bore. -
He woke, and panting with affright,
Recalled the vision of the night.
The hearth's decaying brands were red,
And deep and dusky lustre shed,
Half showing, half concealing, all
The uncouth trophies of the hall.
Mid those the stranger fixed his eye,
Where that huge falchion hung on high,
And thoughts on thoughts, a countless throng,
Rushed, chasing countless thoughts along,
Until, the giddy whirl to cure,
He rose, and sought the moonshine pure.
The wild rose, eglantine, and broom,
Wafted around their rich perfume;
The birch-trees wept in fragrant balm,
The aspens slept beneath the calm;
The silver light, with quivering glance,
Played on the water's still expanse,
Wild were the heart whose passion's sway
Could rage beneath the sober ray!
He felt its calm, that warrior guest,
While thus he communed with his breast:-
"Why is it, at each turn I trace
Some memory of that exiled race!
Can I not mountain maiden spy,
But she must bear the Douglas eye?
Can I not view a Highland brand,
But it must match the Douglas hand?
Can I not frame a fevered dream,
But still the Douglas is the theme?
I'll dream no more: by manly mind
Not even in sleep is will resigned.
My midnight orisons said o'er,
I'll turn to rest, and dream no more. "
His midnight orisons he told,
A prayer with every bead of gold;
Consigned to heaven his cares and woes,
And sunk in undisturbed repose:
Until the heath-cock shrilly crew,
And morning dawned on Benvenue.


## p. 13068 (#502) ##########################################

13068
SIR WALTER SCOTT
THE DISCLOSURE
From the Lady of the Lake'
HAT early beam, so fair and sheen,
Was twinkling through the hazel screen,
When, rousing at its glimmer red,
The warriors left their lowly bed,
Looked out upon the dappled sky,
Muttered their soldier matins by,
And then awaked their fire, to steal,
As short and rude, their soldier meal.
That o'er, the Gael around him threw
His graceful plaid of varied hue,
And, true to promise, led the way
By thicket green and mountain gray.
A wildering path! -they winded now
Along the precipice's brow,
Commanding the rich scenes beneath,
The windings of the Forth and Teith,
And all the vales between that lie,
Till Stirling's turrets melt in sky;
Then, sunk in copse, their farthest glance
Gained not the length of horseman's lance.
'Twas oft so steep, the foot was fain
Assistance from the hand to gain;
So tangled oft, that, bursting through,
Each hawthorn shed her showers of dew,-
That diamond dew, so pure and clear,
It rivals all but Beauty's tear!
THA
At length they came where, stern and steep,
The hill sinks down upon the deep.
Here Vennachar in silver flows,
There, ridge on ridge, Benledi rose:
Ever the hollow path twined on,
Beneath steep bank and threatening stone;
A hundred men might hold the post
With hardihood against a host.
The rugged mountain's scanty cloak
Was dwarfish shrubs of birch and oak,
With shingles bare, and cliffs between,
And patches bright of bracken green,
And heather black, that waved so high
It held the copse in rivalry.
---


## p. 13069 (#503) ##########################################

SIR WALTER SCOTT
13069
But where the lake slept deep and still.
Dank osiers fringed the swamp and hill;
And oft both path and hill were torn,
Where wintry torrents down had borne,
And heaped upon the cumbered land
Its wreck of gravel, rocks, and sand.
So toilsome was the road to trace,
The guide, abating of his pace,
Led slowly through the pass's jaws,
And asked Fitz-James by what strange cause
He sought these wilds? traversed by few,
Without a pass from Roderick Dhu.
"Brave Gael, my pass, in danger tried,
Hangs in my belt and by my side;
Yet, sooth to tell," the Saxon said,
"I dreamt not now to claim its aid.
When here, but three days since, I came,
Bewildered in pursuit of game,
All seemed as peaceful and as still
As the mist slumbering on yon hill;
Thy dangerous chief was then afar,
Nor soon expected back from war:
Thus said, at least, my mountain guide,
Though deep perchance the villain lied. "-
"Yet why a second venture try? ” —
"A warrior thou, and ask me why!
Moves our free course by such fixed cause
As gives the poor mechanic laws?
Enough, I sought to drive away
The lazy hours of peaceful day:
Slight cause will then suffice to guide
A knight's free footsteps far and wide,-
A falcon flown, a greyhound strayed,
The merry glance of mountain maid;
Or, if a path be dangerous known,
The danger's self is lure alone. "
«Thy secret keep, I urge thee not;-
Yet, ere again ye sought this spot,
Say, heard ye naught of Lowland war
Against Clan-Alpine, raised by Mar? "-
"No, by my word; - of bands prepared
To guard King James's sports I heard;
-
-


## p. 13070 (#504) ##########################################

13070
SIR WALTER SCOTT
Nor doubt I aught, but when they hear
This muster of the mountaineer,
Their pennons will abroad be flung,
Which else in Doune had peaceful hung. ".
"Free be they flung! -for we were loth
Their silken folds should feast the moth.
Free be they flung! -as free shall wave
Clan-Alpine's pine in banner brave.
But, stranger, peaceful since you came,
Bewildered in the mountain game,
Whence the bold boast by which you show
Vich-Alpine's vowed and mortal foe? ».
"Warrior, but yester-morn I knew
Naught of thy chieftain, Roderick Dhu,
Save as an outlawed desperate man,
The chief of a rebellious clan,
Who, in the Regent's court and sight,
With ruffian dagger stabbed a knight;
Yet this alone might from his part
Sever each true and loyal heart. ”
Wrathful at such arraignment foul,
Dark lowered the clansman's sable scowl.
A space he paused, then sternly said:-
"And heard'st thou why he drew his blade?
Heard'st thou that shameful word and blow
Brought Roderick's vengeance on his foe?
What recked the chieftain if he stood
On Highland heath, or Holyrood!
He rights such wrong where it is given,
If it were in the court of heaven. ".
"Still was it outrage; - yet, 'tis true,
Not then claimed sovereignty his due;
While Albany, with feeble hand,
Held borrowed truncheon of command,
The young King, mewed in Stirling tower,
Was stranger to respect and power.
But then, thy chieftain's robber life!
Winning mean prey by causeless strife,
Wrenching from ruined Lowland swain
His herds and harvest reared in vain. -
Methinks a soul like thine should scorn
The spoils from such foul foray borne. "


## p. 13071 (#505) ##########################################

SIR WALTER SCOTT
13071
The Gael beheld him grim the while,
And answered with disdainful smile:-
"Saxon, from yonder mountain high,
I marked thee send delighted eye
Far to the south and east, where lay,
Extended in succession gay,
Deep waving fields and pastures green,
With gentle slopes and groves between. —
These fertile plains, that softened vale,
Were once the birthright of the Gael:
The stranger came with iron hand,
And from our fathers reft the land.
Where dwell we now? See rudely swell
Crag over crag, and fell o'er fell.
Ask we this savage hill we tread
For fattened steer or household bread,-
Ask we for flocks these shingles dry,-
And well the mountain might reply:-
To you, as to your sires of yore,
Belong the target and claymore!
I give you shelter in my breast,
Your own good blades must win the rest. '
Pent in this fortress of the North,
Think'st thou we will not sally forth,
To spoil the spoiler as we may,
And from the robber rend the prey?
Ay, by my soul! - While on yon plain
The Saxon rears one shock of grain;
While, of ten thousand herds, there strays
But one along yon river's maze,-
The Gael, of plain and river heir,
Shall with strong hand redeem his share.
Where live the mountain chiefs who hold
That plundering Lowland field and fold
Is aught but retribution true?
Seek other cause 'gainst Roderick Dhu. "
-
Answered Fitz-James:- "And if I sought,
Think'st thou no other could be brought?
What deem ye of my path waylaid?
My life given o'er to ambuscade ? »—
"As of a meed to rashness due:
Hadst thou sent warning fair and true,—


## p. 13072 (#506) ##########################################

SIR WALTER SCOTT
13072
'I seek my hound, or falcon strayed,
I seek (good faith) a Highland maid,'-
Free hadst thou been to come and go;
But secret path marks secret foe.
Nor yet, for this, even as a spy,
Hadst thou, unheard, been doomed to die,
Save to fulfill an augury. "—
"Well, let it pass; nor will I now
Fresh cause of enmity avow,
To chafe thy mood and cloud thy brow.
Enough, I am by promise tied
To match me with this man of pride:
Twice have I sought Clan-Alpine's glen
In peace; but when I come agen,
I come with banner, brand, and bow,
As leader seeks his mortal foe.
For love-lorn swain, in lady's bower,
Ne'er panted for the appointed hour
As I until before me stand
This rebel chieftain and his band! ".
"Have, then, thy wish! "- He whistled shrill,
And he was answered from the hill;
Wild as the scream of the curlew,
From crag to crag the signal flew.
Instant, through copse and heath, arose
Bonnets, and spears, and bended bows;
On right, on left, above, below,
Sprung up at once the lurking foe;
From shingles gray their lances start,
The bracken bush sends forth the dart,
The rushes and the willow-wand
Are bristling into axe and brand,
And every tuft of broom gives life
To plaided warrior armed for strife.
That whistle garrisoned the glen
At once with full five hundred men,
As if the yawning hill to heaven
A subterranean host had given.
Watching their leader's beck and will,
All silent there they stood, and still.
Like the loose crags, whose threatening mass
Lay tottering o'er the hollow pass,


## p. 13073 (#507) ##########################################

SIR WALTER SCOTT
XXII-818
As if an infant's touch could urge
Their headlong passage down the verge,
With step and weapon forward flung,
Upon the mountain-side they hung.
The mountaineer cast glance of pride
Along Benledi's living side,
Then fixed his eye and sable brow
Full on Fitz-James: "How sayest thou now?
These are Clan-Alpine's warriors true;
And, Saxon,-I am Roderick Dhu! "
Fitz-James was brave. -Though to his heart
The life-blood thrilled with sudden start,
He manned himself with dauntless air,
Returned the chief his haughty stare,
His back against a rock he bore,
And firmly placed his foot before:-
"Come one, come all! this rock shall fly
From its firm base as soon as I. "
Sir Roderick marked; and in his eyes
Respect was mingled with surprise,
And the stern joy which warriors feel
In foemen worthy of their steel.
Short space he stood;- then waved his hand:
Down sunk the disappearing band;
Each warrior vanished where he stood,
In broom or bracken, heath or wood;
Sunk brand, and spear, and bended bow,
In osiers pale and copses low:
It seemed as if their mother Earth
Had swallowed up her warlike birth.
The wind's last breath had tossed in air,
Pennon, and plaid, and plumage fair,-
The next but swept a lone hillside,
Where heath and fern were waving wide.
The sun's last glance was glinted back
From spear and glaive, from targe and jack,—
The next, all unreflected, shone
On bracken green and cold gray stone.
13073


## p. 13074 (#508) ##########################################

SIR WALTER SCOTT
13074
SONG: JOCK O' HAZELDEAN
HY weep ye by the tide, ladie?
"WHY Why weep ye by the tide?
I'll wed ye to my youngest son,
And ye sall be his bride.
And ye sall be his bride, ladie,
Sae comely to be seen" -
But aye she loot the tears down fa'
For Jock o' Hazeldean.
"Now let this willfu' grief be done,
And dry that cheek so pale:
Young Frank is chief of Errington,
And lord of Langley-dale;
His step is first in peaceful ha',
His sword in battle keen "
But aye she loot the tears down fa'
For Jock o' Hazeldean.
"A chain of gold ye sall not lack,
Nor braid to bind your hair;
Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk,
Nor palfrey fresh and fair:
And you, the foremost o' them a',
Shall ride our forest queen".
But aye she loot the tears down fa'
For Jock o' Hazeldean.
-
The kirk was decked at morning-tide,
The tapers glimmered fair;
The priest and bridegroom wait the bride,
And dame and knight are there.
They sought her baith by bower and ha'-
The ladie was not seen!
She's o'er the Border, and awa'
Wi' Jock o' Hazeldean.


## p. 13075 (#509) ##########################################

SIR WALTER SCOTT
13075
HIGHLAND SONG: PIBROCH OF DONUIL DHU
IBROCH of Donuil Dhu,
Pibroch of Donuil,
Wake thy wild voice anew,
Summon Clan-Conuil.
P
Come away, come away,
Hark to the summons!
Come in your war array,
Gentles and commons.
Come from deep glen and
From mountain so rocky,-
The war-pipe and pennon
Are at Inverlochy.
Come every hill plaid and
True heart that wears one,
Come every steel blade and
Strong hand that bears one.
Leave untended the herd,
The flock without shelter;
Leave the corpse uninterred,
The bride at the altar;
Leave the deer, leave the steer,
Leave nets and barges:
Come with your fighting-gear,
Broadswords and targes.
Come as the winds come when
Forests are rended,
Come as the waves come when
Navies are stranded:
Faster come, faster come,
Faster and faster,
Chief, vassal, page, and groom,
Tenant and master.
Fast they come, fast they come;
See how they gather!
Wide waves the eagle plume,
Blended with heather.
Cast your plaids, draw your blades,
Forward each man set!
Pibroch of Donuil Dhu,
Knell for the onset!


## p. 13076 (#510) ##########################################

13076
SIR WALTER SCOTT
NORA'S VOW
Η
EAR what Highland Nora said:—
"The Earlie's son I will not wed,
Should all the race of nature die,
And none be left but he and I.
For all the gold, for all the gear,
And all the lands both far and near,
That ever valor lost or won,
I would not wed the Earlie's son. "
"A maiden's vows," old Callum spoke:
"Are lightly made and lightly broke;
The heather on the mountain's height
Begins to bloom in purple light;
The frost-wind soon shall sweep away
That lustre deep from glen and brae:
Yet Nora, ere its bloom be gone,
May blithely wed the Earlie's son. "
"The swan," she said, "the lake's clear breast
May barter for the eagle's nest;
The Awe's fierce stream may backward turn,
Ben-Cruaichan fall and crush Kilchurn;
Our kilted clans, when blood is high,
Before their foes may turn and fly:
But I, were all these marvels done,
Would never wed the Earlie's son. »
Still in the water-lily's shade
Her wonted nest the wild-swan made;
Ben-Cruaichan stands as fast as ever,
Still downward foams the Awe's fierce river;
To shun the clash of foeman's steel,
No Highland brogue has turned the heel:
But Nora's heart is lost and won,—
She's wedded to the Earlie's son!
1


## p. 13077 (#511) ##########################################

SIR WALTER SCOTT
13077
THE BALLAD OF THE RED HARLAW›
In The Antiquary›
HE herring loves the merry moonlight,
The mackerel loves the wind,
But the oyster loves the dredging-sang,
For they come of a gentle kind.
THE
Now haud your tongue, baith wife and carle,
And listen great and sma',
And I will sing of Glenallan's Earl
That fought on the red Harlaw.
The cronach's cried on Bennachie,
And doun the Don and a',
And hieland and lawland may mournfu' be
For the sair field of Harlaw.
They saddled a hundred milk-white steeds,
They hae bridled a hundred black,
With a chafron of steel on each horse's head,
And a good knight upon his back.
They hadna ridden a mile, a mile,
A mile but barely ten,
When Donald came branking down the brae
Wi' twenty thousand men.
Their tartans they were waving wide,
Their glaives were glancing clear,
The pibrochs rung frae side to side,
Would deafen ye to hear.
The great Earl in his stirrup stood,
That Highland host to see.
"Now here a knight that's stout and good
May prove a jeopardie:
"What wouldst thou do, my squire so gay,
That rides beside my reyne,—
Were ye Glenallan's Earl the day,
And I were Roland Cheyne?
"To turn the rein were sin and shame,
To fight were wondrous peril,—
What would ye do now, Roland Cheyne,
Were ye Glenallan's Earl! "—


## p. 13078 (#512) ##########################################

13078
SIR WALTER SCOTT
"Were I Glenallan's Earl this tide,
And ye were Roland Cheyne,
The spur should be in my horse's side,
And the bridle upon his mane.
"If they hae twenty thousand blades,
And we twice ten times ten,
Yet they hae but their tartan plaids,
And we are mail-clad men.
"My horse shall ride through ranks sae rude,
As through the moorland fern,—
Then ne'er let the gentle Norman blude
Grow cauld for Highland kerne. "
He turned him right and round again,
Said, Scorn na at my mither;
Light loves I may get mony a ane,
But minnie ne'er anither.
SONG: BRIGNALL BANKS
From Rokeby'
Ο
H, BRIGNALL banks are wild and fair,
And Greta woods are green,
And you may gather garlands there
Would grace a summer queen.
And as I rode by Dalton Hall,
Beneath the turrets high,
A maiden on the castle wall
Was singing merrily:-
"Oh, Brignall banks are fresh and fair,
And Greta woods are green:
I'd rather rove with Edmund there,
Than reign our English queen. ».
“If, maiden, thou wouldst wend with me,
To leave both tower and town,
Thou first must guess what life lead we,
That dwell by dale and down.
And if thou canst that riddle read,
As read full well you may,
Then to the greenwood shalt thou speed,
As blithe as Queen of May. "-


## p. 13079 (#513) ##########################################

SIR WALTER SCOTT
13079
Yet sung she, "Brignall banks are fair,
And Greta woods are green;
I'd rather rove with Edmund there,
Than reign our English queen.
"I read you, by your bugle-horn,
And by your palfrey good,
I read you for a Ranger sworn,
To keep the king's greenwood. ".
"A Ranger, lady, winds his horn,
And 'tis at peep of light;
His blast is heard at merry morn,
And mine at dead of night. >>
Yet sung she, "Brignall banks are fair,
And Greta woods are gay:
I would I were with Edmund there,
To reign his Queen of May!
-
"With burnished brand and musketoon,
So gallantly you come,
I read you for a bold Dragoon,
That lists the tuck of drum. ".
"I list no more the tuck of drum,
No more the trumpet hear;
But when the beetle sounds his hum,
My comrades take the spear.
And oh! though Brignall banks be fair,
And Greta woods be gay,
Yet mickle must the maiden dare
Would reign my Queen of May!
"Maiden! a nameless life I lead,
A nameless death I'll die:
The fiend, whose lantern lights the mead,
Were better mate than I!
And when I'm with my comrades met,
Beneath the greenwood bough,
What once we were we all forget,
Nor think what we are now.
Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair,
And Greta woods are green,
And you may gather garlands there
Would grace a summer queen. "


## p. 13080 (#514) ##########################################

13080
SIR WALTER SCOTT
·
BONNY DUNDEE
T
O THE Lords of Convention 'twas Claver'se who spoke,—
"Ere the King's crown shall fall there are crowns to be
broke;
So let each Cavalier who loves honor and me
Come follow the bonnet of Bonny Dundee.
Chorus: - Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can,
Come saddle your horses, and call up your men;
Come open the West Port, and let me gang free,
And it's room for the bonnets of Bonny Dundee! "
Dundee he is mounted, he rides up the street:
The bells are rung backward, the drums they are beat;
But the Provost, douce man, said, "Just e'en let him be,—
The gude town is weel quit of that Deil of Dundee. "
[Chorus.
As he rode down the sanctified bends of the Bow,
Ilk carline was flyting and shaking her pow;
But the young plants of grace they looked couthie and slee,
Thinking, Luck to thy bonnet, thou Bonny Dundee!
[Chorus.
With sour-featured Whigs the Grass-market* was crammed,
As if half the West had set tryst to be hanged:
There was spite in each look, there was fear in each e'e,
As they watched for the bonnets of Bonny Dundee.
[Chorus.
These cowls of Kilmarnock had spits and had spears,
And lang-hafted gullies to kill Cavaliers;
But they shrunk to close-heads, and the causeway was free,
At the toss of the bonnet of Bonny Dundee.
[Chorus.
He spurred to the foot of the proud Castle rock,
And with the gay Gordon he gallantly spoke:
:-
"Let Mons Meg and her marrows speak twa words or three,
For the love of the bonnet of Bonny Dundee. "
[Chorus.
The Gordon demands of him which way he goes:—
"Where'er shall direct me the shade of Montrose!
Your Grace in short space shall hear tidings of me,
Or that low lies the bonnet of Bonny Dundee.
[Chorus.
"There are hills beyond Pentland, and lands beyond Forth;
If there's lords in the Lowlands, there's chiefs in the North;
*The place of public execution.


## p. 13081 (#515) ##########################################

SIR WALTER SCOTT
13081
There are wild Duniewassals three thousand times three,
Will cry hoigh! for the bonnet of Bonny Dundee.
"There's brass on the target of barkened bull-hide;
There's steel in the scabbard that dangles beside:
The brass shall be burnished, the steel shall flash free,
At a toss of the bonnet of Bonny Dundee.
"Away to the hills, to the caves, to the rocks,—
Ere I own an usurper, I'll couch with the fox;
And tremble, false Whigs, in the midst of your glee,-
You have not seen the last of my bonnet and me! ”
The dirk and the target lie sordid with dust
The bloodless claymore is but reddened with rust;
On the hill or the glen if a gun should appear,
It is only to war with the heath-cock or deer.
He waved his proud hand, and the trumpets were blown,
The kettle-drums clashed, and the horsemen rode on;
Till on Ravelston's cliffs, and on Clermiston's lea,
Died away the wild war-notes of Bonny Dundee.
The deeds of our sires if our bards should rehearse,
Let a blush or a blow be the meed of their verse!
Be mute every string, and be hushed every tone,
That shall bid us remember the fame that is flown.
[Chorus.
[Chorus.
O high-minded Moray! the exiled, the dear!
In the blush of the dawning the STANDARD uprear!
Wide, wide on the winds of the north let it fly,
Like the sun's latest flash when the tempest is nigh!
[Chorus.
FLORA MAC-IVOR'S SONG
From Waverley'
TH
HERE is mist on the mountain, and night on the vale,
But more dark is the sleep of the sons of the Gael.
A stranger commanded,—it sunk on the land,
It has frozen each heart and benumbed every hand!
[Chorus.
But the dark hours of night and of slumber are past,
The morn on our mountains is dawning at last!
Glenaladale's peaks are illumed with the rays,
And the streams of Glenfinnan leap bright in the blaze.


## p. 13082 (#516) ##########################################

13082
SIR WALTER SCOTT
Ye sons of the strong, when that dawning shall break,
Need the harp of the aged remind you to wake?
That dawn never beamed on your forefathers' eye
But it roused each high chieftain to vanquish or die.
O sprung from the kings who in Islay kept state,
Proud chiefs of Clan-Ranald, Glengarry, and Sleat!
Combine like three streams from one mountain of snow,
And resistless in union rush down on the foe.
True son of Sir Evan, undaunted Lochiel,
Place thy targe on thy shoulder and burnish thy steel!
Rough Keppoch, give breath to thy bugle's bold swell,
Till far Coryarrick resound to the knell!
Stern son of Lord Kenneth, high chief of Kintail,
Let the stag in thy standard bound wild in the gale!
May the race of Clan-Gillian, the fearless and free,
Remember Glenlivat, Harlaw, and Dundee!
Let the clan of Gray Fingon, whose offspring has given
Such heroes to earth, and such martyrs to heaven,
Unite with the race of renowned Rorri More,
To launch the long galley and stretch to the oar!
How Mac-Shimei will joy when their chief shall display
The yew-crested bonnet o'er tresses of gray!
How the race of wronged Alpine and murdered Glencoe
Shall shout for revenge when they pour on the foe!
Ye sons of brown Dermid, who slew the wild boar,
Resume the pure faith of the great Callum-More!
Mac-Niel of the Islands, and Moy of the Lake,
For honor, for freedom, for vengeance awake!
Awake on your hills, on your islands awake,
Brave sons of the mountain, the frith, and the lake!
'Tis the bugle-but not for the chase is the call;
'Tis the pibroch's shrill summons - but not to the hall.
'Tis the summons of heroes for conquest or death,
When the banners are blazing on mountain and heath;
They call to the dirk, the claymore, and the targe,
To the march and the muster, the line and the charge.
Be the brand of each chieftain like Fin's in his ire!
May the blood through his veins flow like currents of fire!
Burst the base foreign yoke as your sires did of yore!
Or die, like your sires, and endure it no more!


## p. 13083 (#517) ##########################################

13083
AUGUSTIN EUGENE SCRIBE
(1791-1861)
FTER the spirited comedy of Beaumarchais came a lull in
dramatic production in France. The public yawned over
long dull plays, or applauded mediocre work for its cheap
reflection of popular sentiment. Then Eugène Scribe came to the
rescue, having gradually found out what the public taste craved. He
had learned this through perhaps a dozen failures, when his shrewd
instinct guided him to seize upon vaudeville, and dignify it to the
rank of laugh-provoking comedy. His plot,
as ingeniously contrived as a Chinese puz-
zle, was a frame upon which he hung clever
dialogue, catchy songs, puns, popular allus-
ions, and manifold witticisms.

His first successful vaudeville, 'Une Nuit
du Garde National,' in one act, written in
collaboration with Poirson, another young
author, was played at the Gymnase in 1816,
and was the beginning of Scribe's astonish-
ing popularity.
EUGENE SCRIBE
For about forty years he was the master
playwright of France. He grew more and
more cunning in estimating his audience,
flattering their foibles, and reflecting con-
temporary interests. He was strictly unmoral, and offered no prob-
lems. His light frothy humor required no mental effort; he diverted
without fatiguing. So Paris loved Scribe, paid him a fortune, made
him a great social as well as literary light, and in 1836 admitted him
to the Academy. From his father, a prosperous silk merchant in
Paris, where he himself was born in 1791, he inherited decided busi-
ness talent. Perhaps no author has ever received fuller measure of
pecuniary success.
Wonderful tales are told of his intuitive comprehension of dramatic
possibilities. One day 'La Chanoinesse,' a dull five-act tragedy, was
read to him. Before the end had been reached, his mind had the
plot transformed into a witty one-act burlesque. He was less invent-
ive than skillful at adaptation, so he often borrowed ideas from
more fertile and less executive brains. For these, Scribe, always the


## p. 13084 (#518) ##########################################

13084
AUGUSTIN EUGÈNE SCRIBE
honorable business man, gave due credit.
So it is said that many a
poverty-stricken writer was surprised to be claimed as collaborator by
the great M. Scribe, and to receive generous payment for ideas which
in their changed form he could hardly recognize as his own.
After 1840 Scribe partially deserted the clever buffoonery of his
vaudeville, and attempted serious five-act dramas. Of these, two of
the best 'Adrienne Lecouvreur' and 'La Bataille des Dames' (The
Ladies' Battle) were written with Legouvé; and in translation are
familiar to American playgoers.
-
Scribe turned his hand to most kinds of composition. He wrote
several volumes of charming tales. He was especially skillful in the
composition of librettos for the operas of Verdi, Auber, Meyerbeer,
and other composers. He was remarkably prolific, and about four
hundred pieces are included in the published list of his works; from
which, however, many waifs and strays of his talent are omitted.
Although most of his plays, once so cordially liked, are now obso-
lete, Scribe has a lasting claim to remembrance in that his mastery
of stage technique guided greater dramatists than himself to more
effective expression. Perhaps no one ever lived with a stronger
sense of scenic requirements. His plays could not drag. Although
often superficial in his effort to sketch lightly contemporary life, and
in his preoccupation with every-day general human interests, Scribe
anticipated the drama of realism.
MERLIN'S PET FAIRY
O
NE night, Merlin, sad and dreamy, was gazing over the im-
mensity of heaven. He thought he heard a light sound
below him. A frightful tempest was upheaving the ocean.
The waves, piled mountain high, scattered salt water to the skies.
Merlin went higher to avoid a wetting; and by the light of the
stars he saw, like an imperceptible point on the summit of the
waves, a vessel about to sink. There was service to render, suf-
fering to relieve. Merlin forgot his dreams and darted forth,
but too late. Pitiless fate anticipated him; and the ship, dashed
against the cliffs, was flying in a thousand pieces.
All the passengers had perished except one woman, who was
still struggling. She held a little daughter in her arms whom
she tried to save.
"Protecting angels," she cried, "save her! watch over her! "
When her strength deserted her she disappeared, just as Mer-
lin descended from the clouds and touched the surface of the


## p. 13085 (#519) ##########################################

AUGUSTIN EUGÈNE SCRIBE
13085
water. He heard the poor mother's last words, caught up her
child, and bore it back to the skies.
He warmed the little creature's chilled limbs in his hands.
Was she still breathing? In doubt, he recalled her to life or gave
her a new one by means of his magic power, with a ray of dawn'
and a drop of dew. Then Merlin gazed at the poor child with
delighted eyes.
"You shall be a fairy," he said to her. "You shall be my
pet fairy. The misfortune and death which presided over your
birth can never thenceforth touch you. "
The baby opened her eyes and smiled at him, and Merlin
carried his treasure to his crystal and flowery palace in the
clouds.
The young fairy was charming, and Merlin wished to endow
her with all gifts, all talents, all virtues. He gave her the heart
which loves and is loved; the mind which pleases and amuses
others, and the grace which always charms.
He gave her his own power (without making her his equal,
however), with only one condition: that she should love him,
and prefer him to all the sylphs and heavenly spirits, however
beautiful, who shone in Ginnistan. Mighty Alaciel, the supreme
genie presiding over this empire, loved the enchanter Merlin, and
consented to all his desires. All that he asked for the young
fairy was granted and immutably ratified by destiny.
Never had Merlin been more happy than while pretty Vivian
was growing up under his eyes. That was the name he had
given her, the name which was to make her immortal; for never
has love been more celebrated than that of the enchanter Mer-
lin for the fairy Vivian. All legends tell of it, all chronicles
attest it, and traces of it are still preserved on the walls of old
monuments.
Merlin had no other delight than in Vivian; and she knew no
joy apart from her benefactor. Although still very young, the
wit and intelligence with which she was endowed soon taught
her to appreciate his worth and all that she owed to him.