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The Ride to Melrose, from The Lay of the Last Minstrel by Sir
Walter Scott |
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CANTO I.XIX.
The Lady sought the lofty hall,
Where many a bold
retainer lay,
And with jocund din among them all,
Her son pursued his infant play.
A fancied
moss-trooper, the boy
The truncheon of a spear
bestrode,
And round the hall right merrily
In
mimic foray rode.
Even bearded knights, in arms grown
old,
Share in his frolic gambols bore,
Albeit
their hearts of rugged mould
Were stubborn as the
steel they wore.
For the gray warriors prophesied
How the brave boy, in future war,
Should tame the
Unicorn's pride,
Exalt the Crescent and the Star.XX.
The Ladye forgot her purpose high
One moment and
no more;
One moment gazed with a mother's eye,
As
she paused at the arched door:
Then from amid the
armed train,
She called to her William of
Deloraine.XXI.
A stark moss-trooping Scott was he
As e'er couch'd Border lance by knee:
Through Solway
sands, through Tarras moss,
Blindfold he knew the
paths to cross;
By wily turns, by desperate bounds,
Had baffled Percy's best blood-hounds;
In Eske or
Liddel, fords were none,
But he would ride them, one
by one;
Alike to him was time or tide,
December's
snow or July's pride;
Alike to him was tide or time,
Moonless midnight or matin prime:
Steady of heart and
stout of hand
As ever drove prey from Cumberland;
Five times outlawed had he been
By England's King
and Scotland's Queen.XXII.
'Sir William of
Deloraine, good at need,
Mount thee on the wightest
steed;
Spare not to spur, nor stint to ride,
Until thou come to fair Tweedside;
And in Melrose's
holy pile
Seek thou the Monk of St. Mary's aisle.
Greet the father well from me;
Say that the fated
hour is come,
And to-night he shall watch with thee,
To win the treasure of the tomb:
For this will be St.
Michael's night,
And, though stars be dim, the moon
is bright;
And the Cross of bloody red
Will point
to the grave of the mighty dead.XXIII
'What he
gives thee, see thou keep;
Stay not thou for food or
sleep:
Be it scroll or be it book,
Into it,
knight, thou must not look;
If thou readest, thou art
lorn!
Better hadst thou ne'er been born.'XXIV.
'O
swiftly can speed my dapple-gray steed,
Which drinks
of the Teviot clear;
Ere break of day,' the warrior 'gan
say,
'Again will I be here:
And safer by none may
thy errand be done,
Than, noble dame, by me;
Letter nor line know I never a one,
Were't my
neck-verse at Hairibee.'XXV.
Soon in his saddle
sate he fast,
And soon the steep descent he past,
Soon cross'd the sounding barbican,
And soon the
Teviot side he won.
Eastward the wooded path he
rode,
Green hazels o'er his basnet nod;
He
pass'd the Peel of Goldiland,
And cross'd old
Borthwick's roaring strand;
Dimly he view'd the
Moat-hill's mound,
Where Druid shades still flitted
round:
In Hawick twinkled many a light;
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 turned 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 saddle-girth 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 later 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 crested with tawny foam,
Like the mane of a
chestnut steed.
In vain! no torrent, deep or broad,
Might bar the bold moss-trooper's road.XXIX.
At the first plunge the horse sunk low,
And
the water broke o'er the saddlebow;
Above the
foaming 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 gray,
Seem'd dimly
huge, the dark Abbaye.
When Hawick 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.CANTO II.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 gray.
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 halt did Deloraine make
there;
Little reck'd he of the scene so fair
With dagger's hilt on the wicket strong
He struck full loud, and struck full long.
The porter hurried to the gate--
'Who
knocks so loud, and knocks so late?'
'From
Branksome I,' the warrior cried;
And straight
the wicket open'd wide:
For Branksome's
chiefs had in battle stood
To fence the
rights of fair Melrose;
And lands and
livings, many a rood
Had gifted the shrine
for their souls' repose.III.
Bold Deloraine his
errand said;
The porter bent his humble
head;
With torch in hand, and feet unshod,
And noiseless step the path he trod;
The arched cloister, far and wide,
Rang to the warrior's clanking stride,
Till,
stooping low his lofty crest,
He enter'd the
cell of the ancient priest,
And lifted his
barred aventayle
To hail the Monk of St.
Mary's aisle.IV.
'The Ladye of Branksome greets
thee by me;
Says that the fated hour is come,
And that to-night I shall watch with thee,
To win the treasure of the tomb.'
From sackcloth couch the monk arose,
With
toil his stiffen'd limbs he rear'd;
A hundred
years had flung their snows
On his thin locks
and floating beard.V.
And strangely on the
knight look'd he,
And his blue eyes gleam'd
wild and wide;
'And darest thou, warrior,
seek to see
What heaven and hell alike would
hide?
My breast in belt of iron pent,
With shirt of hair and scourge of thorn;
For threescore years, in penance spent,
My
knees those flinty stones have worn;
Yet all
too little to atone
For knowing what should
ne'er be known.
Would'st thou thy every
future year
In ceaseless prayer and penance
drie,
Yet wait thy latter end with fear--
Then, daring warrior, follow me!'VI.
'Penance, father, will I none;
Prayer know I
hardly one;
For mass or prayer can I rarely
tarry,
Save to patter an Ave Mary,
When I ride on a Border foray.
Other
prayer can I none;
So speed me my errand, and
let me be gone.'VII.
Again on the knight look'd
the churchman old,
And again he sighed
heavily;
For he had himself been a warrior
bold,
And fought in Spain and Italy.
And he thought on the days that were long since by,
When his limbs were strong, and his courage was
high:
Now, slow and faint, he led the way
Where, cloister'd round, the garden lay;
The pillar'd arches were over their head,
And beneath their feet were the bones of the
dead,VIII.
Spreading herbs and flowerets bright,
Glisten'd with the dew of night;
Nor herb nor floweret glisten'd there,
But
was carved in the cloister-arches as fair.
The monk gazed long on the lovely moon,
Then
into the night he looked forth;
And red and
bright the streamers light
Were dancing in
the glowing north.
So had he seen in fair
Castile
The youth in glittering squadrons
start;
Sudden the flying jennet wheel,
And hurl the unexpected dart.
He
knew, by the streamers that shot so bright,
That spirits were riding the northern light.IX.
By a steel-clenched postern door
They enter'd
now the chancel tall;
The darken'd roof rose
high aloof
On pillars lofty and light and
small:
The key-stone that lock'd each ribbed
aisle,
Was a fleur-de-lys or a
quatre-feuille;
The corbells were carved
grotesque and grim;
And the pillars, with
cluster'd shafts so trim,
With base and
with capital flourish'd around,
Seem'd
bundles of lances which garlands had bound.X
Full many a scutcheon and banner riven
Shook to the cold night-wind of heaven,
Around the screened altar's pale;
And there the dying lamps did burn
Before thy low and lonely urn,
O gallant
chief of Otterburne!
And thine, dark
knight of Liddesdale!
O fading honours of
the dead!
O high ambition lowly laid!XI.
The moon on the east oriel shone
Through slender shafts of shapely stone,
By foliaged tracery combined;
Thou
would'st have thought some fairy's hand
'Twixt poplars straight the osier wand
In
many a freakish knot had twined;
Then
framed a spell when the work was done,
And changed the willow wreaths to stone.
The silver light, so pale and faint,
Show'd many a prophet and many a saint,
Whose image on the glass was dyed;
Full
in the midst, his Cross of Red
Triumphant
Michael brandished,
And trampled the
Apostate's pride.
The moon-beam kiss'd
the holy pane,
And threw on the pavement
a bloody stain.XII.
They sate them down on a
marble stone,--
A Scottish monarch slept
below;--
Thus spoke the monk, in solemn
tone:
'I was not always a man of woe;
For Paynim countries I have trod,
And fought beneath the Cross of God:
Now, strange to my eyes thine arms appear,
And their iron clang sounds strange to my
ear.XIII.
'In these far climes it was my lot
To meet the wondrous Michael Scott;
A wizard of such dreaded fame
That when, in Salamanca's cave,
Him
listed his magic wand to wave,
The bells
would ring in Notre Dame!
Some of his
skill he taught to me;
And, warrior, I
could say to thee
The words that cleft
Eildon hills in three,
And bridled the
Tweed with a eurb of stone:
But to speak
them were a deadly sin;
And for having
but thought them my heart within,
A
treble penance must be done.XIV.
'When
Michael lay on his dying bed,
His
conscience was awakened;
He bethought him
of his sinful deed,
And he gave me a sign
to come with speed:
I was in Spain when
the morning rose,
But I stood by his bed
ere evening close.
The words may not
again be said
That he spoke to me, on
death-bed laid;
They would rend this
Abbaye's messy nave,
And pile it in heaps
above his grave.XV
'I swore to bury his
Mighty Book,
That never mortal might
therein look;
And never to tell where it
was hid,
Save at his Chief of Branksome's
need:
And when that need was past and
o'er,
Again the volume to restore.
I buried him on St. Michael's night,
When the bell toll'd one, and the moon was
bright,
And I dug his chamber among the
dead
When the floor of the chancel was
stained red,
That his patron's cross
might over him wave,
And scare the fiends
from the wizard's grave.XVI.
'It was a night
of woe and dread
When Michael in the
tomb I laid;
Strange sounds along the
chancel pass'd,
The banners waved
without a blast'--
Still spoke the monk,
when the bell toll'd one!--
I tell you
that a braver man
Than William of
Deloraine, good at need,
Against a foe
ne'er spurr'd a steed;
Yet somewhat was
he chill'd with dread,
And his hair did
bristle upon his head.XVII.
'Lo, warrior!
now, the Cross of Red
Points to the
grave of the mighty dead;
Within it
burns a wondrous light,
To chase the
spirits that love the night:
That lamp
shall burn unquenchably,
Until the
eternal doom shall be.'
Slow moved the
monk to the broad flag-stone
Which the
bloody Cross was traced upon:
He pointed
to a secret nook;
An iron bar the
warrior took;
And the monk made a sign
with his wither'd hand,
The grave's huge
portal to expand.XVIII.
With beating heart
to the task he went;
His sinewy frame
o'er the grave-stone bent;
With bar of
iron heaved amain
Till the toil-drops
fell from his brows like rain.
It was by
dint of passing strength
That he moved
the messy stone at length.
I would you
had been there to see
How the light broke
forth so gloriously,
Stream'd upward to
the chancel roof,
And through the
galleries far aloof!
No earthly flame
blazed e'er so bright:
It shone like
heaven's own blessed light,
And, issuing
from the tomb,
Show'd the monk's cowl and
visage pale,
Danced on the dark-brow'd
warrior's mail,
And kiss'd his waving
plume.XIX.
Before their eyes the wizard lay,
As if he had not been dead a day.
His hoary beard in silver roll'd,
He seem'd some seventy winters old;
A
palmer's amice wrapp'd him round,
With a
wrought Spanish baldric bound,
Like a
pilgrim from beyond the sea:
His left
hand held his Book of Might,
A silver
cross was in his right,
The lamp was
placed beside his knee:
High and
majestic was his look,
At which the
fellest fiend had shook,
And all
unruffled was his face:
They trusted his
soul had gotten grace.XX.
Often had William
of Deloraine
Rode through the battle's
bloody plain,
And trampled down the
warriors slain,
And neither known remorse
nor awe;
Yet now remorse and awe he own'd;
His breath came thick, his head swam round,
When this strange scene of death he saw,
Bewilder'd and unnerv'd he stood,
And the priest pray'd fervently and loud:
With eyes averted prayed he;
He might not endure the sight to see
Of the man he had loved so brotherly.XXI.
And when the priest his death-prayer had pray'd,
Thus unto Deloraine he said:
'Now, speed thee what thou hast to do,
Or, warrior, we may dearly rue;
For those
thou may'st not look upon,
Are gathering
fast round the yawning stone!'
Then
Deloraine in terror took
From the cold
hand the Mighty Book,
With iron clasp'd
and with iron bound:
He thought, as he
took it, the dead man frown'd;
But the
glare of the sepulchral light
Perchance
had dazzled the warrior's sight.XXII.
When
the huge stone sunk o'er the tomb,
The
night return'd in double gloom;
For the
moon had gone down, and the stars were few;
And, as the knight and priest withdrew,
With wavering steps and dizzy brain,
They hardly might the postern gain.
'Tis said, as through the aisles they pass'd,
They heard strange noises on the blast;
And through the cloister-galleries small,
Which at mid-height thread the chancel wall,
Loud sobs, and laughter louder ran,
And voices unlike the voice of man;
As if the fiends kept holiday
Because these spells were brought to day.
I cannot tell how the truth may be;
I say the tale as 'twas said to me.XXIII.
`Now, hie thee hence,' the father said,
`And when we are on death-bed laid,
O
may our dear Ladye and sweet St. John
Forgive our souls for the deed we have done!
The monk returned him to his cell,
And many a prayer and penance sped;
When
the convent met at the noontide bell,
The
Monk of St. Mary's aisle was dead!
Before the cross was the body laid
With
hands clasp'd fast, as if still he pray'd.XXIV.
The knight breathed free in the morning wind,
And strove his hardihood to find:
He was glad when he pass'd the tombstones gray
Which girdle round the fair Abbaye;
For the mystic book, to his bosom prest,
Felt like a load upon his breast;
And his joints, with nerves of iron twined,
Shook like the aspen leaves in wind.
Full fain was he when the dawn of day
Began to brighten Cheviot gray;
He
joy'd to see the cheerful light,
And he
said Ave Mary as well as he might.
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