The Lay of the Last Minstrel/Canto 1

by Walter Scott

THE

LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL.

CANTO FIRST.

 

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I.
The feast was over in Branksome tower,
And the Ladye had gone to her secret bower;
Her bower, that was guarded by word and by spell,
Deadly to hear, and deadly to tell—
Jesu Maria, shield us well!
No living wight, save the Ladye alone,
Had dared to cross the threshold stone.

II.
The tables were drawn, it was idlesse all;
Knight and page, and household squire,
Loiter'd through the lofty hall,
Or crowded round the ample fire.
The stag-hounds, weary with the chase,
Lay stretch'd upon the rushy floor,
And urged, in dreams, the forest race,
From Teviot-stone to Eskdale-moor.

III.
Nine-and-twenty knights of fame
Hung their shields in Branksome Hall,
Nine-and-twenty squires of name
Brought them their steeds to bower from stall;
Nine-and-twenty yeomen tall,
Waited, duteous, on them all:
They were all knights of mettle true,
Kinsmen to the bold Buccleuch.

IV.
Ten of them were sheathed in steel,
With belted sword, and spur on heel:
They quitted not their harness bright,
Neither by day, nor yet by night:
They lay down to rest,
With corslet laced,
Pillow'd on buckler cold and hard;
They carved at the meal
With gloves of steel,
And they drank the red wine through the helmet barred.

V.
Ten squires, ten yeomen, mail-clad men,
Waited the beck of the warders ten.
Thirty steeds, both fleet and wight,
Stood saddled in stable day and night,
Barbed with frontlet of steel, I trow,
And with Jedwood-axe at saddlebow.
A hundred more fed free in stall—
Such was the custom of Branksome-Hall.

VI
Why do these steeds stand ready dight?
Why watch these warriors, armed, by night?—
They watch to hear the blood-hound baying;
They watch to hear the war-horn braying;
To see St. George's red cross streaming,
To see the midnight beacon gleaming;
They watch against Southern force and guile,
Lest Scroope, or Howard, or Percy's powers,
Threaten Branksome's lordly towers,
From Warkwork, or Naworth, or merry Carlisle.

VII
Such is the custom of Branksome-Hall.
Many a valiant knight is here;
But he, the chieftain of them all,
His sword hangs rusting on the wall,
Beside his broken spear.
Bards long shall tell
How Lord Walter fell!
When startled burghers fled afar,
The furies of the Border war;
When the streets of high Dunedin
Saw lances gleam and falchions redden,
And heard the slogan's^[1] deadly yell—
Then the Chef of Branksome fell.

VIII.
Can piety the discord heal,
Or staunch the death-feud's enmity?
Can Christian lore, can patriot zeal,
Can love of blessed charity?
No! vainly to each holy shrine,
In mutual pilgrimage they drew;
Implored, in vain, the grace divine
For chiefs, their own red falchions slew.
While Cessford owns the rule of Car,
While Ettrick boasts the line of Scott,
The slaughtered chiefs, the mortal jar,
The havoc of the feudal war,
Shall never, never be forgot!

IX.
In sorrow o'er Lord Walter's bier,
The warlike foresters had bent;
And many a flower, and many a tear,
Old Teviot's maids and matrons lent:
But, o'er her warrior's bloody bier,
The Ladye dropp'd nor flower nor tear!
Vengeance, deep-brooding o'er the slain,
Had locked the source of softer woe;
And burning pride, and high disdain,
Forbade the rising tear to flow;
Until, amid his sorrowing clan,
Her son lisped from the nurse's knee—
"And, if I live to be a man,
My father's death revenged shall be!"
 Then fast the mother's tears did seek
 To dew the infant's kindling cheek.

X.
All loose her negligent attire,
 All loose her golden hair,
Hung Margaret o'er her slaughtered sire,
 And wept in wild despair,
But not alone the bitter tear
 Had filial grief supplied;
For hopeless love, and anxious fear,
 Had lent their mingled tide;
Nor in her mother's altered eye
Dared she to look for sympathy.
 Her lover, 'gainst her father's clan,
  With Car in arms had stood,
 When Mathouse burn to Melrose ran,
  All purple with their blood.
 And well she knew, her mother dread,
 Before Lord Cranstoun she should wed,
 Would see her on her dying bed.

XI.
Of noble race the Ladye came;
Her father was a clerk of fame,
 Of Bethune's line of Picardie:
He learned the art, that none may name,
 In Padua, far beyond the sea.
Men said he changed his mortal frame
 By feat of magic mystery;
For when, in studious mode, he paced
 St Kentigern's hall,
His form no darkening shadow traced
 Upon the sunny wall!

XII.
And of his skill, as bards avow,
 He taught that Ladye fair,
Till to her bidding she could bow
 The viewless forms of air.
And now she sits in secret bower,
In old Lord David's western tower,
And listens to a heavy sound,
That moans the mossy turrets round.
Is it the roar of Teviot's tide,
That chafes against the scaur's^[2] red side?
Is it the wind that swings the oaks?
Is it the echo from the rocks?
What may it be, the heavy sound,
That moans old Branksome's turrets round?

XIII.
At the sullen, moaning sound,
 The ban-dogs bay and howl;
And, from the turrets round,
 Loud whoops the startled owl.
In the hall, both squire and knight
 Swore that a storm was near,
And looked forth to view the night;
 But the night was still and clear!

XIV.
From the sound of Teviot's tide,
Chafing with the mountain's side,
From the groan of the wind-swung oak,
From the sullen echo of the rock,
From the voice of the coming storm,
 The Ladye knew it well!
It was the Spirit of the Flood that spoke,
 And he called on the Spirit of the Fell.

XV.
River Spirit.
"Sleepest thou, brother?"
Mountain Spirit.
————"Brother, nay—
On my hills the moon-beams play.
From Craik-cross to Skelfhill-pen,
By every rill, in every glen,
Merry elves their morrice pacing,
 To aerial minstrelsy,
Emerald rings on brown heath tracing,
 Trip it deft and merrily.
Up, and mark their nimble feet!
Up, and list their music sweet!"

XVI.
River Spirit.
"Tears of an imprisoned maiden
 Mix with my polluted stream;
Margaret of Branksome, sorrow-laden,
 Mourns beneath the moon's pale beam.
Tell me, thou, who viewest the stars,
When shall cease these feudal jars?
What shall be the maiden's fate?
Who shall be the maiden's mate?"

XVII.
Mountain Spirit.
"Arthur's slow wain his course doth roll,
In utter darkness round the pole;
The Northern Bear lowers black and grim;
Orion's studded belt is dim;
Twinkling faint, and distant far,
Shimmers through mist each planet star;
 Ill may I read their high decree:
But no kind influence deign they shower
On Teviot's tide, and Branksome's tower,
 Till pride be quell'd, and love be free."

XVIII.
The unearthly voices ceast,
 And the heavy sound was still;
It died on the river's breast,
 It died on the side of the hill—
But round Lord David's tower
 The sound still floated near;
For it rung in the Ladye's bower,
 And it rung in the Ladye's ear.
She raised her stately head,
 And her heart throbbed high with pride:
"Your mountains shall bend,
And your streams ascend,
 Ere Margaret be our foeman's bride!"

XIX.
The Ladye 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^[3] 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 Crescents and the Star^[4].

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 couched 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 Liddell, 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 mattin prime.
Steady of heart, and stout of hand,
As ever drove prey from Cumberland;
Five times outlawed had be 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, 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,
 Wer't my neck-verse at Hairibee^[5]."

XXV.
Soon in his saddle sate he fast,
And soon the steep descent he past;
Soon crossed the sounding barbican^[6],
And soon the Teviot side he won.
Eastward the wooded path he rode;
Green hazels o'er his basnet nod:
He passed the Peel^[7] of Goldiland,
And crossed old Borthwick's roaring strand;
Dimly he viewed 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 spurred 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 rejoined,
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^[8].

XXVII.
A moment now he slacked his speed,
A moment breathed his panting steed;
Drew saddle-girth and corslet-band,
And loosened in the sheath his brand.
On Minto-crags the moon-beams glint,
Where Barnhill hewed his bed of flint;
Who flung his outlawed 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 past Deloraine,
To ancient Riddell'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 chesnut 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 saddle-bow;
Above the flaming tide, I ween,
Scarce half the charger's neck was seen;
For he was barded^[9] from counter to tail,
And the rider was armed complete in mail;
Never heavier man and horse
Stemmed 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 gained the landing place.

XXX.
Now Bowden Moor the march-man won,
 And sternly shook his plumed head,
As glanced his eye o'er Halidon^[10] ;
 For on his soul the slaughter red,
Of that unhallowed morn arose,
When first the Scott and Car 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
Reeked 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,
Seemed, dimly huge, the dark Abbaye.
When Hawick he passed, had curfew rung,
Now midnight lauds^[11] 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 wakened by the winds alone:
But when Melrose he reached, 'twas silence all;
He meetly stabled his steed in stall,
And sought the convent's lonely wall.

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Here paused the harp; and with its swell
The Master's fire and courage fell:
Dejectedly, and low, he bowed,
And, gazing timid on the crowd,
He seemed 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 wandering 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 longed the rest to hear.
Encouraged thus, the Aged Man,
After meet rest, again began.

1. The war-cry, or gathering word, of a Border clan.
2. Scaur, a precipitous bank of earth.
3. Foray, a predatory inroad.
4. Alluding to the armorial bearings of the Scotts and Cars.
5. Hairibee, the place of executing the Border marauders at Carlisle. The neck-verse is the beginning of the 51st psalm, Miserere mei, &c. anciently read by criminals claiming benefit of clergy.
6. Barbican, the defences of the outer gate of a feudal castle.
7. Peel, a Border tower.
8. An ancient Roman road, crossing through part of Roxburghshire.
9. Barded, or barbed, applied to a horse accoutred with defensive armour.
10. Halidon-hill, on which the battle of Melrose was fought
11. Lauds, the midnight service of the Catholic church.