|
And ne’er but once, my son, he says,
Was yon sad cavern trod,
In persecution’s iron days,
When the land was left by God
|
|
From Bewlie bog, with slaughter red,
A wanderer hither drew,
And oft he stopt and turned his head,
As by fits the night wind blew;
|
|
For trampling round by Cheviot edge
Were heard the troopers keen,
And frequent from the Whitelaw ridge
The death-shot flashed between.
|
|
The moonbeams through the misty shower
On yon dark cavern fell;
Through the cloudy night, the snow gleamed white,
Which sunbeam ne’er could quell.
|
|
“Yon cavern dark is rough and rude,
And cold its jaws of snow;
|
| 308 | LIFE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. |
|
But more rough and rude are the men of blood,
That hunt my life below;
|
|
“Yon spell-bound den, as the aged tell,
Was hewn by demon’s hands;
But I had lourd * melle with the fiends of hell,
Than with Clavers and
his band.”
|
|
He heard the deep-mouthed bloodhound bark,
He heard the horses neigh,
He plunged him in the cavern dark,
And downward sped his way.
|
|
Now faintly down the winding path
Came the cry of the faulting hound,
And the muttered oath of baulked wrath
Was lost in hollow sound.
|
|
He threw him on the flinted floor,
And held his breath for fear;
He rose and bitter cursed his foes,
As the sounds died on his ear.
|
|
“O bare thine arm, thou battling Lord,
For Scotland’s wandering band,
Dash from the oppressor’s grasp the sword,
And sweep him from the land!
|
|
“Forget not thou thy people’s groans
From dark Dunnotter’s tower,
Mix’d with the seafowl’s shrilly moans,
And ocean’s bursting roar!
|
|
“O in fell Clavers’ hour of pride,
Even in his mightiest day,
As bold he strides through conquest’s tide,
O stretch him on the clay!
|
|
“His widow and his little ones,
O may their tower of trust
|
|
* Lourd; i. e., liefer—rather. |
| THE SHEPHERD’S TALE—1799. | 309 |
|
Remove its strong foundation stones,
And crush them in the dust!”—
|
|
“Sweet prayers to me,” a voice replied,
“Thrice welcome, guest of mine!”—
And glimmering on the cavern side
A light was seen to shine.
|
|
An aged man, in amice brown,
Stood by the wanderer’s side,
By powerful charm, a dead man’s arm
The torch’s light supplied.
|
|
From each stiff finger stretched upright,
Arose a ghastly flame,
That waved not in the blast of night
Which through the cavern came.
|
|
O deadly blue was that taper’s hue,
That flamed the cavern o’er,
But more deadly blue was the ghastly hue
Of his eyes who the taper bore.
|
|
He laid on his head a hand like lead,
As heavy, pale, and cold:—
“Vengeance be thine, thou guest of mine,
If thy heart be firm and bold.
|
|
“But if faint thy heart, and caitiff fear
Thy recreant sinews know,
The mountain erne thy heart shall tear,
Thy nerves the hooded crow.”
|
|
The wanderer raised him undismay’d:
“My soul, by dangers steeled,
Is stubborn as my border blade,
Which never knew to yield.
|
|
“And if thy power can speed the hour
Of vengeance on my foes,
Theirs be the fate, from bridge and gate
To feed the hooded crows.”
|
| 310 | LIFE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. |
|
The Brownie looked him in the face,
And his colour fled with speed—
“I fear me,” quoth he, “uneath it will be
To match thy word and deed.
|
|
“In ancient days when English bands
Sore ravaged Scotland fair,
The sword and shield of Scottish land
Was valiant Halbert Kerr.
|
|
“A warlock loved the warrior well,
Sir Michael Scott by name,
And he sought for his sake a spell to make,
Should the Southern foemen tame;
|
|
“Look thou,” he said, “from Cessford head,
As the July sun sinks low,
And when glimmering white on Cheviot’s height
Thou shalt spy a wreath of snow,
|
|
The spell is complete which shall bring to thy feet
The haughty Saxon foe.”
For many a year wrought the wizard here,
In Cheviot’s bosom low,
|
|
Till the spell was complete, and in July’s heat
Appeared December’s snow;
But Cessford’s Halbert never came
The wondrous cause to know.
|
|
“For years before in Bowden aisle
The warrior’s bones had lain,
And after short while, by female guile,
Sir Michael Scott was slain.
|
|
“But me and my brethren in this cell
His mighty charms retain,
And he that can quell the powerful spell
Shall o’er broad Scotland reign.”
|
|
He led him through an iron door
And up a winding stair,
|
| THE SHEPHERD’S TALE—1799. | 311 |
|
And in wild amaze did the wanderer gaze
On the sight which opened there.
|
|
Through the gloomy night flashed ruddy light,—
A thousand torches’ glow;
The cave rose high, like the vaulted sky,
O’er stalls in double row.
|
|
In every stall of that endless hall
Stood a steed in barbing bright;
At the foot of each steed, all armed save the head,
Lay stretched a stalwart knight.
|
|
In each mailed hand was a naked brand,
As they lay on the black bull’s hide;
Each visage stern did upwards turn,
With eyeballs fixed and wide.
|
|
A launcegay strong, full twelve ells long,
By every warrior hung;
At each pommel there, for battle yare,
A Jedwood axe was slung.
|
|
The casque hung near each cavalier;
The plumes waved mournfully
At every tread which the wanderer made
Through the hall of Gramarye;
|
|
The ruddy beam of the torches’ gleam,
That glared the warriors on,
Reflected light from armour bright,
In noontide splendour shone.
|
|
And onward seen in lustre sheen,
Still lengthening on the sight,
Through the boundless hall, stood steeds in stall,
And by each lay a sable knight.
|
|
Still as the dead lay each horseman dread,
And moved nor limb nor tongue;
Each steed stood stiff as an earthfast cliff,
Nor hoof nor bridle rung.
|
| 312 | LIFE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. |
|
No sounds through all the spacious hall
The deadly still divide,
Save where echoes aloof from the vaulted roof
To the wanderer’s step replied.
|
|
At length before his wondering eyes,
On an iron column borne,
Of antique shape, and giant size,
Appear’d a sword and horn.
|
|
“Now choose thee here,” quoth his leader,
“Thy venturous fortune try;
Thy wo and weal, thy boot and bale,
In yon brand and bugle lie.”
|
|
To the fatal brand he mounted his hand,
But his soul did quiver and quail;
The life-blood did start to his shuddering heart
And left him wan and pale.
|
|
The brand he forsook, and the horn he took
To ’say a gentle sound;
But so wild a blast from the bugle brast,
That the Cheviot rock’d around.
|
|
From Forth to Tees, from seas to seas,
The awful bugle rung;
On Carlisle wall, and Berwick withal,
To arms the warders sprung.
|
|
With clank and clang the cavern rang,
The steeds did stamp and neigh;
And loud was the yell as each warrior fell
Sterte up with hoop and cry.
|
|
“Wo, wo,” they cried, “thou caitiff coward
That ever thou wert born!
Why drew ye not the knightly sword
Before ye blew the horn?”
|
|
The morning on the mountain shone,
And on the bloody ground
|
| THE SHEPHERD’S TALE—1799. | 313 |
|
Hurled from the cave with shiver’d bone,
The mangled wretch was found.
|
|
And still beneath the cavern dread,
Among the glidders gray,
A shapeless stone with lichens spread
Marks where the wanderer lay.’
|
