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Nor blaze yon fires where meets the manly fight;
Where cowardice and cruelty unite,
Ne'er to be told, yet ne'er to be forgot,
The peasant butchered in his ruined cot,
Childhood and age given o'er to sword and flame,
By which inventive demons might proclaim Immortal hate to Man, and scorn of God's great name! 7. The rudest sentinel, in Britain born,
With horror paused to view the havoc done,
Wiped his stern eye, then fiercer grasped his gun.
Exult the debt of sympathy to pay;
Nor prince nor peer, the wealthy nor the gay, Nor the poor peasant's mite, nor bard's more worthless lay. 8. But thou. unfoughten wilt thou yield to Fate,
Minion of Fortuné, now miscalled in vain !
Marcella's pass, nor Guarda's mountain-chain ?
Behold, where, named by some Prophetic Seer,
From thy dishonoured name and arms to clearFallen Child of Fortune, turn, redeem her favour here! 9. Yet, ere thou turn'st, collect each distant aid :
Those chief that never heard the Lion roar!
Of Talavera, or Mondego's shore !
Of war's fell stratagems exhaust the whole;
Legion on legion on thy foeman roll,
Vainly thy squadrons hide Assuava's plain,
With frantic charge, and tenfold odds, in vain !
Wild from his plaided ranks the yell was given
And, at the bloody spear-point headlong driven,
II. Go, baffled Boaster ! teach thy haughty mood
To plead at thine imperious master's throne !
Deceived his hopes, and frustrated thine own;
By British skill and valour were outvied;
And if he chafe, be his own fortune tried
How shall a bard, unknowing and unknown,
Or bind on every brow the laurels won?
O’er the wide sea to hail CADOGAN brave;
Mindful of meeting brief that Fortune gave 'Mid yon far western isles, that hear the Atlantic rave. 13. Yes! hard the task, when Britons wield the sword,
To give each Chief and every field its fame :
And red Barossa shouts for dauntless GRÆME!
Bold as the bursting of their cannon sound,
For never, upon gory battle-ground,
Who brought a race regenerate to the field,
Tempered their headlong rage, their courage steeled,
And gave new edge to Lusitania's sword,
Shivered my harp and burst its every chord,
Though Gaul's proud legions rolled 'like mist away,
He gaged but life on that illustrious day;
Who fought like Britons in the bloody game,
He braved the shafts of censure and of shame. And, dearer far than life, he pledged a soldier's fame. 16. Nor be his praise o'erpassed who strove to hide
Beneath the warrior's vest affection's wound, Whose rrish Heaven for his country's weal denie;
Danger and fate he sought, but glory found.
From clime to clime, where'er war's trumpets sound,
The wanderer went; yet, Caledonia ! still
He dreamed 'mid Alpine cliffs of Athole's hill, And heard in Ebro's roar his Lyndoch's lovely rill. 17. O hero of a race renowned of old,
Whose war-cry oft has waked the battle-swell,
Wild sounding when the Roman rampart fell !
Alderne, Kilsythe, and Tibber owned its fame,
But ne'er from prouder field arose the name
GRÆME! 18. But all too long, through seas unknown and dark,
(With Spenser's parable I close my tale,
And landward now I drive before the gale :
And nearer now I see the port expand,
And, as the prow light touches on the strand,
TO JOHN B. S. MORRITT, ESQ., THIS POEM, THE SCENE OF WHICH IS LAID IN HIS BEAUTIFUL DEMESNE OF ROKEBY, IS INSCRIBED, IN TOKEN OF
SINCERE FRIENDSHIP, BY
WALTER SCOTT. Dec. 31st, 1812.
ADVERTISEMENT TO FIRST EDITION, 1813. The scene of this poem is laid at Rokeby, near Greta Bridge, in Yorkshire, and shifts to the adjacent fortress of Barnard Castle, and to other places i that vicinity.
The time occupied by the action is a space of Five Days, three of which are supposed to elapse between the end of the Fifth and beginning of the Sixth Canto.
The date of the supposed events is immediately subsequent to the great battle of Marston Moor, 3d July, 1644. This period of public confusion has
een chosen, without any purpose of combining the Fable with the Military or Political Events of the Civil War, but only as affording a degree of probability to the Fictitious Narrative now presented to the Public.
But hoarse and high the breezes blow,
Shifting that shade, to come and go,
2. Those towers, which in the changesul gleam
Throw murky shadows on the stream,
3. Thus Oswald's labouring feelings trace
Strange changes in his sleeping face,