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The family of Sir Walter Scott consists of two daughters, Sophia and Ann (the eldest of whom is married to Mr John Gibson Lockhart, author of Adam Blair, Reginald Dalton, and Matthew Wald), and two sons, one a captain in the 10th Hussars, and the other a student at Oxford.

Since the publication of this work, in addition and some of the annuals, are too numerous to be to the Novels mentioned in their proper place, particularised, even were it possible to ascertain Sir Walter Scott has published three Series of Tales them correctly. Some of these scattered pieces, of a Grandfather, being stories selected from Scot-particularly two stories in prose, written for the tish History, and told in an easy unpretending Keepsake," and the Essay on Molière, inserted style; this work is principally intended for youth, in the Foreign Quarterly Review, have been reand is both interesting and amusing, though in printed in a small duodecimo volume by Messrs many parts too strongly tinctured with the politi- Galignani. cal feelings and prejudices of the author, to deserve unqualified praise as an historical work. He has also written a small History of Scotland for Dr Lardner's Çabinet Cyclopedia, which although necessarily merely an epitome, is a work of judgment and merit; a small volume entitled, Letters on Demonology and Witchcraft, addressed to Mr Lockhart; and two Religious Discourses, originally given to a young friend in manuscript, but subsequently published. His miscellaneous works, such as songs, biographical sketches, and articles in periodical publications, particularly the Edinburgh, Quarterly, and Foreign Quarterly Reviews, Blackwood's Magazine, Ballantyne's « Sale-Room,» Napoleon,» in which the general's fidelity to his late exiled master is more than called in question. To this charge the general, in a long letter inserted in the Paris journals, has given the «lie direct,»> and termed the whole work a romance. Sir Walter has since published a spirited reply in the English newspapers, and produced copies of

tr

the official documents, etc., on which the passages in dis

cussion were founded.

We cannot better conclude this sketch than by quoting the following paragraph from the Edinburgh Journal, which records an incident equally honourable to both parties concerned in it:—

« At the meeting of the creditors of Sir Walter Scott, held at Edinburgh on the 17th of December, 1830, the following resolution was unanimously passed :-That Sir Walter Scott be requested to accept of his furniture, plate, linen, paintings, library, and curiosities of every description, as the best means the creditors have of expressing their very high sense of his most honourable conduct, and in grateful acknowledgment for the unparalleled and most successful exertions he has made,

and continues to make for them. »

THE

POETICAL WORKS

OF

STR WALTER SCOTT.

The Lay of the Last Minstrel.

IN SIX CANTOS.

Dum relego, scripsisse pudet, quia plurima cerno,

Me quoque, qui feci, judice, digna lini.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE CHARLES, EARL OF DALKEITH, This Poem is Inscribed,

BY THE AUTHOR.

ADVERTISEMENT.

THE poem now offered to the public is intended to illustrate the customs and manners which anciently prevailed on the Borders of England and Scotland. The inhabitants, living in a state partly pastoral and partly warlike, and combining habits of constant depredation with the influence of a rude spirit of chivalry, were often engaged in scenes highly susceptible of poetical ornament. As the description of scenery and manners was more the object of the author than a combined and regular narrative, the plan of the ancient metrical romance was adopted, which allows greater latitude, in this respect, than would be consistent with the dignity of a regular poem. The same model offered other facilities, as it permits an occasional alteration of measure, which, in some degree, authorises the change of rhythm in the text. The machinery also, adopted from popular belief, would have seemed puerile in a poem which did not partake of the rudeness of the old ballad or metrical romance.

For these reasons, the poem was put into the mouth of an ancient minstrel, the last of the race, who, as he is supposed to have survived the Revolution, might have caught somewhat of the refinement of modern poetry, without losing the simplicity of his original model. The date of the Tale itself is about the middle of the sixteenth century, when most of the personages actually flourished. The time occupied by the action is three nights and three days.

INTRODUCTION.

THE way was long, the wind was cold,
The Minstrel was infirm and old;
His wither'd cheek, and tresses gray,
Seem'd 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, well-a-day! their date was fled,
His tuneful brethren all were dead;
And he, neglected and oppress'd,
Wish'd to be with them, and at rest.
No more, on prancing palfrey borne,
He caroll'd, light as lark at morn;
No longer courted and caress'd,
High placed in hall, a welcome guest,
He pour'd, to lord and lady gay,
The unpremeditated lay:

Old times were changed, old manners gone;
A stranger fill'd the Stuarts' throne:
The bigots of the iron time

Had call'd his harmless art a crime.
A wandering harper, scorn'd and poor,
He begg'd his bread from door to door;
And tuned, to please a peasant's ear,
The harp a king had loved to hear.

He pass'd 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 pass'd,
Whose ponderous grate and massy bar
Had oft roll'd back the tide of war,
But never closed the iron door
Against the desolate and poor.
The duchess' mark'd 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, 2 dead and gone,
And of Earl Walter, 3 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 hand, 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 obtain'd;

The aged Minstrel audience gain'd.
But when he reach'd the room of sate,
Where she with all her ladies state,
Perchance he wish'd 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.

And then he said, he would full fain

He could recal 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 play'd it to King Charles the Good,
When he kept court in Holyrood;
And much he wish'd, yet fear'd to try
The long-forgotten melody.

Amid the strings his fingers stray'd,
And an uncertain warbling made,
And oft he shook his hoary head.

1 Anne, Duchess of Buccleuch and Monmouth, representative of the ancient lords of Buccleuch, and widow of the unfortunate James, Duke of Monmouth, who was beheaded in 1685.

2 Francis Scott, Earl of Buccleuch, father to the duchess. 3 Walter, Earl of Buccleuch, grandfather to the duchess, and a celebrated warrior.

But when he caught the measure wild,
The old man raised his face, and smiled;
And lighten'd 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,
'T was thus the LATEST MINSTREL sung.

THE

LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL.

CANTO I.

I.

THE feast was over in Branksome tower, (1)
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 chace, 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; (2) Nine-and-twenty squires of name

Brought them their steeds from bower to 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

barr'd.

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,
Barb'd with frontlet of steel, I trow,

And with Jedwood-axe at saddle-bow: (3)
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, arm'd, 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 Scroop, or Howard, or Percy's powers,
Threaten Branksome's lordly towers,

From Warkworth, or Naworth, or merry Carlisle. (4)

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! (5) 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 deadly yellThen the Chief 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; (6)
Implored, in vain, the grace divine

For chiefs their own red falchions slew : While Cessford owns the rule of Car, (7) While Ettrick boasts the line of Scott, The slaughter'd 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 Jent:

But o'er her warrior's bloody bier

The Ladye dropp'd nor flower nor tear! Vengeance, deep brooding o'er the slain, Had lock'd the source of softer woe; And burning pride, and high disdain, Forbade the rising tear to flow;

The war-cry, or gathering word of a Border clan.

Until, amid his sorrowing clan,

Her son lisp'd 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 slaughter'd 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 alter'd 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, (8)
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: (9)
He learn'd the art that none may name,
In Padua, far beyond the sea. (10)
Men said he changed his mortal frame
By feat of magic mystery;

For when, in studious mood, he paced St Andrew's cloister'd hall,

His form no darkening shadow traced Upon the sunny wall! (11)

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. (12)
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 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!

Scaur, a precipitous bank of earth.

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