« 前へ次へ »
de the blast,
hymes we sing.---
Not Ellen's spell had lull'd to rest
Can I not frame a fever'd dream,
At morn the black-cock trims his jetty wing,
*T is morning prompts the linnet's blithest lay, All Nature's children feel the matin spring
Of life reviving, with reviving day;
Wafting the stranger on his way again,
And sweetly o'er the lake was heard thy strain,
XXXIV. At length, with Ellen in a grove He seem'd to walk, and speak of love; She listend with a blush and sigh, Ilis suit was warm, his hopes were high. He sought her yielded hand to clasp, And a cold gauntlet met bis grasp : The phantom's sex was changed and gone, Upon its head a helmet shone; Slowly enlarged to giant size, With darken'd cheek and threatening eyes, The grisly visage, stern and hoar, To Ellen still a likeness bore.He woke, and, panting with affright, Recall'd the vision of tbe night. The hearth's decaying brands were red, And deep and dusky lustre shed, Half showing, half concealing all The uncouth trophies of the hall. 'Mid those the stranger fix'd his eye Where that huge falchion bung on higli, And thoughts on thoughts, a countless throng, Rush'd, chasing countless thouglats along, Until the giddy whirl to cure, He rose, and sought the moonshine pure.
« Not faster yonder rowers' might
Flings from their oars the spray, Not faster yonder rippling bright, That tracks the shallop's course in light,
Melts in the lake away, Than men from memory crase The benefits of former days; Then, stranger, go! good speed the while, Nor think again of the lonely isle.
High place to thee in royal court,
High place in battled line, Good hawk and hound for sylvan sport, Where Beauty sees the brave resort,
The honour'd meed be thine! True be thy sword, thy friend sincere, Thy lady constant, kind, and dear, And lost in love's and friendship's smile, Be memory of the lonely isle.
Why is it, at each lurn I trace
« But if beneath yon southern sky
A plaided stranger roam, Whose drooping crest and stifled sigh, And sunken cheek and heavy eye,
Pine for his Highland home: Then, warrior, then be thine to show The care that soothes a wanderer's woe; Remember then thy hap ere while, A stranger in the lovely isle.
Or, if on life's uncertain main
Mishap shall mar thy sail;
Beneath the fickle gale;
But when his stately form was hid,
Thy Malcolm! vain and selfish maid!»
IV. As died the sounds upon the tide, The shallop reach'd the main-land side, And ere his onward way he took, The stranger cast a lingering look, Where easily his eye might reach The harper on the islet beach, Reclined against a blighted tree, As wasted, gray, and worn as he. To minstrel meditation given, His reverend brow was raised to heaven, As from the rising sun to claim A sparkle of inspiring flame. His hand, reclined upon the wire, Seemd watching the awakening fire; So still he sate, as those who wait Till judgment speak the doom of fate; So still, as if no breeze might dare To lift one lock of hoary hair; So still, as life itself were fled, In the last sound his harp had sped.
VII. The minstrel waked his harp-three times Arose the well-known martial chimes, And thrice their high heroic pride In melancholy murmurs died. « Vainly thou bid'st, O noble maid,» Clasping his wither'd hands, he said, Vainly thou bid'st me wake the strain, Though all unwont to bid in vain. Alas! than mine a mightier hand Has tuned my harp, my strings has spann'd! I touch the chords of joy, but low And mournful answer notes of woe; And the proud march which victors tread, Sipks in the wailing for the dead. O well for me, if mine alone That dirge's deep prophetic tone! If, as my tuneful fathers said, This harp, which erst Saint Modan sway'd, (3) Can thus its master's fate foretel, Then welcome be the minstrel's knell!
V. Upon a rock with lichens wild, Beside him Ellen sate and smiled. Smiled she to see the stately drake Lead forth his fleet upon the lake, While her vex'd spaniel, from the beach, Bay'd at the prize beyond his reach! Yet tell me, then, the maid who knows, Why deepen'd on her cheek the rose ? Forgive, forgive, Fidelity! Perchance the maiden smiled to see Yon parting lingerer wave adieu, And stop and turn to wave anew; And, lovely ladies, ere your ire Condemn the heroine of my lyre, Show me the fair would scorn to spy, And prize such conquest of her cye!
VI. While yet he loiter'd on the spot, It seem'd as Ellen mark'd him not; But when he turn'd him to the glade, One courteous parting sign she made; And after, oft the knight would say, That pot when prize of festal day Was dealt him by the brightest fair, Who e'er wore jewel in her hair, So highly did his bosom swell, As at that simple mute farewell. Now with a trusty mountain guide, And his dark stag-hounds by his side, He parts—the maid, unconscious still, Watch'd him wind slowly round the hill;
VIII. « But ah! dear lady, thus it sighd The eve thy sainted mother died; And such the sounds which, while I stro To wake a lay of war or love, Came marring all the festal mirth, Appalling me who gave them birth, And, disobedient to my call, Wail'd loud through Bothwell's banner'd hall, Ere Douglasses, to ruin driven, Were exiled from their native heaven.- (4) Oh! if yet worse mishap and woe My master's house must undergo, Or aught but weal to Ellen fair, Brood in these accents of despair, No future bard, sad harp! shall fling Triumph or rapture from thy string; One short, one final strain shall flow, Fraught with unutterable woe, Then shiver'd shall thy fragments lie, Thy master cast him down and die.»
IX. Soothing she answer'd him, « Assuage, Mine honour'd friend, the fears of age;
All melodies to thec are known, That harp has rung, or pipe has blown, In Lowland vale or Highland glen, From Tweed to Spey-what marvel, then, At times, unbidden notes should rise, Confusedly bound in memory's ties, Entangling, as they rush along, The war-march with the funeral song ?Small ground is now for boding fear; Obscure, but safe, we rest us here. My sire, in native virtue great, Resigning lordship, lands, and state, Not then to fortune more resign'd, Than youder oak might give the wind; The graceful foliage storms may rcave, The noble stem they cannot grieve. For me»-she stoop'd, and, looking round, Pluck'd a blue hare-bell from the ground, « For me, whose memory scarce conveys An image of more splendid days, This little flower, that loves the lca, May well my simple emblem be; It drinks heaven's dew as blithe as rose That in the king's own garden grows; And when I place it in my hair, Allan, a bard is bound to swear He ne'er saw coronet so fair.»-Then playfully the chaplet wild She wreathed in her dark locks, and smiled.
SI. The ancient bard his glee repress'd : « Il hast thou chosen theme for jest ! For who, through all this western wild, Named Black Sir Roderick c'er, and smiled! In Holyrood a knight he slew; (5) 1 saw,
when back the dirk he drew, Courtiers gave place before the stride Of the lindajinted liomicide; And since, though outlaw'd, hath his hand Full sternly kept his mountain land. Who else dared give?-ah! woe the day, That I such hated truth should say-The Douglas, like a stricken decr, Disowu'd by every noble peer, (6) Even the rude refuge we have here? Alas, this wild marauding chief Alone might hazard our relief, And, now thy maiden charins espand, Looks for his gucrdon in thy hand; Full soon may dispensation sought, To back his suit, from Rome be brought. Then, though an exile on the hill, Thy father, as the Douglas, still Be held in reverence and fear; And though to Roderick thou 'rt so dear, That thou might'st guide with silken thread, Slave of thy will, this chieftain dread, Yet, o loved maid, thy mirth refrain ! Thy hand is on a lion's mane.»
X. ller smile, hier speech, with winning sway, Wiled the old harper's mood away. With such a look as hermits throw When angels stoop to soothe their woe, He gazed, till fend regret and pride Thrilld to a tear, then thus replied : « Loveliest and best! thou little know'st The rank, the honours thou hast lost! O might I live to see thee grace, In Scotland's court, thy birth-right place, To see my favourite's step advance, The lightest in the courtly dance, The cause of every gallant's sigb, And leading star of every eye, And theme of every minstrels art, The Lady of the Bleeding Heart!»'
XIII. Minstrel,» the maid replied, and high Her father's soul glanced from her eye, My debts to Roderick's house I know: All that a mother could bestow, To Lady Margaret's care I owe, Since first an orphan in the wild She sorrow'd o'er her sister's child; To her brave chieftain son, from ire Of Scotland's king, who shrouds my sire, A deeper, holier debt is owed; And, could I pay it with my blood, Allan! Sir Roderick should command My blood, my life-but not my hand. liather will Ellen Douglas dwell A votaress in Maronnan's cell; (7) Rather through realms beyond the sea, Seeking the world's cold charity, Where ne'er was spoke a Scottish word, And ne'er the name of Douglas heard, An outcast pilgrim will she rove, Than wed the man she cannot love.
XI. « Fair dreams are these,» the maiden cried (Light was her accent, yet she sigh'd),
Yet is this mossy rock to me Worth splendid chair and canopy; Nor would my footsteps spring more gay In courtly dance than blithe strathspey. Nor half so pleased mine car incline To royal miastrel's lay as thine ; And then for suitors proud and higli, To bend before my conquering eye, Thou, flattering bard! thyself wilt say, That grim Sir Roderick owns its sway. The Saxon scourge, Clau-Alpine's pride, The terror of Loch Lomond's side, Would, at iny suit, thou know'st delay
A Lennox foray-for a day.»The well-known cognizance of the Douglas family.
XIV. « Thou shakest, good friend, thy tresses grayThat pleading look, what can it say But what I own!-I grant him brave, But wild as Bracklinn's thundering ware; (8) And generous--save vindictive mood, Or jealous trausport, chafe his blood : I grant him true to friendly band, As his claymore is to his hand; But 0! that very blade of steel More mercy for a foe would feel :
I grant him liberal, to fling Among his clan the wealth they bring, When back by lake and glen they wind, And in the Lowland leave behind, Where once some pleasant hamlet stood, A mass of ashes slaked with blood, The hand that for my father fought, I honour, as his daughter ought: But can I clasp it reeking red, From peasants slaughter'd in their shed ? No! wildly while his virtues gleam, They make his passions darker seem, And flash along his spirit high, Like lightning o'er the midnight sky. While yet a child, -and children know, Instinctive taught, the friend and foe,I shudder'd at his brow of gloom, His shadowy plaid, and sable plume; A maiden grown, I ill could bear His haughty mien and lordly air; But, if thou join'st a suitor's claim, Jo serious mood, to Roderick's name, I thrill with anguish! or, if e'er A Douglas knew the word, with fear. To change suchi odious theme were best, What think'st thou of our stranger guest!»
The point of Brianchoil they pass'd,
XV. < What think I of him i-woe the while That brought such wanderer to our isle? Thy father's battle-brand, of yore For Tineman forged by fairy lore, (9) What time he leagued, no longer foes, His Border spears with Hotspur's bows, Did, self-unscabbarded, foreshow The footsteps of a secret foe. (10) If courtly spy had harbour d here, What may we for the Douglas fear? What for this island, deem'd of old Clan-Alpine's last and surest hold ? If neither spy nor foe, I pray, What yet may jealous Roderick say? -Nay, wave not thy disdainful head! Bethink thee of the discord dread That kindled when at Beltane game Thou ledst the dance with Malcolm Grame; Still, though thy sire the peace renew'd, Smoulders in Roderick's breast the feud; Beware!-- But hark, what sounds are these? My dull ears catch no faltering breeze, No weeping birch, nor aspens wake, Nor breath is dimpling in the lake, Still is the canna's' hoary beard, Yet, by my minstrel faith, I heard — And hark again! some pipe of war Sends the bold pibroch from afar.»—
XVII. Ever, as on they bore, more loud And louder rung the pibroch proud. (11) At first the sound, by distance tame, Mellow'd along the waters came, And, lingering long by cape Wail'd every harsher note away; Then bursting bolder on the ear, The clan's shrill gathering they could hear; Those thrilling sounds, that call the miglit Of old Clau-Alpine to the light. Thick beat the rapid notes, as when The mustering hundreds shake the glen, And hurrying at the signal dread, The batter'd earth returns their tread. Then prelude light, of livelier tone, Express d their merry marching on, Ere peal of closing battle rose, With mingled outcry, shrieks, and blows; And mimic din of stroke and ward, As broadsword upon target jarrd; And groaning pause, cre yet again, Condensed, the battle yelld amain; The rapid charge, the rallying shout, Retreat borne headlong into rout, And bursts of triumph, to declare, Clan-Alpine's conquest—all were there. Nor ended thus the strain; but slow Sunk in a moan prolong'd and low, And changed the conquering clarion swell, For wild lament o'er those that fell.
XVI. Far up
the lengthen'd lake were spied Four darkening specks upon the tide, That, slow enlarging on the view, Four mann'd and masted barges grew, And, bearing downwards from Glengyle, Steer'd full upon the lonely isle ;
XVIII. The war-pipes ceased; but lake and hill Were busy with their echoes still; And, when they slepi, a vocal strain Bade their hoarse chorus wake again, While loud a hundred clansmen raise Their voices in their chieftain's praise. Each boatman, bending to his oar, With measured sweep the burthen bore, In such wild cadence, as the breeze Makes through December's leatless trees. The chorus first could Allan know, « Roderigh Vich Alpine, ho! iero ! »
The drone of the bag-pipe.
And near, and nearer, as they row'd, Distinct the martial ditty flow'd.
Honour'd and bless'd be the ever-green pine! Long may the tree in his banner that glances Flourish, the shelter and grace of our line!
Heaven send it happy dew,
Earth lend it sap anew,
While every Highland glen
Sends our shout back agen, « Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!» (12)
And, when a distant bugle rung,
Ours is no sapling, chance-sown by the fountain,
Blooming at Beltane, in winter to fade; When the whirlwind has stripp'd every leaf on the
mountain, The more shall Clan-Alpine exult in her shade.
Moord in the rifted rock,
Proof to the tempest's shock, Firmer he roots him the ruder it blow;
Menteith and Breadalbane, then,
Echo his praise agen, « Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!»
XXII. Some feelings are to mortals given, With less of earth in them than heaven: And if there be a human tear From passion's dross refined and clear, A tear so limpid and so meek, It would not staia an angel's cheek, 'T is that which pious fathers slied Upon a duteous daughter's head! And as the Douglas to his breast His darling Ellen closely press'd, Such holy drops her tresses sleep'd, Though 't was a hero's eye that weep'd. Nor while on Ellen's faltering tongue Her filial welcomes crowded hung, Mark'd she, that fear (affection's proof) Still held a graceful youth aloof; No! not till Douglas named his name, Although the youth was Malcolm Grame.
And Bannochar's groans to our slogan replied;
Widow and Saxon maid
Long shall lament our aid,
Lennox and Leven-glen
Shake when they hear agen, « Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe! »
Row, vassals, row, for the pride of the Highlands !
Stretch to your oars for the ever-green pine ! O! that the rose-bud that graces yon islands Were wreathed in a garland around him to twine!
O that some seedling gem,
Worthy such noble stem, Honour'd and bless'd in their shadow might grow!
Loud should Clan-Alpine then
Ring from her deepmost glen, « Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!»
XXIII. Allan, with wistful look the while, Mark'd Roderick landing on the isle; His master piteously he eyed, Then gazed upon the chieftain's pride, Then dash'd, with hasty hand, away From his dimm'd eye the gathering spray; And Douglas, as his hand he laid On Malcolm's shoulder, kindly said, « Canst thou, young friend, no meaning spy Jo my poor follower's glistening eye? I'll tell thee :-he recals the day, When in my praise he led the lay O'er the arch'd gate of Bothwell proud, While many a minstrel answer'd loud, When Percy's Norman pennon, won In bloody field, before me shone, And twice ten knights, the least a name As mighty as yon chief may claim, Gracing my pomp, behind me came. Yet trust me, Malcolm, not so proud Was I of all that marshall'd crowd, Though the waned crescent own'd my might, And in my train troop'd lord and knight, Though Blantyre hymn'd her holiest lays, And Bothwell's bards flung back my praise, As when this old man's silent tear, And this poor maid's affection dear, A welcome give more kiod and true, Than aught my better fortunes knew. Forgive, my friend, a father's boast; Oh! it out-beggars all I lost!»
XXI. With all her joyful female band, Had Lady Margaret sought the strand. Loose on the breeze their tresses flew, And high their snowy arms they threw; As echoing back with shrill acclaim, And chorus wild, the chieftain's name; While, prompt to please, with mother's art, The darling passion of his heart, The dame callid Ellen to the strand, To greet her kinsman ere he land : « Come, loiterer, come! a Douglas thou, And shun to wreathe a victor's brow !»Reluctantly, and slow, the maid The unwelcome summoning obey'd,