Lady of the Lake

by Walter Scott

  Break off the sports!"—for tumult rose,

  And yeomen 'gan to bend their bows—

  "Break off the sports!" he said, and frowned, "

  And bid our horsemen clear the ground."

  XXVII

  Then uproar wild and misarray

  Marred the fair form of festal day.

  The horsemen pricked among the crowd,

  Repelled by threats and insult loud;

  To earth are borne the old and weak,

  The timorous fly, the women shriek;

  With flint, with shaft, with staff, with bar,

  The hardier urge tumultuous war.

  At once round Douglas darkly sweep

  The royal spears in circle deep,

  And slowly scale the pathway steep;

  While on the rear in thunder pour

  The rabble with disordered roar.

  With grief the noble Douglas saw

  The Commons rise against the law,

  And to the leading soldier said—

  "Sir John of Hyndford! 'twas my blade,

  That knighthood on thy shoulder laid;

  For that good deed, permit me then

  A word with these misguided men.

  XXVIII

  "Hear, gentle friends! ere yet for me,

  Ye break the bands of fealty.

  My life, my honor, and my cause,

  I tender free to Scotland's laws.

  Are these so weak as must require

  The aid of your misguided ire?

  Or, if I suffer causeless wrong,

  Is then my selfish rage so strong,

  My sense of public weal so low,

  That, for mean vengeance on a foe,

  Those cords of love I should unbind,

  Which knit my country and my kind?

  O no! Believe, in yonder tower

  It will not soothe my captive hour,

  To know those spears our foes should dread,

  For me in kindred gore are red;

  To know, in fruitless brawl begun,

  For me, that mother wails her son;

  For me, that widow's mate expires;

  For me, that orphans weep their sires;

  That patriots mourn insulted laws,

  And curse the Douglas for the cause.

  O let your patience ward such ill,

  And keep your right to love me still!"

  XXIX

  The crowd's wild fury sunk again

  In tears, as tempests melt in rain.

  With lifted hands and eyes, they prayed

  For blessings on his generous head,

  Who for his country felt alone,

  And prized her blood beyond his own.

  Old men, upon the verge of life,

  Blessed him who stayed the civil strife;

  And mothers held their babes on high,

  The self-devoted Chief to spy,

  Triumphant over wrongs and ire,

  To whom the prattlers owed a sire.

  Even the rough soldier's heart was moved;

  As if behind some bier beloved,

  With trailing arms and drooping head,

  The Douglas up the hill he led,

  And at the Castle's battled verge,

  With sighs resigned his honored charge.

  XXX

  The offended Monarch rode apart,

  With bitter thought and swelling heart,

  And would not now vouchsafe again

  Through Stirling streets to lead his train.

  "O Lennox, who would wish to rule

  This changeling crowd, this common fool?

  Hear'st thou," he said, "the loud acclaim,

  With which they shout the Douglas name?

  With like acclaim, the vulgar throat

  Strained for King James their morning note;

  With like acclaim they hailed the day

  When first I broke the Douglas' sway;

  And like acclaim would Douglas greet,

  If he could hurl me from my seat.

  Who o'er the herd would wish to reign,

  Fantastic, fickle, fierce, and vain!

  Vain as the leaf upon the stream,

  And fickle as a changeful dream;

  Fantastic as a woman's mood,

  And fierce as Frenzy's fevered blood.

  Thou many-headed monster-thing,

  O who could wish to be thy king!

  XXXI

  "But soft! what messenger of speed

  Spurs hitherward his panting steed?

  I guess his cognizance afar—

  What from our cousin, John of Mar?"—

  "He prays, my liege, your sports keep bound

  Within the safe and guarded ground;

  For some foul purpose yet unknown—

  Most sure for evil to the throne—

  The outlawed Chieftain, Roderick Dhu,

  Has summoned his rebellious crew;

  'Tis said, in James of Bothwell's aid

  These loose banditti stand arrayed.

  The Earl of Mar, this morn, from Doune,

  To break their muster marched, and soon

  Your Grace will hear of battle fought;

  But earnestly the Earl besought,

  Till for such danger he provide,

  With scanty train you will not ride."

  XXXII

  "Thou warn'st me I have done amiss—

  I should have earlier looked to this;

  I lost it in this bustling day.

  Retrace with speed thy former way;

  Spare not for spoiling of thy steed

  The best of mine shall be thy meed.

  Say to our faithful Lord of Mar,

  We do forbid the intended war.

  Roderick, this morn, in single fight,

  Was made our prisoner by a knight;

  And Douglas hath himself and cause

  Submitted to our kingdom's laws.

  The tidings of their leaders lost

  Will soon dissolve the mountain host,

  Nor would we that the vulgar feel

  For their Chief's crimes, avenging steel.

  Bear Mar our message, Braco; fly!"

  He turned his steed—"My liege, I hie,

  Yet, ere I cross this lily lawn,

  I fear the broadswords will be drawn."

  The turf the flying courser spurned,

  And to his towers the King returned.

  XXXIII

  Ill with King James's mood that day,

  Suited gay feast and minstrel lay;

  Soon were dismissed the courtly throng,

  And soon cut short the festal song.

  Nor less upon the saddened town

  The evening sunk in sorrow down.

  The burghers spoke of civil jar,

  Of rumored feuds and mountain war,

  Of Moray, Mar, and Roderick Dhu,

  All up in arms—The Douglas too,

  They mourned him pent within the hold,

  "Where stout Earl William was of old."

  And there his word the speaker stayed,

  And finger on his lip he laid,

  Or pointed to his dagger blade.

  But jaded horsemen, from the west,

  At evening to the Castle pressed;

  And busy talkers said they bore

  Tidings of fight on Katrine's shore;

  At noon the deadly fray begun,

  And lasted till the set of sun.

  Thus giddy rumor shook the town,

  Till closed the Night her pennons brown.

  CANTO SIXTH

  THE GUARD-ROOM

  I

  The sun, awakening, through the smoky air

  Of the dark city casts a sullen glance,

  Rousing each caitiff to his task of care,

  Of sinful man the sad inheritance;

  Summoning revelers from the lagging dance,

  Scaring the prowling robber to his den;

  Gilding on battled tower the warder's lance,

  A
nd warning student pale to leave his pen,

  And yield his drowsy eyes to the kind nurse of men.

  What various scenes, and, Oh! what scenes of woe,

  Are witnessed by that red and struggling beam!

  The fevered patient, from his pallet low,

  Through crowded hospital beholds its stream;

  The ruined maiden trembles at its gleam;

  The debtor wakes to thought of gyve and jail;

  The love-lorn wretch starts from tormenting dream;

  The wakeful mother, by the glimmering pale,

  Trims her sick infant's couch, and soothes his feeble wail.

  II

  At dawn the towers of Stirling rang

  With soldier-step and weapon-clang,

  While drums, with rolling note, foretell

  Relief to weary sentinel.

  Through narrow loop and casement barred,

  The sunbeams sought the Court of Guard,

  And, struggling with the smoky air,

  Deadened the torches' yellow glare.

  In comfortless alliance shone

  The lights through arch of blackened stone,

  And showed wild shapes in garb of war,

  Faces deformed with beard and scar,

  All haggard from the midnight watch,

  And fevered with the stern debauch;

  For the oak table's massive board,

  Flooded with wine, with fragments stored,

  And beakers drained, and cups o'erthrown,

  Showed in what sport the night had flown.

  Some, weary, snored on floor and bench;

  Some labored still their thirst to quench;

  Some, chilled with watching, spread their hands

  O'er the huge chimney's dying brands,

  While round them, or beside them flung,

  At every step their harness rung.

  III

  These drew not for their fields the sword,

  Like tenants of a feudal lord,

  Nor owned the patriarchal claim

  Of Chieftain in their leader's name;

  Adventurers they, from far who roved,

  To live by battle which they loved.

  There the Italian's clouded face,

  The swarthy Spaniard's there you trace;

  The mountain-loving Switzer there

  More freely breathed in mountain-air;

  The Fleming there despised the soil,

  That paid so ill the laborer's toil;

  Their rolls showed French and German name;

  And merry England's exiles came,

  To share, with ill-concealed disdain,

  Of Scotland's pay the scanty gain.

  All brave in arms, well trained to wield

  The heavy halberd, brand, and shield;

  In camps licentious, wild and bold;

  In pillage fierce and uncontrolled;

  And now, by holytide and feast,

  From rules of discipline released.

  IV

  They held debate of bloody fray,

  Fought 'twixt Loch Katrine and Achray.

  Fierce was their speech, and, mid their words,

  Their hands oft grappled to their swords;

  Nor sunk their tone to spare the ear

  Of wounded comrades groaning near,

  Whose mangled limbs, and bodies gored,

  Bore token of the mountain sword,

  Though, neighboring to the Court of Guard,

  Their prayers and feverish wails were heard;

  Sad burden to the ruffian joke,

  And savage oath by fury spoke!—

  At length up-started John of Brent,

  A yeoman from the banks of Trent;

  A stranger to respect or fear,

  In peace a chaser of the deer,

  In host a hardy mutineer,

  But still the boldest of the crew,

  When deed of danger was to do.

  He grieved, that day, their games cut short,

  And marred the dicer's brawling sport,

  And shouted loud, "Renew the bowl!

  And, while in merry catch I troll,

  Let each the buxom chorus bear,

  Like brethren of the brand and spear."

  V

  SOLDIER'S SONG

  Our vicar still preaches that Peter and Poule

  Laid a swinging long curse on the bonny brown bowl,

  That there's wrath and despair in the jolly black-jack,

  And the seven deadly sins in a flagon of sack;

  Yet whoop, Barnaby! off with thy liquor,

  Drink upsees out, and a fig for the vicar!

  Our vicar he calls it damnation to sip

  The ripe ruddy dew of a woman's dear lip,

  Says, that Beelzebub lurks in her kerchief so sly,

  And Apollyon shoots darts from her merry black eye;

  Yet whoop, Jack! kiss Gillian the quicker,

  Till she bloom like a rose, and a fig for the vicar!

  Our vicar thus preaches—and why should he not?

  For the dues of his cure are the placket and pot;

  And 'tis right of his office poor laymen to lurch,

  Who infringe the domains of our good Mother Church.

  Yet whoop, bully-boys! off with your liquor,

  Sweet Marjorie's the word, and a fig for the Vicar!

  VI

  The warder's challenge, heard without,

  Stayed in mid-roar the merry shout.

  A soldier to the portal went—

  "Here is old Bertram, sirs, of Ghent;

  And—beat for jubilee the drum!

  A maid and minstrel with him come."

  Bertram, a Fleming, gray and scarred,

  Was entering now the Court of Guard,

  A harper with him, and in plaid

  All muffled close, a mountain maid,

  Who backward shrunk, to 'scape the view

  Of the loose scene and boisterous crew.

  "What news?" they roared. "I only know,

  From noon till eve we fought with foe,

  As wild and as untamable

  As the rude mountains where they dwell;

  On both sides store of blood is lost,

  Nor much success can either boast."

  "But whence thy captives, friend? Such spoil

  As theirs must needs reward thy toil.

  Old dost thou wax, and wars grow sharp;

  Thou now hast glee-maiden and harp!

  Get thee an ape, and trudge the land,

  The leader of a juggler band."

  VII

  "No, comrade; no such fortune mine.

  After the fight these sought our line,

  That aged harper and the girl,

  And, having audience of the Earl,

  Mar bade I should purvey them steed,

  And bring them hitherward with speed.

  Forbear your mirth and rude alarm,

  For none shall do them shame or harm."

  "Hear ye his boast?" cried John of Brent,

  Ever to strife and jangling bent;

  "Shall he strike doe beside our lodge,

  And yet the jealous niggard grudge

  To pay the forester his fee?

  I'll have my share, howe'er it be,

  Despite of Moray, Mar, or thee."

  Bertram his forward step withstood;

  And, burning in his vengeful mood,

  Old Allan, though unfit for strife;

  Laid hand upon his dagger-knife;

  But Ellen boldly stepped between,

  And dropped at once the tartan screen.

  So, from his morning cloud, appears

  The sun of May, through summer tears.

  The savage soldiery, amazed,

  As on descended angel gazed;

  Even hardy Brent, abashed and tamed,

  Stood half admiring, half ashamed.

  VIII

  Boldly she spoke—"Soldiers, attend!

  My father was the soldier's frie
nd;

  Cheered him in camps, in marches led,

  And with him in the battle bled.

  Not from the valiant, or the strong,

  Should exile's daughter suffer wrong."

  Answered De Brent, most forward still

  In every feat of good or ill:

  "I shame me of the part I played;

  And thou an outlaw's child, poor maid!

  An outlaw I by forest laws,

  And merry Needwood knows the cause.

  Poor Rose—if Rose be living now"—

  He wiped his iron eye and brow—

  "Must bear such age, I think, as thou.

  Hear ye, my mates; I go to call

  The Captain of our watch to hall.

  There lies my halberd on the floor;

  And he that steps my halberd o'er,

  To do the maid injurious part,

  My shaft shall quiver in his heart!

  Beware loose speech, or jesting rough;

  Ye all know John de Brent. Enough."

  IX

  Their Captain came, a gallant young—

  Of Tullibardine's house he sprung—

  Nor wore he yet the spurs of knight;

  Gay was his mien, his humor light,

  And, though by courtesy controlled,

  Forward his speech, his bearing bold.

  The high-born maiden ill could brook

  The scanning of his curious look

  And dauntless eye; and yet, in sooth,