Delphi Poetry Anthology: The World's Greatest Poems (Delphi Poets Series Book 50)

by Homer

  One burnished sheet of living gold,

  Loch Katrine lay beneath him rolled,

  In all her length far winding lay,

  With promontory, creek, and bay,

  And islands that, empurpled bright,

  Floated amid the livelier light,

  And mountains that like giants stand

  To sentinel enchanted land.

  High on the south, huge Benvenue

  Down to the lake in masses threw

  Crags, knolls, and mounds, confusedly hurled,

  The fragments of an earlier world;

  A wildering forest feathered o’er

  His ruined sides and summit hoar,

  While on the north, through middle air,

  Ben-an heaved high his forehead bare.

  XV.

  From the steep promontory gazed

  The stranger, raptured and amazed,

  And, ‘What a scene were here,’ he cried,

  ‘For princely pomp or churchman’s pride!

  On this bold brow, a lordly tower;

  In that soft vale, a lady’s bower;

  On yonder meadow far away,

  The turrets of a cloister gray;

  How blithely might the bugle-horn

  Chide on the lake the lingering morn!

  How sweet at eve the lover’s lute

  Chime when the groves were still and mute!

  And when the midnight moon should lave

  Her forehead in the silver wave,

  How solemn on the ear would come

  The holy matins’ distant hum,

  While the deep peal’s commanding tone

  Should wake, in yonder islet lone,

  A sainted hermit from his cell,

  To drop a bead with every knell!

  And bugle, lute, and bell, and all,

  Should each bewildered stranger call

  To friendly feast and lighted hall.

  XVI.

  ‘Blithe were it then to wander here!

  But now — beshrew yon nimble deer —

  Like that same hermit’s, thin and spare,

  The copse must give my evening fare;

  Some mossy bank my couch must be,

  Some rustling oak my canopy.

  Yet pass we that; the war and chase

  Give little choice of resting-place; —

  A summer night in greenwood spent

  Were but to-morrow’s merriment:

  But hosts may in these wilds abound,

  Such as are better missed than found;

  To meet with Highland plunderers here

  Were worse than loss of steed or deer. —

  I am alone; — my bugle-strain

  May call some straggler of the train;

  Or, fall the worst that may betide,

  Ere now this falchion has been tried.’

  XVII.

  But scarce again his horn he wound,

  When lo! forth starting at the sound,

  From underneath an aged oak

  That slanted from the islet rock,

  A damsel guider of its way,

  A little skiff shot to the bay,

  That round the promontory steep

  Led its deep line in graceful sweep,

  Eddying, in almost viewless wave,

  The weeping willow twig to rave,

  And kiss, with whispering sound and slow,

  The beach of pebbles bright as snow.

  The boat had touched this silver strand

  Just as the Hunter left his stand,

  And stood concealed amid the brake,

  To view this Lady of the Lake.

  The maiden paused, as if again

  She thought to catch the distant strain.

  With head upraised, and look intent,

  And eye and ear attentive bent,

  And locks flung back, and lips apart,

  Like monument of Grecian art,

  In listening mood, she seemed to stand,

  The guardian Naiad of the strand.

  XVIII.

  And ne’er did Grecian chisel trace

  A Nymph, a Naiad, or a Grace,

  Of finer form or lovelier face!

  What though the sun, with ardent frown,

  Had slightly tinged her cheek with brown, —

  The sportive toil, which, short and light

  Had dyed her glowing hue so bright,

  Served too in hastier swell to show

  Short glimpses of a breast of snow:

  What though no rule of courtly grace

  To measured mood had trained her pace, —

  A foot more light, a step more true,

  Ne’er from the heath-flower dashed the dew;

  E’en the slight harebell raised its head,

  Elastic from her airy tread:

  What though upon her speech there hung

  The accents of the mountain tongue, —

  Those silver sounds, so soft, so dear,

  The listener held his breath to hear!

  XIX.

  A chieftain’s daughter seemed the maid;

  Her satin snood, her silken plaid,

  Her golden brooch, such birth betrayed.

  And seldom was a snood amid

  Such wild luxuriant ringlets hid,

  Whose glossy black to shame might bring

  The plumage of the raven’s wing;

  And seldom o’er a breast so fair

  Mantled a plaid with modest care,

  And never brooch the folds combined

  Above a heart more good and kind.

  Her kindness and her worth to spy,

  You need but gaze on Ellen’s eye;

  Not Katrine in her mirror blue

  Gives back the shaggy banks more true,

  Than every free-born glance confessed

  The guileless movements of her breast;

  Whether joy danced in her dark eye,

  Or woe or pity claimed a sigh,

  Or filial love was glowing there,

  Or meek devotion poured a prayer,

  Or tale of injury called forth

  The indignant spirit of the North.

  One only passion unrevealed

  With maiden pride the maid concealed,

  Yet not less purely felt the flame; —

  O, need I tell that passion’s name?

  XX.

  Impatient of the silent horn,

  Now on the gale her voice was borne: —

  ‘Father!’ she cried; the rocks around

  Loved to prolong the gentle sound.

  Awhile she paused, no answer came; —

  ‘Malcolm, was thine the blast?’ the name

  Less resolutely uttered fell,

  The echoes could not catch the swell.

  ‘A stranger I,’ the Huntsman said,

  Advancing from the hazel shade.

  The maid, alarmed, with hasty oar

  Pushed her light shallop from the shore,

  And when a space was gained between,

  Closer she drew her bosom’s screen; —

  So forth the startled swan would swing,

  So turn to prune his ruffled wing.

  Then safe, though fluttered and amazed,

  She paused, and on the stranger gazed.

  Not his the form, nor his the eye,

  That youthful maidens wont to fly.

  XXI.

  On his bold visage middle age

  Had slightly pressed its signet sage,

  Yet had not quenched the open truth

  And fiery vehemence of youth;

  Forward and frolic glee was there,

  The will to do, the soul to dare,

  The sparkling glance, soon blown to fire,

  Of hasty love or headlong ire.

  His limbs were cast in manly could

  For hardy sports or contest bold;

  And though in peaceful garb arrayed,

  And weaponless except his blade,

  His stately mien as well implied

/>   A high-born heart, a martial pride,

  As if a baron’s crest he wore,

  And sheathed in armor bode the shore.

  Slighting the petty need he showed,

  He told of his benighted road;

  His ready speech flowed fair and free,

  In phrase of gentlest courtesy,

  Yet seemed that tone and gesture bland

  Less used to sue than to command.

  XXII.

  Awhile the maid the stranger eyed,

  And, reassured, at length replied,

  That Highland halls were open still

  To wildered wanderers of the hill.

  ‘Nor think you unexpected come

  To yon lone isle, our desert home;

  Before the heath had lost the dew,

  This morn, a couch was pulled for you;

  On yonder mountain’s purple head

  Have ptarmigan and heath-cock bled,

  And our broad nets have swept the mere,

  To furnish forth your evening cheer.’ —

  ‘Now, by the rood, my lovely maid,

  Your courtesy has erred,’ he said;

  ‘No right have I to claim, misplaced,

  The welcome of expected guest.

  A wanderer, here by fortune toss,

  My way, my friends, my courser lost,

  I ne’er before, believe me, fair,

  Have ever drawn your mountain air,

  Till on this lake’s romantic strand

  I found a fey in fairy land!’ —

  XXIII.

  ‘I well believe,’ the maid replied,

  As her light skiff approached the side, —

  ‘I well believe, that ne’er before

  Your foot has trod Loch Katrine’s shore

  But yet, as far as yesternight,

  Old Allan-bane foretold your plight, —

  A gray -haired sire, whose eye intent

  Was on the visioned future bent.

  He saw your steed, a dappled gray,

  Lie dead beneath the birchen way;

  Painted exact your form and mien,

  Your hunting-suit of Lincoln green,

  That tasselled horn so gayly gilt,

  That falchion’s crooked blade and hilt,

  That cap with heron plumage trim,

  And yon two hounds so dark and grim.

  He bade that all should ready be

  To grace a guest of fair degree;

  But light I held his prophecy,

  And deemed it was my father’s horn

  Whose echoes o’er the lake were borne.’

  XXIV.

  The stranger smiled:— ‘Since to your home

  A destined errant-knight I come,

  Announced by prophet sooth and old,

  Doomed, doubtless, for achievement bold,

  I ‘ll lightly front each high emprise

  For one kind glance of those bright eyes.

  Permit me first the task to guide

  Your fairy frigate o’er the tide.’

  The maid, with smile suppressed and sly,

  The toil unwonted saw him try;

  For seldom, sure, if e’er before,

  His noble hand had grasped an oar:

  Yet with main strength his strokes he drew,

  And o’er the lake the shallop flew;

  With heads erect and whimpering cry,

  The hounds behind their passage ply.

  Nor frequent does the bright oar break

  The darkening mirror of the lake,

  Until the rocky isle they reach,

  And moor their shallop on the beach.

  XXV.

  The stranger viewed the shore around;

  ‘T was all so close with copsewood bound,

  Nor track nor pathway might declare

  That human foot frequented there,

  Until the mountain maiden showed

  A clambering unsuspected road,

  That winded through the tangled screen,

  And opened on a narrow green,

  Where weeping birch and willow round

  With their long fibres swept the ground.

  Here, for retreat in dangerous hour,

  Some chief had framed a rustic bower.

  XXVI.

  It was a lodge of ample size,

  But strange of structure and device;

  Of such materials as around

  The workman’s hand had readiest found.

  Lopped of their boughs, their hoar trunks bared,

  And by the hatchet rudely squared,

  To give the walls their destined height,

  The sturdy oak and ash unite;

  While moss and clay and leaves combined

  To fence each crevice from the wind.

  The lighter pine-trees overhead

  Their slender length for rafters spread,

  And withered heath and rushes dry

  Supplied a russet canopy.

  Due westward, fronting to the green,

  A rural portico was seen,

  Aloft on native pillars borne,

  Of mountain fir with bark unshorn

  Where Ellen’s hand had taught to twine

  The ivy and Idaean vine,

  The clematis, the favored flower

  Which boasts the name of virgin-bower,

  And every hardy plant could bear

  Loch Katrine’s keen and searching air.

  An instant in this porch she stayed,

  And gayly to the stranger said:

  ‘On heaven and on thy lady call,

  And enter the enchanted hall!’

  XXVII.

  ‘My hope, my heaven, my trust must be,

  My gentle guide, in following thee!’ —

  He crossed the threshold, — and a clang

  Of angry steel that instant rang.

  To his bold brow his spirit rushed,

  But soon for vain alarm he blushed

  When on the floor he saw displayed,

  Cause of the din, a naked blade

  Dropped from the sheath, that careless flung

  Upon a stag’s huge antlers swung;

  For all around, the walls to grace,

  Hung trophies of the fight or chase:

  A target there, a bugle here,

  A battle-axe, a hunting-spear,

  And broadswords, bows, and arrows store,

  With the tusked trophies of the boar.

  Here grins the wolf as when he died,

  And there the wild-cat’s brindled hide

  The frontlet of the elk adorns,

  Or mantles o’er the bison’s horns;

  Pennons and flags defaced and stained,

  That blackening streaks of blood retained,

  And deer-skins, dappled, dun, and white,

  With otter’s fur and seal’s unite,

  In rude and uncouth tapestry all,

  To garnish forth the sylvan hall.

  XXVIII.

  The wondering stranger round him gazed,

  And next the fallen weapon raised: —

  Few were the arms whose sinewy strength

  Sufficed to stretch it forth at length.

  And as the brand he poised and swayed,

  ‘I never knew but one,’ he said,

  ‘Whose stalwart arm might brook to wield

  A blade like this in battle-field.’

  She sighed, then smiled and took the word:

  ‘You see the guardian champion’s sword;

  As light it trembles in his hand

  As in my grasp a hazel wand:

  My sire’s tall form might grace the part

  Of Ferragus or Ascabart,

  But in the absent giant’s hold

  Are women now, and menials old.’

  XXIX.

  The mistress of the mansion came,

  Mature of age, a graceful dame,

  Whose easy step and stately port

  Had well become a princely court,

  To whom, though mo
re than kindred knew,

  Young Ellen gave a mother’s due.

  Meet welcome to her guest she made,

  And every courteous rite was paid

  That hospitality could claim,

  Though all unasked his birth and name.

  Such then the reverence to a guest,

  That fellest foe might join the feast,

  And from his deadliest foeman’s door

  Unquestioned turn the banquet o’er

  At length his rank the stranger names,

  ‘The Knight of Snowdoun, James Fitz-James;

  Lord of a barren heritage,

  Which his brave sires, from age to age,

  By their good swords had held with toil;

  His sire had fallen in such turmoil,

  And he, God wot, was forced to stand

  Oft for his right with blade in hand.

  This morning with Lord Moray’s train

  He chased a stalwart stag in vain,

  Outstripped his comrades, missed the deer,

  Lost his good steed, and wandered here.’

  XXX.

  Fain would the Knight in turn require

  The name and state of Ellen’s sire.

  Well showed the elder lady’s mien

  That courts and cities she had seen;

  Ellen, though more her looks displayed

  The simple grace of sylvan maid,

  In speech and gesture, form and face,

  Showed she was come of gentle race.

  ‘T were strange in ruder rank to find

  Such looks, such manners, and such mind.

  Each hint the Knight of Snowdoun gave,

  Dame Margaret heard with silence grave;

  Or Ellen, innocently gay,

  Turned all inquiry light away: —

  ‘Weird women we! by dale and down

  We dwell, afar from tower and town.

  We stem the flood, we ride the blast,

  On wandering knights our spells we cast;

  While viewless minstrels touch the string,

  ’Tis thus our charmed rhymes we sing.’

  She sung, and still a harp unseen

  Filled up the symphony between.

  XXXI.

  Song.

  Soldier, rest! thy warfare o’er,

  Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking;

  Dream of battled fields no more,

  Days of danger, nights of waking.

  In our isle’s enchanted hall,

  Hands unseen thy couch are strewing,

  Fairy strains of music fall,

  Every sense in slumber dewing.

  Soldier, rest! thy warfare o’er,