Marmion - Вальтер Скотт

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and made more direct. In III. xiv. 234, the modern versions of Lockhart’s text give ‘proudest princes veil their eyes,’ where Lockhart himself agrees with the earlier editions in reading ‘vail’. The restoration of the latter form needs no defence. The Elizabethan words in the Poem are not infrequent, giving it, as they do, a certain air of archaic dignity, and there can be little doubt that ‘vail’ was Scott’s word here, used in its Shakespearian sense of ‘lower’ or ‘cast down,’ and recalling Venus as ‘she vailed her eyelids.’

      MARMIONA TALE OF FLODDEN FIELDIN SIX CANTOS

      Alas! that Scottish maid should sing

      The combat where her lover fell!

      That Scottish Bard should wake the string,

      The triumph of our foes to tell!

LEYDEN.

      ADVERTISEMENT

      * * *

      It is hardly to be expected, that an Author whom the Public have honoured with some degree of applause, should not be again a trespasser on their kindness. Yet the Author of MARMION must be supposed to feel some anxiety concerning its success, since he is sensible that he hazards, by this second intrusion, any reputation which his first Poem may have procured him. The present story turns upon the private adventures of a fictitious character; but is called a Tale of Flodden Field, because the hero’s fate is connected with that memorable defeat, and the causes which led to it. The design of the Author was, if possible, to apprize his readers, at the outset, of the date of his Story, and to prepare them for the manners of the Age in which it is laid. Any Historical Narrative, far more an attempt at Epic composition, exceeded his plan of a Romantic Tale; yet he may be permitted to hope, from the popularity of THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL, that an attempt to paint the manners of the feudal times, upon a broader scale, and in the course of a more interesting story, will not be unacceptable to the Public.

The Poem opens about the commencement of August, and concludes with the defeat of Flodden, 9th September, 1513. Ashestiel, 1808,

      INTRODUCTION TO CANTO FIRST

TO WILLIAM STEWART ROSE, ESQAshestiel, Ettrick Forest

      November’s sky is chill and drear,

      November’s leaf is red and sear:

      Late, gazing down the steepy linn,

      That hems our little garden in,

      Low in its dark and narrow glen,                            5

      You scarce the rivulet might ken,

      So thick the tangled greenwood grew,

      So feeble trill’d the streamlet through:

      Now, murmuring hoarse, and frequent seen

      Through bush and brier, no longer green,                    10

      An angry brook, it sweeps the glade,

      Brawls over rock and wild cascade,

      And, foaming brown with double speed,

      Hurries its waters to the Tweed.

      No longer Autumn’s glowing red                              15

      Upon our Forest hills is shed;

      No more, beneath the evening beam,

      Fair Tweed reflects their purple gleam;

      Away hath pass’d the heather-bell

      That bloom’d so rich on Needpath-fell;                      20

      Sallow his brow, and russet bare

      Are now the sister-heights of Yair.

      The sheep, before the pinching heaven,

      To sheltered dale and down are driven,

      Where yet some faded herbage pines,                        25

      And yet a watery sunbeam shines:

      In meek despondency they eye

      The withered sward and wintry sky,

      And far beneath their summer hill,

      Stray sadly by Glenkinnon’s rill:                          30

      The shepherd shifts his mantle’s fold,

      And wraps him closer from the cold;

      His dogs no merry circles wheel,

      But, shivering, follow at his heel;

      A cowering glance they often cast,                          35

      As deeper moans the gathering blast.

      My imps, though hardy, bold, and wild,

      As best befits the mountain child,

      Feel the sad influence of the hour,

      And wail the daisy’s vanish’d flower;                      40

      Their summer gambols tell, and mourn,

      And anxious ask, – Will spring return,

      And birds and lambs again be gay,

      And blossoms clothe the hawthorn spray?

        Yes, prattlers, yes.  The daisy’s flower                  45

      Again shall paint your summer bower;

      Again the hawthorn shall supply

      The garlands you delight to tie;

      The lambs upon the lea shall bound,

      The wild birds carol to the round,                          50

      And while you frolic light as they,

      Too short shall seem the summer day.

        To mute and to material things

      New life revolving summer brings;

      The genial call dead Nature hears,                          55

      And in her glory reappears.

      But oh! my Country’s wintry state

      What second spring shall renovate?

      What powerful call shall bid arise

      The buried warlike and the wise;                            60

      The mind that thought for Britain’s weal,

      The hand that grasp’d the victor steel?

      The vernal sun new life bestows

      Even on the meanest flower that blows;

      But vainly, vainly may he shine,                            65

      Where Glory weeps o’er NELSON’S shrine:

      And vainly pierce the solemn gloom,

      That shrouds, O PITT, thy hallow’d tomb!

        Deep graved in every British heart,

      O never let those names depart!                            70

      Say to your sons, – Lo, here his grave,

      Who victor died on Gadite wave;

      To him, as to the burning levin,

      Short, bright, resistless course was given.

      Where’er his country’s foes were found,                    75

      Was heard the fated thunder’s sound,

      Till burst the bolt on yonder shore,

      Roll’d, blazed, destroyed, – and was no more.

        Nor mourn ye less his perished worth,

      Who

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