The Complete Poems of Sir Walter Scott - Walter Scott

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The bigots of the iron time

       Had call’d hs harmless art a crime.

       A wandering Harper, scorn’d and poor,

       He begg’d his bread from door to door.

       And timed, 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 bunny’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 marked 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, dead and gone,

       And of Earl Walter, 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 state,

       Where she, with all her ladies, sate,

       Perchance he wished 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 recall an ancient strain,

       He never thought to sing again.

       It was not framed for village churls,

       But for high dames and mighty carls;

       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.

       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,

       ‘Twas thus the Latest Minstrel sung.

      Canto I

       Table of Contents

       I

      The feast was over in Branksome tower,

       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 staghours, weary with the chase,

       Lay stretch’d upon the rusy foloor

       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,

       Nine-and-twenty squires of name

       Brought them their steeds to bower from 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

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