Читать книгу Marmion - Walter Scott - Страница 7

Table of Contents

TO WILLIAM ERSKINE, ESQ.

Ashestiel, Ettrick Forest.

Like April morning clouds, that pass,

With varying shadow, o’er the grass,

And imitate, on field and furrow,

Life’s chequer’d scene of joy and sorrow;

Like streamlet of the mountain north, 5

Now in a torrent racing forth,

Now winding slow its silver train,

And almost slumbering on the plain;

Like breezes of the autumn day,

Whose voice inconstant dies away, 10

And ever swells again as fast,

When the ear deems its murmur past;

Thus various, my romantic theme

Flits, winds, or sinks, a morning dream.

Yet pleased, our eye pursues the trace 15

Of Light and Shade’s inconstant race;

Pleased, views the rivulet afar,

Weaving its maze irregular;

And pleased, we listen as the breeze

Heaves its wild sigh through Autumn trees; 20

Then, wild as cloud, or stream, or gale,

Flow on, flow unconfined, my Tale!

Need I to thee, dear Erskine, tell

I love the license all too well,

In sounds now lowly, and now strong, 25

To raise the desultory song?

Oft, when ‘mid such capricious chime,

Some transient fit of lofty rhyme

To thy kind judgment seem’d excuse

For many an error of the muse, 30

Oft hast thou said, ‘If, still misspent,

Thine hours to poetry are lent,

Go, and to tame thy wandering course,

Quaff from the fountain at the source;

Approach those masters, o’er whose tomb 35

Immortal laurels ever bloom:

Instructive of the feebler bard,

Still from the grave their voice is heard;

From them, and from the paths they show’d,

Choose honour’d guide and practised road; 40

Nor ramble on through brake and maze,

With harpers rude of barbarous days.

‘Or deem’st thou not our later time

Yields topic meet for classic rhyme?

Hast thou no elegiac verse 45

For Brunswick’s venerable hearse?

What! not a line, a tear, a sigh,

When valour bleeds for liberty?-

Oh, hero of that glorious time,

When, with unrivall’d light sublime,- 50

Though martial Austria, and though all

The might of Russia, and the Gaul,

Though banded Europe stood her foes-

The star of Brandenburgh arose!

Thou couldst not live to see her beam 55

For ever quench’d in Jena’s stream.

Lamented Chief!-it was not given

To thee to change the doom of Heaven,

And crush that dragon in its birth,

Predestined scourge of guilty earth. 60

Lamented Chief!-not thine the power,

To save in that presumptuous hour,

When Prussia hurried to the field,

And snatch’d the spear, but left the shield!

Valour and skill ’twas thine to try, 65

And, tried in vain, ’twas thine to die.

Ill had it seem’d thy silver hair

The last, the bitterest pang to share,

For princedoms reft, and scutcheons riven,

And birthrights to usurpers given; 70

Thy land’s, thy children’s wrongs to feel,

And witness woes thou could’st not heal!

On thee relenting Heaven bestows

For honour’d life an honour’d close;

And when revolves, in time’s sure change, 75

The hour of Germany’s revenge,

When, breathing fury for her sake,

Some new Arminius shall awake,

Her champion, ere he strike, shall come

To whet his sword on BRUNSWICK’S tomb, 80

‘Or of the Red-Cross hero teach

Dauntless in dungeon as on breach:

Alike to him the sea, the shore,

The brand, the bridle, or the oar:

Alike to him the war that calls 85

Its votaries to the shatter’d walls,

Which the grim Turk, besmear’d with blood,

Against the Invincible made good;

Or that, whose thundering voice could wake

The silence of the polar lake, 90

When stubborn Russ, and metal’d Swede,

On the warp’d wave their death-game play’d;

Or that, where Vengeance and Affright

Howl’d round the father of the fight,

Who snatch’d, on Alexandria’s sand, 95

The conqueror’s wreath with dying hand.

‘Or, if to touch such chord be thine,

Restore the ancient tragic line,

And emulate the notes that rung

From the wild harp, which silent hung 100

By silver Avon’s holy shore,

Till twice an hundred years roll’d o’er;

When she, the bold Enchantress, came,

With fearless hand and heart on flame!

From the pale willow snatch’d the treasure, 105

And swept it with a kindred measure,

Till Avon’s swans, while rung the grove

With Montfort’s hate and Basil’s love,

Awakening at the inspired strain,

Deem’d their own Shakspeare lived again.’ 110

Thy friendship thus thy judgment wronging,

With praises not to me belonging,

In task more meet for mightiest powers,

Wouldst thou engage my thriftless hours.

But say, my Erskine, hast thou weigh’d 115

That secret power by all obey’d,

Which warps not less the passive mind,

Its source conceal’d or undefined;

Whether an impulse, that has birth

Soon as the infant wakes on earth, 120

One with our feelings and our powers,

And rather part of us than ours;

Or whether fitlier term’d the sway

Of habit, form’d in early day?

Howe’er derived, its force confest 125

Rules with despotic sway the breast,

And drags us on by viewless chain,

While taste and reason plead in vain.

Look east, and ask the Belgian why,

Beneath Batavia’s sultry sky, 130

He seeks not eager to inhale

The freshness of the mountain gale,

Content to rear his whiten’d wall

Beside the dank and dull canal?

He’ll say, from youth he loved to see 135

The white sail gliding by the tree.

Or see yon weatherbeaten hind,

Whose sluggish herds before him wind,

Whose tatter’d plaid and rugged cheek

His northern clime and kindred speak; 140

Through England’s laughing meads he goes,

And England’s wealth around him flows;

Ask, if it would content him well,

At ease in those gay plains to dwell,

Where hedge-rows spread a verdant screen, 145

And spires and forests intervene,

And the neat cottage peeps between?

No! not for these will he exchange

His dark Lochaber’s boundless range;

Not for fair Devon’s meads forsake 150

Bennevis grey, and Carry’s lake.

Thus while I ape the measure wild

Of tales that charm’d me yet a child,

Rude though they be, still with the chime

Return the thoughts of early time; 155

And feelings, roused in life’s first day,

Glow in the line, and prompt the lay.

Then rise those crags, that mountain tower

Which charm’d my fancy’s wakening hour.

Though no broad river swept along, 160

To claim, perchance, heroic song;

Though sigh’d no groves in summer gale,

To prompt of love a softer tale;

Though scarce a puny streamlet’s speed

Claim’d homage from a shepherd’s reed; 165

Yet was poetic impulse given,

By the green hill and clear blue heaven.

It was a barren scene, and wild,

Where naked cliff’s were rudely piled;

But ever and anon between 170

Lay velvet tufts of loveliest green;

And well the lonely infant knew

Recesses where the wall-flower grew,

And honey-suckle loved to crawl

Up the low crag and ruin’d wall. 175

I deem’d such nooks the sweetest shade

The sun in all its round survey’d;

And still I thought that shatter’d tower

The mightiest work of human power;

And marvell’d as the aged hind 180

With some strange tale bewitch’d my mind,

Of forayers, who, with headlong force,

Down from that strength had spurr’d their horse,

Their southern rapine to renew,

Far in the distant Cheviots blue, 185

And, home returning, fill’d the hall

With revel, wassel-rout, and brawl.

Methought that still with trump and clang,

The gateway’s broken arches rang;

Methought grim features, seam’d with scars, 190

Glared through the window’s rusty bars,

And ever, by the winter hearth,

Old tales I heard of woe or mirth,

Of lovers’ slights, of ladies’ charms,

Of witches’ spells, of warriors’ arms; 195

Of patriot battles, won of old

By Wallace wight and Bruce the bold;

Of later fields of feud and fight,

When, pouring from their Highland height,

The Scottish clans, in headlong sway, 200

Had swept the scarlet ranks away.

While stretch’d at length upon the floor,

Again I fought each combat o’er,

Pebbles and shells, in order laid,

The mimic ranks of war display’d; 205

And onward still the Scottish Lion bore,

And still the scattered Southron fled before.

Still, with vain fondness, could I trace,

Anew, each kind familiar face,

That brighten’d at our evening fire! 210

From the thatch’d mansion’s grey-hair’d Sire,

Wise without learning, plain and good,

And sprung of Scotland’s gentler blood;

Whose eye, in age, quick, clear, and keen,

Show’d what in youth its glance had been; 215

Whose doom discording neighbours sought,

Content with equity unbought;

To him the venerable Priest,

Our frequent and familiar guest,

Whose life and manners well could paint 220

Alike the student and the saint;

Alas! whose speech too oft I broke

With gambol rude and timeless joke:

For I was wayward, bold, and wild,

A self-will’d imp, a grandame’s child; 225

But half a plague, and half a jest,

Was still endured, beloved, caress’d.

From me, thus nurtured, dost thou ask

The classic poet’s well-conn’d task?

Nay, Erskine, nay-On the wild hill 230

Let the wild heath-bell flourish still;

Cherish the tulip, prune the vine,

But freely let the woodbine twine,

And leave untrimm’d the eglantine:

Nay, my friend, nay-Since oft thy praise 235

Hath given fresh vigour to my lays;

Since oft thy judgment could refine

My flatten’d thought, or cumbrous line;

Still kind, as is thy wont, attend,

And in the minstrel spare the friend. 240

Though wild as cloud, as stream, as gale,

Flow forth, flow unrestrain’d, my Tale!