Читать книгу Scott's Lady of the Lake - Вальтер Скотт, Walter Scott - Страница 3

At morn the blackcock trims his jetty wing,

’Tis morning prompts the linnet’s85 blithest lay,

All Nature’s children feel the matin86 spring

Of life reviving, with reviving day;

And while yon little bark glides down the bay,

Wafting the stranger on his way again,

Morn’s genial influence roused a minstrel gray,

And sweetly o’er the lake was heard thy strain,

Mix’d with the sounding harp, O white-hair’d Allan-Bane!87

“Not faster yonder rowers’ might

Flings from their oars the spray,

Not faster yonder rippling bright,

That tracks the shallop’s course in light,

Melts in the lake away,

Than men from memory erase

The benefits of former days;

Then, stranger, go! good speed the while,

Nor think again of the lonely isle.

“High place to thee in royal court,

High place in battled88 line,

Good hawk and hound for silvan sport,

Where beauty sees the brave resort,

The honor’d meed89 be thine!

True be thy sword, thy friend sincere,

Thy lady constant, kind, and dear,

And lost in love’s and friendship’s smile

Be memory of the lonely isle.

“But if beneath yon southern sky

A plaided stranger roam,

Whose drooping crest and stifled sigh,

And sunken cheek and heavy eye,

Pine for his Highland home;

Then, warrior, then be thine to show

The care that soothes a wanderer’s woe;

Remember then thy hap erewhile,

A stranger in the lonely isle.

“Or if on life’s uncertain main

Mishap shall mar thy sail;

If faithful, wise, and brave in vain,

Woe, want, and exile thou sustain

Beneath the fickle gale;

Waste not a sigh on fortune changed,

On thankless courts, or friends estranged,

But come where kindred worth shall smile,

To greet thee in the lonely isle.”

As died the sounds upon the tide,

The shallop reach’d the mainland side,

And ere his onward way he took,

The stranger cast a lingering look,

Where easily his eye might reach

The Harper on the islet beach,

Reclined against a blighted tree,

As wasted, gray, and worn as he.

To minstrel meditation given,

His reverend brow was raised to heaven,

As from the rising sun to claim

A sparkle of inspiring flame.

His hand, reclined upon the wire,

Seem’d watching the awakening fire;

So still he sate, as those who wait

Till judgment speak the doom of fate;

So still, as if no breeze might dare

To lift one lock of hoary hair;

So still, as life itself were fled,

In the last sound his harp had sped.

Upon a rock with lichens wild,

Beside him Ellen sate and smiled. —

Smiled she to see the stately drake

Lead forth his fleet90 upon the lake,

While her vex’d spaniel, from the beach,

Bay’d at the prize beyond his reach?

Yet tell me, then, the maid who knows,

Why deepen’d on her cheek the rose? —

Forgive, forgive, Fidelity!

Perchance the maiden smiled to see

Yon parting lingerer wave adieu,

And stop and turn to wave anew;

And, lovely ladies, ere your ire

Condemn the heroine of my lyre,

Show me the fair would scorn to spy,

And prize such conquest of her eye!

While yet he loiter’d on the spot,

It seem’d as Ellen mark’d him not;

But when he turn’d him to the glade,

One courteous parting sign she made;

And after, oft the Knight would say,

That not, when prize of festal day

Was dealt him by the brightest fair

Who e’er wore jewel in her hair,

So highly did his bosom swell,

As at that simple mute farewell.

Now with a trusty mountain guide,

And his dark staghounds by his side,

He parts – the maid, unconscious still,

Watch’d him wind slowly round the hill;

But when his stately form was hid,

The guardian in her bosom chid —

“Thy Malcolm! vain and selfish maid!”

’Twas thus upbraiding conscience said, —

“Not so had Malcolm idly hung

On the smooth phrase of southern tongue;

Not so had Malcolm strain’d his eye,

Another step than thine to spy. —

Wake, Allan-Bane," aloud she cried,

To the old Minstrel by her side, —

“Arouse thee from thy moody dream!

I’ll give thy harp heroic theme,

And warm thee with a noble name;

Pour forth the glory of the Græme!”91

Scarce from her lip the word had rush’d,

When deep the conscious maiden blush’d;

For of his clan, in hall and bower,

Young Malcolm Græme was held the flower.

The Minstrel waked his harp – three times

Arose the well-known martial chimes,