  THE GUARD ROOM. I.The sun, awakening, through the smoky air Of the dark city casts a sullen glance, Rousing each caitiff Of sinful man the sad inheritance; Summoning revelers from the lagging dance, Scaring the prowling robber to his den; Gilding on battled tower the warder’s lance, And warning student pale to leave his pen, And yield his drowsy eyes to the kind nurse of men. What various scenes, and, oh! what scenes of woe, Are witness’d by that red and struggling beam! The fever’d patient, from his pallet low, Through crowded hospital beholds its stream; The ruin’d maiden trembles at its gleam, The debtor wakes to thought of gyve and jail, The lovelorn wretch starts from tormenting dream; The wakeful mother, by the glimmering pale, Trims her sick infant’s couch, and soothes his feeble wail. II.At dawn the towers of Stirling rang With soldier step and weapon clang, While drums, with rolling note, foretell Relief to weary sentinel. Through narrow loop and casement barr’d, The sunbeams sought the Court of Guard, And, struggling with the smoky air, Deaden’d the torches’ yellow glare. In comfortless alliance shone The lights through arch of blacken’d stone, And show’d wild shapes in garb of war, Faces deform’d with beard and scar, All haggard from the midnight watch, And fever’d with the stern debauch; For the oak table’s massive board, Flooded with wine, with fragments stored, And beakers drain’d, and cups o’erthrown, Show’d in what sport the night had flown. Some, weary, snored on floor and bench; Some labor’d still their thirst to quench; Some, chill’d with watching, spread their hands O’er the huge chimney’s dying brands, While round them, or beside them flung, At every step their harness III.These drew not for their fields the sword, Like tenants of a feudal lord, Nor own’d the patriarchal claim Of Chieftain in their leader’s name; Adventurers There the Italian’s clouded face, The swarthy Spaniard’s there you trace; The mountain-loving Switzer More freely breathed in mountain air; The Fleming That paid so ill the laborer’s toil; Their rolls show’d French and German name; And merry England’s exiles came, To share, with ill-conceal’d disdain, Of Scotland’s pay the scanty gain. All brave in arms, well train’d to wield The heavy halberd, brand, and shield; In camps licentious, wild, and bold; In pillage fierce and uncontroll’d; And now, by holytide From rules of discipline released. IV.They held debate of bloody fray, Fought ’twixt Loch Katrine and Achray. Fierce was their speech, and, ’mid their words, Their hands oft grappled to their swords; Nor sunk their tone to spare the ear Of wounded comrades groaning near, Whose mangled limbs, and bodies gored, Bore token of the mountain sword, Though, neighboring to the Court of Guard, Their prayers and feverish wails were heard; Sad burden to the ruffian joke, And savage oath by fury spoke!— At length up started John of Brent, A stranger to respect or fear, In peace a chaser In host But still the boldest of the crew, When deed of danger was to do. He grieved, that day, their games cut short, And marr’d the dicer’s brawling sport, And shouted loud, “Renew the bowl! And, while a merry catch I troll, Let each the buxom chorus bear, Like brethren of the brand and spear.” V.SOLDIER’S SONG. Our vicar still preaches that Peter and Poule Laid a swinging That there’s wrath and despair in the jolly black-jack, And the seven deadly sins in a flagon of sack; Yet whoop, Barnaby! off with thy liquor, Drink upsees out, Our vicar he calls it damnation to sip The ripe ruddy dew of a woman’s dear lip, Says, that Beelzebub And Apollyon Yet whoop, Jack! kiss Gillian the quicker, Till she bloom like a rose, and a fig for the vicar! Our vicar thus preaches—and why should he not? For the dues of his cure are the placket and pot; Who infringe the domains of our good Mother Church. Yet whoop, bully-boys! off with your liquor, Sweet Marjorie’s the word, and a fig for the vicar! VI.The warder’s challenge, heard without, Stayed in mid-roar the merry shout. A soldier to the portal went,— “Here is old Bertram, sirs, of Ghent; And,—beat for jubilee the drum!— A maid and minstrel with him come.” Bertram, a Fleming, gray and scarr’d, Was entering now the Court of Guard, A harper with him, and in plaid All muffled close, a mountain maid, Who backward shrunk to ’scape the view Of the loose scene and boisterous crew. “What news?” they roar’d.—“I only know, From noon till eve we fought with foe As wild and as untamable As the rude mountains where they dwell; On both sides store of blood is lost, Nor much success can either boast.”— “But whence thy captives, friend? such spoil As theirs must needs reward thy toil. Old dost thou wax, and wars grow sharp; Thou now hast glee-maiden and harp! Get thee an ape, and trudge the land, The leader of a juggler band.”— VII.“No, comrade;—no such fortune mine. After the fight, these sought our line, That aged Harper and the girl, Mar bade I should purvey them steed, And bring them hitherward with speed. Forbear your mirth and rude alarm, For none shall do them shame or harm.”— “Hear ye his boast?” cried John of Brent, Ever to strife and jangling bent; “Shall he strike doe beside our lodge, And yet the jealous niggard grudge To pay the forester his fee? I’ll have my share, howe’er it be, Despite of Moray, Mar, or thee.” Bertram his forward step withstood; And, burning in his vengeful mood, Old Allan, though unfit for strife, Laid hand upon his dagger knife; But Ellen boldly stepp’d between, And dropp’d at once the tartan screen:— So, from his morning cloud, appears The sun of May, through summer tears. The savage soldiery, amazed, As on descended angel gazed; Even hardy Brent, abash’d and tamed, Stood half admiring, half ashamed. VIII.Boldly she spoke,—“Soldiers, attend! My father was the soldier’s friend; Cheer’d him in camps, in marches led, And with him in the battle bled. Not from the valiant, or the strong, Should exile’s daughter suffer wrong.”— Answer’d De Brent, most forward still In every feat or good or ill,— “I shame me of the part I play’d; An outlaw I by forest laws, And merry Needwood Poor Rose,—if Rose be living now,”— He wiped his iron eye and brow,— “Must bear such age, I think, as thou.— Hear ye, my mates;—I go to call The Captain of our watch to hall: There lies my halberd on the floor; And he that steps my halberd o’er, To do the maid injurious part, My shaft shall quiver in his heart!— Beware loose speech, or jesting rough: Ye all know John de Brent. Enough.” IX.Their Captain came, a gallant young,— Of Tullibardine’s Nor wore he yet the spurs of knight; Gay was his mien, his humor light, And, though by courtesy controll’d, Forward his speech, his bearing bold. The high-born maiden ill could brook The scanning of his curious look And dauntless eye;—and yet, in sooth, Young Lewis was a generous youth; But Ellen’s lovely face and mien, Ill suited to the garb and scene, Might lightly bear construction strange, And give loose fancy scope to range. “Welcome to Stirling towers, fair maid! Come ye to seek a champion’s aid, Like errant damosel Does thy high quest Or may the venture suit a squire?”— Her dark eye flash’d;—she paused and sigh’d,— “Oh, what have I to do with pride!— Through scenes of sorrow, shame, and strife, A suppliant for a father’s life, I crave an audience of the King. Behold, to back my suit, a ring, The royal pledge of grateful claims, Given by the Monarch to Fitz-James.” X.The signet ring young Lewis took, With deep respect and alter’d look; And said,—“This ring our duties own; And pardon, if to worth unknown, In semblance mean, obscurely veil’d, Lady, in aught my folly fail’d. Soon as the day flings wide his gates, The King shall know what suitor waits. Please you, meanwhile, in fitting bower Repose you till his waking hour; Female attendance shall obey Your hest, for service or array. Permit I marshal you the way.” But, ere she followed, with the grace And open bounty of her race, She bade her slender purse be shared Among the soldiers of the guard. But Brent, with shy and awkward look, On the reluctant maiden’s hold Forced bluntly back the proffer’d gold;— “Forgive a haughty English heart, And oh, forget its ruder part! The vacant purse shall be my share, Which in my barret cap I’ll bear, Perchance, in jeopardy of war, Where gayer crests may keep afar.” With thanks—’twas all she could—the maid His rugged courtesy repaid. XI.When Ellen forth with Lewis went, Allan made suit to John of Brent:— “My lady safe, oh, let your grace Give me to see my master’s face! His minstrel I,—to share his doom Bound from the cradle to the tomb. Tenth in descent, since first my sires Waked for his noble house their lyres, Nor one of all the race was known But prized its weal above their own. With the Chief’s birth begins our care; Our harp must soothe the infant heir, Teach the youth tales of fight, and grace His earliest feat of field or chase; In peace, in war, our rank we keep, We cheer his board, we soothe his sleep, Nor leave him till we pour our verse— A doleful tribute!—o’er his hearse. Then let me share his captive lot; It is my right—deny it not!”— “Little we reck,” said John of Brent, Nor wot we how a name—a word— Makes clansmen vassals to a lord: Yet kind my noble landlord’s part,— God bless the house of Beaudesert! And, but I loved to drive the deer, More than to guide the laboring steer, I had not dwelt an outcast here. Come, good old Minstrel, follow me; Thy Lord and Chieftain shalt thou see.” XII.Then, from a rusted iron hook, A bunch of ponderous keys he took, Lighted a torch, and Allan led Through grated arch and passage dread. Portals they pass’d, where, deep within, Spoke prisoner’s moan, and fetters’ din; Through rugged vaults, where, loosely stored, Lay wheel, and ax, and headsman’s sword, And many an hideous engine grim, For wrenching joint, and crushing limb, By artist form’d, who deemed it shame And sin to give their work a name. They halted at a low-brow’d porch, And Brent to Allan gave the torch, While bolt and chain he backward roll’d, And made the bar unhasp its hold. They enter’d:—’twas a prison room Of stern security and gloom, Yet not a dungeon; for the day Through lofty gratings found its way, And rude and antique garniture Deck’d the sad walls and oaken floor; Such as the rugged days of old “Here,” said De Brent, “thou mayst remain Till the Leech Strict is his charge, the warders tell, To tend the noble prisoner well.” Retiring then, the bolt he drew, And the lock’s murmurs growl’d anew. Roused at the sound, from lowly bed A captive feebly raised his head; The wondering Minstrel look’d, and knew— Not his dear lord, but Roderick Dhu! For, come from where Clan-Alpine fought, They, erring, deem’d the Chief he sought. XIII.XXI.“‘Revenge! revenge!’ the Saxons cried— The Gael’s exulting shout replied. Despite the elemental rage, Again they hurried to engage; But, ere they closed in desperate fight, Bloody with spurring came a knight, Sprung from his horse, and, from a crag, Waved ’twixt the hosts a milk-white flag. Clarion and trumpet by his side Rung forth a truce note high and wide, While, in the Monarch’s name, afar An herald’s voice forbade the war, For Bothwell’s lord, and Roderick bold, Were both, he said, in captive hold.” —But here the lay made sudden stand, The harp escaped the Minstrel’s hand!— Oft had he stolen a glance, to spy How Roderick brook’d his minstrelsy: At first, the Chieftain, to the chime, With lifted hand, kept feeble time; That motion ceased,—yet feeling strong Varied his look as changed the song; At length, no more his deafen’d ear The minstrel melody can hear; His face grows sharp,—his hands are clench’d, As if some pang his heartstrings wrench’d; Set are his teeth, his fading eye Is sternly fix’d on vacancy; Thus, motionless, and moanless, drew His parting breath, stout Roderick Dhu!— Old Allan-Bane look’d on aghast, While grim and still his spirit pass’d: But when he saw that life was fled, He pour’d his wailing o’er the dead. XXII.LAMENT. “And art them cold and lowly laid, Thy foeman’s dread, thy people’s aid, Breadalbane’s For thee shall none a requiem say?— For thee,—who loved the Minstrel’s lay, For thee, of Bothwell’s house the stay, The shelter of her exiled line? E’en in this prison house of thine, I’ll wail for Alpine’s honor’d Pine! “What groans shall yonder valleys fill! What shrieks of grief shall rend yon hill! What tears of burning rage shall thrill, When mourns thy tribe thy battles done, Thy fall before the race was won, Thy sword ungirt ere set of sun! There breathes not clansman of thy line, But would have given his life for thine.— Oh, woe for Alpine’s honor’d Pine! “Sad was thy lot on mortal stage!— The captive thrush may brook the cage, The prison’d eagle dies for rage. Brave spirit, do not scorn my strain! And, when its notes awake again, Even she, so long beloved in vain, Shall with my harp her voice combine, And mix her woe and tears with mine, To wail Clan-Alpine’s honor’d Pine.”— XXIII.Ellen, the while, with bursting heart, Remain’d in lordly bower apart, Where play’d, with many-colored gleams, Through storied In vain on gilded roof they fall, And lighten’d up a tapestried wall, And for her use a menial train A rich collation spread in vain. The banquet proud, the chamber gay, Scarce drew one curious glance astray; Or if she look’d, ’twas but to say, With better omen dawn’d the day In that lone isle, where waved on high The dun deer’s hide for canopy; Where oft her noble father shared The simple meal her care prepared, While Lufra, crouching by her side, Her station claim’d with jealous pride, And Douglas, bent on woodland game, Spoke of the chase to Malcolm GrÆme, Whose answer, oft at random made, The wandering of his thoughts betray’d.— Those who such simple joys have known, Are taught to prize them when they’re gone. But sudden, see, she lifts her head! The window seeks with cautious tread. What distant music has the power To win her in this woeful hour! ’Twas from a turret that o’erhung Her latticed bower, the strain was sung. XXIV.LAY OF THE IMPRISONED HUNTSMAN. “My hawk is tired of perch and hood, My idle greyhound loathes his food, My horse is weary of his stall, And I am sick of captive thrall. I wish I were, as I have been, Hunting the hart in forest green, With bended bow and bloodhound free, For that’s the life is meet for me. “I hate to learn the ebb of time, From yon dull steeple’s drowsy chime, Or mark it as the sunbeams crawl, Inch after inch, along the wall. The lark was wont my matins ring, The sable rook my vespers sing; These towers, although a king’s they be, Have not a hall of joy for me. “No more at dawning morn I rise, And sun myself in Ellen’s eyes, Drive the fleet deer the forest through, And homeward wend with evening dew; A blithesome welcome blithely meet, And lay my trophies at her feet, While fled the eve on wing of glee,— That life is lost to love and me!” XXV.The heart-sick lay was hardly said, The list’ner had not turn’d her head, It trickled still, the starting tear, When light a footstep struck her ear, She turn’d the hastier, lest again The prisoner should renew his strain. “Oh, welcome, brave Fitz-James!” she said; ”How may an almost orphan maid Pay the deep debt”—“Oh, say not so! To me no gratitude you owe. Not mine, alas! the boon to give, And bid thy noble father live; I can but be thy guide, sweet maid, With Scotland’s King thy suit to aid. No tyrant he, though ire and pride May lay his better mood aside. Come, Ellen, come! ’tis more than time— He holds his court at morning prime.” With beating heart, and bosom wrung, As to a brother’s arm she clung. Gently he dried the falling tear, And gently whisper’d hope and cheer; Her faltering steps half led, half stayed, Through gallery fair and high arcade, Till, at his touch, its wings of pride A portal arch unfolded wide. XXVI.Within ’twas brilliant all and light, A thronging scene of figures bright; It glow’d on Ellen’s dazzled sight, As when the setting sun has given Ten thousand hues to summer even, And from their tissue, fancy frames AËrial Still by Fitz-James her footing staid; Then slow her drooping head she raised, And fearful round the presence For him she sought, who own’d this state, The dreaded Prince, whose will was fate!— She gazed on many a princely port, Might well have ruled a royal court; On many a splendid garb she gazed, Then turn’d bewilder’d and amazed, For all stood bare; and, in the room, Fitz-James alone wore cap and plume. To him each lady’s look was lent; On him each courtier’s eye was bent; Midst furs, and silks, and jewels sheen, He stood, in simple Lincoln green, The center of the glittering ring,— And Snowdoun’s Knight XXVII.As wreath of snow, on mountain breast, Slides from the rock that gave it rest, Poor Ellen glided from her stay, And at the Monarch’s feet she lay; No word her choking voice commands,— She show’d the ring—she clasp’d her hands. Oh! not a moment could he brook, The generous Prince, that suppliant look! Gently he raised her; and, the while, Check’d with a glance the circle’s smile; Graceful, but grave, her brow he kiss’d, And bade her terrors be dismiss’d:— The fealty of Scotland claims. To him thy woes, thy wishes, bring; He will redeem his signet ring. Ask naught for Douglas; yestereven, His Prince and he have much forgiven: Wrong hath he had from slanderous tongue— I, from his rebel kinsmen, wrong. We would not, to the vulgar crowd, Yield what they craved with clamor loud; Calmly we heard and judged his cause, Our council aided, and our laws. I stanch’d thy father’s death-feud stern With stout De Vaux and gray Glencairn; And Bothwell’s Lord henceforth we own The friend and bulwark of our Throne.— But, lovely infidel, how now? What clouds thy misbelieving brow? Lord James of Douglas, lend thine aid; Thou must confirm this doubting maid.” XXVIII.Then forth the noble Douglas sprung, And on his neck his daughter hung. The Monarch drank, that happy hour, The sweetest, holiest draught of Power,— When it can say, with godlike voice, Arise, sad Virtue, and rejoice! Yet would not James the general eye On Nature’s raptures long should pry; He stepp’d between—“Nay, Douglas, nay, Steal not my proselyte away! The riddle ’tis my right to read, That brought this happy chance to speed. In life’s more low but happier way, ’Tis under name which veils my power; Nor falsely veils—for Stirling’s tower Of yore the name of Snowdoun claims, And Normans call me James Fitz-James. Thus watch I o’er insulted laws, Thus learn to right the injured cause.”— Then, in a tone apart and low,— “Ah, little traitress! none must know What idle dream, what lighter thought, What vanity full dearly bought, Join’d to thine eye’s dark witchcraft, drew My spellbound steps to Benvenue, In dangerous hour, and all but gave Thy Monarch’s life to mountain glaive!”— Aloud he spoke,—“Thou still dost hold That little talisman of gold, Pledge of my faith, Fitz-James’s ring— What seeks fair Ellen of the King?” XXIX.Full well the conscious maiden guess’d He probed the weakness of her breast; But, with that consciousness, there came A lightening of her fears for GrÆme, And more she deem’d the Monarch’s ire Kindled ’gainst him, who, for her sire, Rebellious broadsword boldly drew; And, to her generous feeling true, She craved the grace of Roderick Dhu. “Forbear thy suit:—the King of kings Alone can stay life’s parting wings. I know his heart, I know his hand, Have shared his cheer, and proved his brand;— To bid Clan-Alpine’s Chieftain live!— Hast thou no other boon to crave? No other captive friend to save?” Blushing, she turn’d her from the King, And to the Douglas gave the ring, As if she wish’d her sire to speak The suit that stain’d her glowing cheek.— “Nay, then, my pledge has lost its force, And stubborn Justice holds her course.— Malcolm, come forth!”—and, at the word, Down kneel’d the GrÆme to Scotland’s Lord. “For thee, rash youth, no suppliant sues, From thee may Vengeance claim her dues, Who, nurtured underneath our smile, Hast paid our care by treacherous wile, And sought, amid thy faithful clan, A refuge for an outlaw’d man, Dishonoring thus thy loyal name.— Fetters and warder for the GrÆme!”— His chain of gold the King unstrung, The links o’er Malcolm’s neck he flung, Then gently drew the glittering band, And laid the clasp on Ellen’s hand. Harp of the North, farewell! The hills grow dark, On purple peaks a deeper shade descending; In twilight copse the glowworm lights her spark, The deer, half seen, are to the covert wending. Resume thy wizard elm! the fountain lending, And the wild breeze, thy wilder minstrelsy; Thy numbers sweet with Nature’s vespers blending, With distant echo from the fold and lea, And herd-boy’s evening pipe, and hum of housing Yet, once again, forgive my feeble sway! And little reck I of the censure sharp May idly cavil at an idle lay. Much have I owed thy strains on life’s long way, Through secret woes the world has never known, When on the weary night dawn’d wearier day, And bitterer was the grief devour’d alone. That I o’erlived such woes, Enchantress! is thine own. Hark! as my lingering footsteps slow retire, Some Spirit of the Air has waked thy string! ’Tis now a seraph bold, with touch of fire— ’Tis now the brush of Fairy’s frolic wing. Receding now, the dying numbers ring Fainter and fainter down the rugged dell, And now the mountain breezes scarcely bring A wandering witch note of the distant spell— And now, ’tis silent all!—Enchantress, fare thee well! |
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