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WALTER SCOTT was born in Edinburgh, on the 15th of August, 1771. His father was a writer to the signet, and of ancient and honourable descent. Almost from his birth until the age of sixteen, he was afflicted with ill health; and either from the weakness of his constitution, or, as some assert, from an accident occasioned by the carelessness of his nurse, his right foot was injured, and he was lame during his life. His early days were passed among the hills and dales of the borders-" famous in war and verse"-" where," we quote from Allan Cunningham, "almost every stone that stands above the ground is the record of some skirmish, or single combat; and every stream, although its waters be so inconsiderable as scarcely to moisten the pasture through which they run, is renowned in song and in ballad." Perhaps to the happy chance of his residence in a district so fertile in legendary lore, the world is indebted for the vast legacy of wealth he bequeathed to it. In 1783, he entered the University of Edinburgh; and in 1792, became an advocate at the Scottish bar: but after a few years' attendance at the courts, quitted it, in order to devote himself to literature. He had, however, reached his 25th year, before he manifested any desire, or rather intention, to contend for fame in a path so intricate; and as he himself states, his first attempt ended in a transfer of his printed sheets to the service of the trunk-maker. Though discouraged, he was not disheartened. In 1802, "The Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border" obtained a more fortunate destiny; and about three years afterwards the publication of The Lay of the Last Minstrel completely established the fame of the writer. From the appearance of this poem, the life of the poet, until towards the close of it, is little else than a history of his writings. Marmion issued from the press in 1808; The Lady of the Lake, in 1810; Don Roderick, in 1811; Rokeby, in 1813; The Lord of the Isles, in 1814; The Bridal of Triermain, and Harold the Dauntless, appeared anonymously; the former, in 1813, and the latter, in 1817. The publication of his novels and romances commenced with Waverley, in 1814. In 1820, Walter Scott was created a baronet of the United Kingdom. In January, 1826, his publishers became bankrupts; it produced a feeling of the deepest sorrow,-not only in Edinburgh, but throughout the kingdom, when it was ascertained that, through their failure, he was involved in pecuniary responsibilities to a ruinous

extent. He encountered adversity with manly fortitude; asked and obtained from his creditors no other boon than time; and in about four years had actually paid off nearly £70,000 of the debt. The price of almost superhuman labour was, however, to be exacted. In 1831 he was attacked with gradual paralysis: in the autumn of that year he was prevailed upon to visit the more genial climate of the south of Europe;-the experiment was unsuccessful in restoring him to health: he returned to Abbotsford, and died there on the 21st of September, 1832. His loss was mourned, not only by his own country, but in every portion of the civilized globe; for his fame had spread throughout all parts of it: and there is scarcely a language into which his works have not been translated. The kindness of his heart, the benevolence of his disposition, the thorough goodness of his nature, were appreciated by all who had the privilege of his acquaintance; but his genius is the vast and valuable property of mankind.

In person, he was tall, and had the appearance of a powerful and robust man. His countenance has been rendered familiar by artists in abundance; the justest notion of it is conveyed by the bust of Chantry. Its expression was peculiarly benevolent; his forehead was broad, and remarkably


We have left ourselves but little space to comment upon the poetry of Sir Walter Scott; his fame as a poet was eclipsed by his reputation as a novelist; and the appearance of a star of greater magnitude drew from him, by degrees, the popularity he had so long engrossed. Yet we venture to hazard an opinion, that if it be possible for either to be forgotten, his poems will outlive his prose ; and that Waverley and Ivanhoe will perish before Marmion and The Lady of the Lake. We can find no rare and valuable quality in the former that we may not find in the latter. A deeply interesting and exciting story, glorious and true pictures of scenery, fine and accurate portraits of character, clear and impressive accounts of ancient customs, details of battles-satisfying to the fancy; yet capable of enduring the sternest test of truth-are to be found in the one class as well as in the other. In addition, we have the most graceful and harmonious verse; and the style is undoubtedly such as equally to delight those who possess and those who are without a refined poetical taste.




Dum relego, scripsisse, pudet, quia plurima cerno, Me quoque, qui feci, judice, digna limi.



THE poem, now offered to the public, is intended to illustrate the customs and manners which anciently prevailed on the borders of England and Scotland. The inhabitants, living in a state partly pastoral and partly warlike, and combining habits of constant depredation with the influence of a rude spirit of chivalry, were often engaged in scenes highly susceptible of poetical ornament. As the description of scenery and manners was more the object of the author, than a combined and regular narrative, the plan of the ancient Metrical Romance was adopted, which allows greater latitude in this respect than would be consistent with the dignity of a regular poem. The same model offered other facilities, as it permits an occasional alteration of measure, which, in some degree, authorizes the change of rhythm in the text. The machinery also, adopted from popular belief, would have seemed puerile in a poem which did not partake of the rudeness of the old ballad, or Metrical Ro


For these reasons, the poem was put into the mouth of an ancient minstrel, the last of the race, who, as he is supposed to have survived the Revolution, might have caught somewhat of the refinement of modern poetry, without losing the simplicity of his original model. The date of the tale itself is about the middle of the sixteenth century, when most of the personages actually flourished. The time occupied by the action is three nights and three days.


THE way was long, the wind was cold,
The minstrel was infirm and old;
His wither'd cheek, and tresses gray,
Seem'd to have known a better day;
The harp, his sole remaining joy,
Was carried by an orphan boy.
The last of all the bards was he,
Who sung of Border chivalry;
For, well-a-day! their date was fled,
His tuneful brethren all were dead;
And he, neglected and oppress'd,
Wish'd to be with them, and at rest.
No more, on prancing palfrey borne,
He caroll'd, light as lark at morn;
No longer courted and caress'd,
High placed in hall, a welcome guest,
He pour'd, to lord and lady gay

The unpremeditated lay:

Old times were changed, old manners gone; A stranger fill'd the Stuart's throne;

The bigots of the iron time

Had call'd his harmless art a crime.
A wandering harper, scorn'd and poor,
He begg'd his bread from door to door;
And tuned, 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 pass'd,
Whose ponderous grate and massy bar
Had oft roll'd back the tide of
But never closed the iron door
Against the desolate and poor.
The dutchess mark'd 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 degreee;
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 dutchess deign
To listen to an old man's strain,
Though stiff his hand, his voice though weak,
He thought, e'en 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 wish'd 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.

* Anne, Dutchess of Buccleuch and Monmouth, representative of the ancient lords of Buccleuch, and widow of the unfortunate James, Duke of Monmouth, who was beheaded in 1685.

+ Francis Scott, Earl of Buccleuch, father to the dutchess. Walter, Earl of Buccleuch, grandfather to the dutchess, and a celebrated warrior.

It was not framed for village churls,
But for high dames and mighty earls ;
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.


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.


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 stag hounds, weary with the chase,
Lay stretch'd upon the rushy floor,
And urged, in dreams, the forest race,
From Teviotstone to Eskdale-moor.

Nine-and-twenty knights of fame

Hung their shields in Branksome hall; Nine-and-twenty squires of name

Brought them their steeds from bower to stall; Nine-and-twenty yeomen tall

Waited duteous on them all:

They were all knights of metal true,
Kinsmen to the bold Buccleuch.


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



Ten squires, ten yeomen, mailclad men,
Waited the beck of the warders ten;
Thirty steeds, both fleet and wight,
Stood saddled in stable day and night,
Barbed with frontlet of steel, I trow,
And with Jedwood axe at saddle bow,
A hundred more fed free in stall:
Such was the custom of Branksome hall.


Why do these steeds stand ready dight?
Why watch these warriors, arm'd, by night?
They watch to hear the bloodhound baying;
They watch to hear the warhorn braying;
To see Saint George's red cross streaming;
To see the midnight beacon gleaming;
They watch 'gainst Southern force and guile;
Lest Scroop, or Howard, or Percy's powers,
Threaten Branksome's lordly towers,
From Warkworth, or Naworth, or merry Carlisle.

Such is the custom of Branksome hall.

Many a valiant knight is here;

But he, the chieftain of them all,

His sword hangs rusting on the wall
Beside his broken spear.

Bards long shall tell,
How Lord Walter fell!

When startled burghers fled afar,
The furies of the border war;

When the streets of high Dunedin
Saw lances gleam, and falchions redden,
And heard the slogan's deadly yell-
Then the chief of Branksome fell.


Can piety the discord heal,

Or stanch the death-feud's enmity?
Can Christian lore, can patriot zeal,
Can love of blessed charity?
No! vainly to each holy shrine,

In mutual pilgrimage they drew,
Implored, in vain, the grace divine

For chiefs their own red falchions slew;

While Cessford owns the rule of Car,

While Ettrick boasts the line of Scott,

The slaughter'd chiefs, the mortal jar,
The havoc of the feudal war,
Shall never, never be forgot!


In sorrow o'er Lord Walter's bier

The warlike foresters had bent; And many a flower, and many a tear,

Old Teviot's maids and matrons lent; But o'er her warrior's bloody bier The ladye dropp'd nor flower nor tear! Vengeance deep brooding o'er the slain,

Had lock'd the source of softer wo; And burning pride and high disdain, Forbade the rising tear to flow;

* The war cry, or gathering word of a Border clan.

Until, amid his sorrowing clan,

Her son lisp'd from the nurse's knee"And if I live to be a man,

My father's death revenged shall be !" Then fast the mother's tears did seek To dew the infant's kindling cheek.


All loose her negligent attire,

All loose her golden hair,

Hung Margaret o'er her slaughter'd sire, And wept in wild despair.

But not alone the bitter tear

Had filial grief supplied;

For hopeless love, and anxious fear,
Had lent their mingled tide:
Nor in her mother's alter'd eye
Dared she to look for sympathy.
Her lover, 'gainst her father's clan,
With car in arms had stood,
When Mathouse-burn to Melrose ran
All purple with their blood;

And well she knew, her mother dread,
Before Lord Cranstoun she would wed,
Would see her on her dying bed.


Of noble race the ladye came;
Her father was a clerk of fame,

Of Bethune's line of Picardie;

He learn'd the art that none may name,
In Padua, far beyond the sea.
Men said he changed his mortal frame
By feat of magic mystery;

For when, in studious mood, he paced
Saint Andrew's cloister'd hall,
His form no darkening shadow traced
Upon the sunny wall!


And of his skill, as bards avow,
He taught that ladye fair,
Till to her bidding she could bow
The viewless forms of air.
And now she sits in secret bower,
In old Lord David's western tower,
And listens to a heavy sound,

That moans the mossy turrets round.
Is it the roar of Teviot's tide,

That chafes against the scaur's* red side?
Is it the wind that swings the oaks ?
Is it the echo from the rocks?
What may it be, the heavy sound,

That moans old Branksome's turrets round?


At the sullen moaning sound,
The bandogs bay and howl;
And, from the turrets round,

Loud whoops the startled owl. In the hall, both squire and knight

Swore that a storm was near, And looked forth to view the night, But the night was still and clear!

* Scaur, a precipitous bank of earth.


From the sound of Teviot's tide,
Chafing with the mountain's side,
From the groan of the windswung oak,
From the sullen echo of the rock,
From the voice of the coming storm,

The lady knew it well!

It was the spirit of the flood that spoke, And he call'd on the spirit of the fell.



"Sleep'st thou, brother?"


"Brother, nay—

On my hills the moonbeams play.
From Craig-cross to Skelfhillpen,
By every rill, in every glen,
Merry elves their morrice pacing,
To aërial minstrelsy,

Emerald rings on brown heath tracing,
Trip it deft and merrily.

Up, and mark their nimble feet!
Up, and list their music sweet!"



"Tears of an imprison'd maiden

Mix with my polluted stream; Margaret of Branksome, sorrow laden,

Mourns beneath the moon's pale beam. Tell me, thou, who view'st the stars, When shall cease these feudal jars, What shall be the maiden's fate? Who shall be the maiden's mate ?"



"Arthur's slow wain his course doth roll
In utter darkness round the pole ;
The northern bear lowers black and grim;
Orion's studded belt is dim:
Twinkling faint, and distant far,
Shimmers through mist each planet star;
Ill may I read their high decree!
But no kind influence deign they shower
On Teviot's tide, and Branksome's tower,
Till pride be quell'd, and love be free."

The unearthly voices ceased,

And the heavy sound was still; It died on the river's breast,

It died on the side of the hill, But round Lord David's tower

The sound still floated near; For it rung in the ladye's bower, And it rung in the ladye's ear.

She raised her stately head,

And her heart throbb'd high with pride:"Your mountains shall bend,

And your streams ascend,

Ere Margaret be our foeman's bride!"


The ladye sought the lofty hall,

Where many a bold retainer lay,

And, with jocund din, among them all,
Her son pursued his infant play,
A fancied mosstrooper, the boy

The truncheon of a spear bestrode,
And round the hall, right merrily,

In mimic foray* rode.

E'en bearded knights, in arms grown old,
Share in his frolic gambols bore,
Albeit their hearts, of rugged mould,

Were stubborn as the steel they wore. For the gray warriors prophesied,

How the brave boy, in future war, Should tame the unicorn's pride, Exalt the crescent and the star.


The ladye forgot her purpose high,
One moment, and no more;

One moment gazed with a mother's eye,
As she paused at the arched door;
Then, from amid the armed train,
She call'd to her William of Deloraine.


A stark mosstrooping Scott was he,
As e'er couch'd border lance by knee;
Through Solway sands, through Tarras moss,
Blindfold he knew the paths to cross;
By wily turns, by desperate bounds,
Had baffled Percy's best bloodhounds;
In Eske, or Liddel, fords were none,
But he would ride them one by one;
Alike to him was time or tide,
December's snow, or July's pride;
Alike to him was tide or time,
Moonless midnight, or matin prime:
Steady of heart, and stout of hand,
As ever drove prey from Cumberland;
Five times outlawed had he been,
By England's king, and Scotland's queen.


"Sir William of Deloraine, good at need,
Mount thee on the wightest steed;
Spare not to spur, nor stint to ride,
Until you come to fair Tweed side;
And in Melrose's holy pile
Seek thou the monk of St. Mary's aisle.
Greet the father well from me;

Say that the fated hour is come,
And to-night he shall watch with thee,
To win the treasure of the tomb:

For this will be Saint Michael's night,
And, though stars be dim, the moon is bright;
And the cross of bloody red,

Will point to the grave of the mighty dead.


"What he gives thee, see thou keep; Stay not thou for food or sleep;

Be it scroll, or be it book,

Into it, knight, thou must not look;

* Foray, a predatory inroad.

If thou readest, thou art lorn!

Better thou hadst ne'er been born."


"O swiftly can speed my dapplegray steed, Which drinks of the Teviot clear; Ere break of day," the warrior 'gan say,

"Again will I be here:

And safer by none may thy errand be done,
Than, noble dame, by me;

Letter nor line know I never a one,
Wer't my neck-verse at Haribee."*


Soon in his saddle sate he fast,
And soon the deep descent he pass'd,
Soon cross'd the sounding barbican,†
And soon the Teviot's side he won.
Eastward the wooded path he rode,
Green hazels o'er his basnet nod:
He pass'd the peelt of Goldiland,

And cross'd old Borthwick's roaring strand;
Dimly he view'd the moathill's mound,
Where Druid shades still flitted round:
In Hawick twinkled many a light;
Behind him soon they set in night;
And soon he spurr'd his courser keen
Beneath the tower of Hazeldean.


The clattering hoofs the watchmen mark;-
"Stand, ho! thou courier of the dark."
"For Branksome, ho!" the knight rejoin'd,
And left the friendly tower behind.

He turn'd him now from Teviot side,
And, guided by the tinkling rill,
Northward the dark ascent did ride,

And gain'd the moor at Horslie hill;
Broad on the left before him lay,
For many a mile the Roman way.§


A moment now he slack'd his speed,
A moment breathed his panting steed;
Drew saddle-girth and corslet-band,
And loosen'd in the sheath his brand.
On Mintocrags the moonbeams glint,
Where Barnhill hew'd his bed of flint;
Who flung his outlaw'd limbs to rest,
Where falcons hang their giddy nest,
'Mid cliffs, from whence his eagle eye,
For many a league, his prey could spy;
Cliffs doubling, on their echoes borne,
The terrors of the robber's horn;
Cliffs, which, for many a later year,
The warbling Doric reed shall hear,
When some sad swain shall teach the grove,
Ambition is no cure for love.

*Haribee, the place of executing the Border marauders at Carlisle. The neck-verse is the beginning of the fiftyfirst psalm, Miserere mei, &c. anciently read by criminals, claiming the benefit of clergy.

+ Barbican, the defence of the outer gate of a feudal castle.

Peel, a Border tower.

§ An ancient Roman road, crossing through part of Roxburghshire.

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