It seemed that the repentant Seer Her sleep of many a hundred year With gentle dreams beguiled. XXXVIII That form of maiden loveliness, Doubtful how he should destroy Long-enduring spell; Doubtful too, when slowly rise Dark-fringed lids of Gyneth's eyes, 'Saint George! Saint Mary! can it be That they will kindly look on me!' XXXIX Gently, lo! the warrior kneels, Gyneth startles from her sleep, Burst the castle-walls asunder! Safe the princess lay; Safe and free from magic power, 840 850 860 870 880 And round the champion's brows were bound The crown that Druidess had wound Of the green laurel-bay. And this was what remained of all The wealth of each enchanted hall, 311 The Garland and the Dame: But where should warrior seek the meed 890 Due to high worth for daring deed Except from LOVE and FAME ! CONCLUSION I My Lucy, when the maid is won The minstrel's task, thou know'st, is done; And to require of bard That to his dregs the tale should run Were ordinance too hard. Our lovers, briefly be it said, Lived long and blest, loved fond and true, The honors that they bore. But never man since brave De Vaux 'T is now a vain illusive show That melts whene'er the sunbeams glow, Or the fresh breeze hath blown. ΤΟ 20 Marvelling perchance what whim can stay Our steps when eve is sinking gray On this gigantic hill. So think the vulgar — Life and time And O, beside these simple knaves, To such coarse joys as these, The greenwood and the wold; And love the more that of their maze Adventure high of other days By ancient bards is told, 3C 40 Bringing perchance, like my poor tale, My love shall wrap her warm, And, fearless of the slippery way While safe she trips the heathy brae, Shall hang on Arthur's arm. THE LORD OF THE ISLES A POEM IN SIX CANTOS INTRODUCTORY NOTE When The Lord of the Isles was published, Scott wrote of it to Lady Abercorn: 'I think it is my last poetical venture, at least upon a large scale. I swear not, because I do not make any positive resolution, but I think I have written enough, and it is unlikely I shall change my opinion. With his healthy mind, Scott was not likely to misread the signs of nature, or the movement which his intellectual interest was likely to take. When he wrote these words he had published Waverley, and was projecting Guy Mannering, and the wider range which fiction could take to include the experiences of life which most appealed to him was too evident to permit him ever to return to any considerable poetic effort. As in the case of his earlier work, he drove two horses abreast and was at work alternately on this poem and on the novel, whose early draft he stumbled on at this time. The poem, indeed, had been projected earlier, before Rokeby was written, but in the final heat it was despatched with great rapidity, for, begun at Abbotsford in the autumn of 1814, it was ended at Edinburgh the 16th of December, and published January 2, 1815. 'It may be mentioned,' says the anonymous editor of the British Poets Edition,' that those parts of the poem which were written at Abbotsford, were composed almost all in the presence of Sir Walter Scott's family, and many in that of casual visitors also: the original cottage which he then occupied not affording him any means of retirement. Neither conversation nor music seemed to disturb him.' When he was in the midst of his work, he wrote to Morritt: 'My literary tormentor is a certain Lord of the Isles, famed for his tyranny of yore, and not unjustly. I am bothering some tale of him I have had long by me into a sort of romance. I think 50 you will like it: it is Scottified up to the teeth, and somehow I feel myself like the liberated chiefs of the Rolliad, "who boast their native philabeg restored." I believe the frolics one can cut in this loose garb are all set down by you Sassenachs to the real agility of the wearer, and not the brave, free, and independent character of his clothing. It is, in a word, the real Highland fiing, and no one is supposed able to dance it but a native.' The poem bore this advertisement when it was printed. ADVERTISEMENT The Scene of this Poem lies, at first. in the Castle of Artornish, on the coast of Argyleshire; and, afterwards, in the Islands of Skye and Arran, and upon the coast of Ayrshire. Finally it is laid near Stirling. The story opens in the spring of the year 1307, when Bruce, who had been driven out of Scotland by the English, and the Barons who adhered to that foreign interest, returned from the Island of Rachrin on the coast of Ireland, again to assert his claims to the Scottish crown. Many of the personages and incidents introduced are of historical celebrity. The authorities used are chiefly those of the venerable Lord Hailes, as well entitled to be called the restorer of Scottish history, as Bruce the restorer of Scottish Monarchy; and of Archdeacon Barbour; a correct edition of whose Metrical History of Robert Bruce will soon, I trust, appear, under the care of my learned friend, the Rev. Dr. Jamieson. ABBOTSFORD, 10th December, 1814. The edition of 1833 had the following introduction, those passages being omitted here which relate to The Bridal of Triermain and Harold the Dauntless, since they are printed in connection with those poems. INTRODUCTION I could hardly have chosen a subject more popular in Scotland than anything connected with the Bruce's history, unless I had attempted that of Wallace. But I am decidedly of opinion that a popular, or what is called a taking, title, though well qualified to ensure the pub lishers against loss, and clear their shelves of the original impression, is rather apt to be hazardous than otherwise to the reputation of the author. He who attempts a subject of distinguished popularity has not the privilege of awakening the enthusiasm of his audience; on the contrary, it is already awakened, and glows, it may be, more ardently than that of the author himself. In this case the warmth of the author is inferior to that of the party whom he addresses, who has therefore little chance of being, in Bayes's phrase, elevated and surprised' by what he has thought of with more enthusiasm than the writer. The sense of this risk, joined to the consciousness of striving against wind and tide, made the task of composing the proposed Poem somewhat heavy and hopeless; but, like the prize-fighter in As You Like It, I was to wrestle for my reputation, and not neglect any advantage. In a most agreeable pleasure-voyage, which I have tried to commemorate in the Introduction to the new edition of the Pirate, I visited, in social and friendly company, the coasts and islands of Scotland, and made myself acquainted with the localities of which I meant to treat. But this voyage, which was in every other effect so delightful, was in its conclusion saddened by one of those strokes of fate which so often mingle themselves with our pleasures. The accomplished and excellent person who had recommended to me the subject for The Lay of the Last Minstrel, [Harriet, Duchess of Buc CANTO cleuch] and to whom I proposed to inscribe what I already suspected might be the close of my poetical labors, was unexpectedly removed from the world, which she seemed only to have visited for purposes of kindness and benevolence. It is needless to say how the author's feelings, or the composition of his trifling work, were affected by a circumstance which occasioned so many tears and so much sorrow. True it is, that The Lord of the Isles was concluded, unwillingly and in haste, under the painful feeling of one who has a task which must be finished, rather than with the ardor of one who endeavors to perform that task well. Although the Poem cannot be said to have made a favorable impression on the public, the sale of fifteen thousand copies enabled the Author to retreat from the field with the honors of war. In the mean time, what was necessarily to be considered as a failure was much reconciled to my feelings by the success attending my attempt in another species of composition. Waverley had, under strict incognito, taken its flight from the press, just before I set out upon the voyage already mentioned; it had now made its way to popularity, and the success of that work and the volumes which followed was sufficient to have satisfied a greater appetite for applause than I have at any time possessed. AUTUMN departs but still his mantle's fold The deep-toned cushat and the redbreast shrill; And yet some tints of summer splendor tell When the broad sun sinks down on Ettrick's western fell. Autumn departs from Gala's fields no more Some age-struck wanderer gleans few ears of scattered grain. Deem'st thou these saddened scenes have pleasure still, To listen to the woods' expiring lay, To note the red leaf shivering on the spray, To mark the last bright tints the mountain stain, On the waste fields to trace the gleaner's way, And moralize on mortal joy and pain? O, if such scenes thou lov'st, scorn not the minstrel strain! No! do not scorn, although its hoarser note Through fields time-wasted, on sad inquest bound Where happier bards of yore have richer harvest found. So shalt thou list, and haply not unmoved, In distant lands, by the rough West reproved, Still live some relics of the ancient lay. For, when on Coolin's hills the lights decay, Where rest from mortal coil the Mighty of the Isles. I 'Wake, Maid of Lorn!' the minstrels sung. Thy rugged halls, Artornish, rung, Lulled were the winds on Inninmore 50 60 't was thus And yet more proud the descant rung, 69 30 40 'Wake, Maid of Lorn! high right is ours In Lettermore the timid deer III 80 Retired her maiden train among, But tamed the minstrel's pride had been To show the form it seemed to hide, VI O, lives there now so cold a maid, Who thus in beauty's pomp arrayed, 119 130 140 315 160 But Morag, to whose fostering care heart 170 In the vain pomp took little part. VIII 'Daughter,' she said, 'these seas behold, 180 |
