O'er better knight on death-bier laid Torch never gleamed nor mass was said!'

XXXV

Nor for De Argentine alone
Through Ninian's church these torches

shone

And rose the death-prayer's awful tone.
That yellow lustre glimmered pale
On broken plate and bloodied mail,
Rent crest and shattered coronet,
Of baron, earl, and banneret;
And the best names that England knew
Claimed in the death-prayer dismal due.
Yet mourn not, Land of Fame !
Though ne'er the Leopards on thy shield
Retreated from so sad a field

Since Norman William came.
Oft may thine annals justly boast
Of battles stern by Scotland lost;
Grudge not her victory

When for her freeborn rights she strove;
Rights dear to all who freedom love,
To none so dear as thee!

XXXVI

Turn we to Bruce whose curious ear
Must from Fitz-Louis tidings hear;
With him a hundred voices tell
Of prodigy and miracle,

For the mute page had spoke.'-
'Page!' said Fitz-Louis, 'rather say
An angel sent from realms of day

To burst the English yoke.

I saw his plume and bounet drop
When hurrying from the mountain top;
A lovely brow, dark locks that wave,
To his bright eyes new lustre gave,
A step as light upon the green,
As if his pinions waved unseen
'Spoke he with none?'-'With none
one word

900

910

920

-

930

Burst when he saw the Island Lord
Returning from the battle-field.'-
What answer made the chief?'-' He
kneeled,

Durst not look up, but muttered low
Some mingled sounds that none might

know,

And greeted him 'twixt joy and fear As being of superior sphere.'

XXVII

Even upon Bannock's bloody plain Heaped then with thousands of the slain,

Mid victor monarch's musings high,
Mirth laughed in good King Robert's

eye:

940

And bore he such angelic air, Such noble front, such waving hair? Hath Ronald kneeled to him?' he said; 'Then must we call the church to aid · Our will be to the abbot known Ere these strange news are wider blown, To Cambuskenneth straight he pass And deck the church for solemn mass, To pay for high deliverance given A nation's thanks to gracious Heaven. Let him array besides such state, As should on princes' nuptials wait. Ourself the cause, through fortune's spite, That once broke short that spousal rite, Ourself will grace with early morn The bridal of the Maid of Lorn.'

The brief Advertisement which was the sole preface Scott ever wrote to The Field of Waterloo intimates the circumstances under which it was written and the immediate purpose of its publication. It may be some apology for the imperfections of this poem, that it was composed hastily, and during a short tour upon the Continent, when the author's labors were liable to frequent interruption; but its best apology is, that it was written for the purpose of assisting the Waterloo Subscription.'

The battle of Waterloo was fought in June, 1815, and Scott, fired by a spirited letter from one of the surgeons on the field to a brother in Edinburgh, suddenly resolved in the middle of July to go to Brussels and visit the battle-field. As an illustration of the slowness of travel at that time it may be noted that though he and his companions left Edinburgh 28 July, they did not reach Harwich till 4 August, when they hired a boat to take them to Helvoetsluys. The excursion was minutely chronicled in the prose Paul's Letters to his Kinsfolk, and gave rise to some animated personal letters printed by Lockhart. The poem also appears to have been begun and indeed practically completed en

route.

Scott wrote to Mr. Morritt, under date of 2 October, 1815, the poem will be out this week, and you shall have a copy by the Carlisle coach, which pray judge favorably, and remember it is not always the grandest actions which are best adapted for the arts of poetry and painting. I believe I shall give offence to my old friends the Whigs, by not condoling with Buonaparte. Since his sentence of transportation, he has begun to look wonderfully comely in their eves. I would they had hanged him, that he might have died a perfect Adonis.' Lockhart, at the close of chapter xxxv., gives a transcript of some notes written on the margin of the proof-sheets of the poem. John Ballantyne was at Abbotsford when the proof was ready, so his brother James sent the sheets

to him with his own comments, and John entertained himself with recording below James's notes, the remarks which Scott made. Some of the more interesting of these points will be found in the Notes at the end of this vol

ume.

The timeliness of the publication, and its manner, for it appeared in October, 1815, in a small volume, gave it immediate popularity. In writing to Lady Louisa Stuart, who had praised it enthusiastically, Scott was not disposed to be much elated by his success: 'I need hardly say,' he writes, 'that your applause is always gratifying to me, but more partienlarly so when it encourages me to hope I have got tolerably well out of a hazardous scrape. The Duke of Wellington himself told me there was nothing so dreadful as a battle won excepting only a battle lost. And lost or won, I can answer for it, they are almost as severe upon the bard who celebrates as the warrior who fights them. But I had committed myself in the present case, and like many a hot-headed man, had got into the midst of the fray without considering well how I was to clear myself out of it.' Scott went on in his letter to speak of the other tasks that had been employing him, concluding: If you ask me why I do these things, I would be much at a loss to give a good answer. I have been tempted to write for fame, and there have been periods when I have been compelled to write for money. Neither of these motives now exist — my fortune, though moderate, suffices my wishes, and I have heard so many blasts from the trumpet of Fame, both good and evil, that I am hardly tempted to solicit her notice anew. But the habit of throwing my ideas into rhyme is not easily conquered, and so, like Dogberry, I go on bestowing my tediousness upon the public. The poem was issued in a cheap form and quickly surpassed in circulation both of the two long poems which were freshest in the memory of readers, Rokeby and The Lord of the Isles.

AKENSIDE.

ΤΟ

THE

ABBOTSFORD, 1815.

I

FAIR Brussels, thou art far behind,
Though, lingering on the morning wind,
We yet may hear the hour
Pealed over orchard and canal,
With voice prolonged and measured fall,
From proud Saint Michael's tower;
Thy wood, dark Soignies, holds us now,
Where the tall beeches' glossy bough
For many a league around,

With birch and darksome oak between,
Spreads deep and far a pathless screen
Of tangled forest ground.
Stems planted close by stems defy
The adventurous foot-the curious eye
For access seeks in vain;
And the brown tapestry of leaves,
Strewed on the blighted ground, receives
Nor sun nor air nor rain.

ridge

V

- so each mortal deems Of that which is from that which seems:

But other harvest here

Than that which peasant's scythe demands Was gathered in by sterner hands,

With bayonet, blade, and spear.
No vulgar crop was theirs to reap,
No stinted harvest thin and cheap!
Heroes before each fatal sweep

Fell thick as ripened grain;
And ere the darkening of the day,
Piled high as autumn shocks there lay
The ghastly harvest of the fray,
The corpses of the slain.

VI

90

99

Ay, look again that line so black
And trampled marks the bivouac,
You deep-graved ruts the artillery's track,
So often lost and won;

And close beside the hardened mud
Still shows where, fetlock-deep in blood,
The fierce dragoon through battle's flood
Dashed the hot war-horse on.
These spots of excavation tell
The ravage of the bursting shell-
And feel'st thou not the tainted steam
That reeks against the sultry beam

From yonder trenched mound?
The pestilential fumes declare
That Carnage has replenished there
Her garner-house profound.

VII

110

on, stern foe of mortal life, Feast on ! - but think not that a strife With such promiscuous carnage rife Protracted space may last; The deadly tug of war at length Must limits find in human strength,

And cease when these are past.

140

Vain hope!
- that morn's o'erclouded sun
Heard the wild shout of fight begun
Ere he attained his height,
And through the war-smoke volumed high
Still peals that unremitted cry,

Though now he stoops to night.
For ten long hours of doubt and dread,
Fresh succors from the extended head
Of either hill the contest fed;

Still down the slope they drew,
The charge of columns paused not,

Nor ceased the storm of shell and shot; 150
For all that war could do

Of skill and force was proved that day,
And turned not yet the doubtful fray
On bloody Waterloo.

IX

Pale Brussels! then what thoughts were

thine,

When ceaseless from the distant line Continued thunders came !

Each burgher held his breath to hear These forerunners of havoc near,

Of rapine and of flame.

160

What ghastly sights were thine to meet,
When, rolling through thy stately street,
The wounded showed their mangled plight
In token of the unfinished fight,
And from each anguish-laden wain
The blood-drops laid thy dust like rain!
How often in the distant drum
Heard'st thou the fell invader come,
While Ruin, shouting to his band,
Shook high her torch and gory brand!
Cheer thee, fair city! From yon stand
Impatient still his outstretched hand

Points to his prey in vain,
While maddening in his eager mood
And all unwont to be withstood,

He fires the fight again.

X

'On! On!' was still his stern exclaim; 'Confront the battery's jaws of flame ! Rush on the levelled gun !

169