With haggard eyes and streaming hair, Jutta the Sorceress was there, And there passed Wulfstane lately slain, All crushed and foul with bloody stain. More had I seen, but that uprose A whirlwind wild and swept the snows; And with such sound as when at need A champion spurs his horse to speed, 180 Three armed knights rush on who lead Caparisoned a sable steed.

Sable their harness, and there came Through their closed visors sparks of flame.

The first proclaimed, in sounds of fear, "Harold the Dauntless, welcome here!"

220

A wanderer upon earth to pine Until his son shall turn to grace And smooth for him a resting-place.Gunnar, he must not haunt in vain This world of wretchedness and pain: I'll tame my wilful heart to live In peace - to pity and forgiveAnd thou, for so the Vision said, Must in thy Lord's repentance aid. Thy mother was a prophetess, He said, who by her skill could guess How close the fatal textures join Which knit thy thread of life with mine; Then dark he hinted of disguise She framed to cheat too curious eyes That not a moment might divide Thy fated footsteps from my side. Methought while thus my sire did teach I caught the meaning of his speech, Yet seems its purport doubtful now.' His hand then sought his thoughtful

brow

230

Then first he marked, that in the tower His glove was left at waking hour.

250

What sees Count Harold in that bower
So late his resting-place? -
The semblance of the Evil Power,
Adored by all his race!
Odin in living form stood there,
His cloak the spoils of Polar bear;
For plumy crest a meteor shed
Its gloomy radiance o'er his head,
Yet veiled its haggard majesty
To the wild lightnings of his eye.
Such height was his as when in stone
O'er Upsal's giant altar shown:

So flowed his hoary beard;
Such was his lance of mountain-pine,
So did his sevenfold buckler shine;

260

But when his voice he reared, Deep without harshness, slow and strong, The powerful accents rolled along, And while he spoke his hand was laid On captive Gunnar's shrinking head.

He placed her on a bank of moss,
A silver runnel bubbled by,
And new-born thoughts his soul engross,
And tremors yet unknown across

His stubborn sinews fly,

The while with timid hand the dew
Upon her brow and neck he threw,
And marked how life with rosy hue 330

From the time when Scott wrote the first of his long poems, The Lay of the Last Minstrel, till he deliberately abandoned the writing of long poems in Harold the Dauntless, twelve years later, he wrote about twoscore poems, and in the twelve years which then followed till he ceased writing altogether, only a dozen more, and a large number of these were occasional. This does not take account, however, of the bits of verse interspersed in the novels, some of which were among his most characteristic pieces. In 1806, after publishing The Lay

of the Last Minstrel and before publishing Marmion, Scott issued a collection of Balads and Lyrical Pieces, containing most of the matter included in our division, Early Rallads and Lyrics; but not again was any collection made till his distribution of all his writings toward the end of his life. It has seemed best, in our arrangement, not to interrupt the series of long poems by inserting these scattered verses between them, but to group them all in this general division, in as closely chronologi cal order as seemed practicable

THE DYING BARD

'The Welsh tradition,' says Scott, 'bears that a Bard, on his death-bed, demanded his harp, and played the air [Daffwdz Gangwen] to which these verses are adapted, requesting that it might be performed at his funeral.' Published in 1806.

DINAS EMLINN, lament; for the moment is nigh,

When mute in the woodlands thine echoes shall die:

No more by sweet Teivi Cadwallon shall

rave,

And mix his wild notes with the wild dashing wave.

In spring and in autumn thy glories of shade

Unhonored shall flourish, unhonored shall fade;

For soon shall be lifeless the eye and the tongue

That viewed them with rapture, with rapture that sung.

Thy sons, Dinas Emlinn, may march in their pride,

And chase the proud Saxon from Prestatyn's side;

But where is the harp shall give life to their name?

And where is the bard shall give heroes their fame ?

Unconquered thy warriors and matchless thy maids!

And thou whose faint warblings my weakness can tell,

Farewell, my loved harp! my last treasure, farewell!

THE NORMAN HORSE-SHOE

The Welsh, inhabiting a mountainous country, and possessing only an inferior breed of horses, were usually unable to encounter the shock of the Anglo-Norman cavalry. Occasionally, however, they were successful in repelling the invaders; and the following verses are supposed to celebrate a defeat of Clare, Earl of Striguil and Pembroke, and of Neville, Baron of Chepstow, Lords-Marchers of Mon mouthshire. Published in 1806.

RED glows the forge in Striguil's bounds,
And hammers din, and anvil sounds,
And armorers with iron toil

Barb many a steed for battle's broil.
Foul fall the hand which bends the steel
Around the courser's thundering heel,
That e'er shall dint a sable wound
On fair Glamorgan's velvet ground!

From Chepstow's towers ere dawn of morn
Was heard afar the bugle-horn,
And forth in banded pomp and pride
Stout Clare and fiery Neville ride.
They swore their banners broad should
gleam

In crimson light on Rymny's stream;
They vowed Caerphili's sod should feel
The Norman charger's spurning heel.

THE PALMER

Published, 1806, in Haydn's Collection of Scottish Airs.

'O OPEN the door, some pity to show,
Keen blows the northern wind!
The glen is white with the drifted snow,
And the path is hard to find.

'No outlaw seeks your castle gate,
From chasing the king's deer,
Though even an outlaw's wretched state
Might claim compassion here.

'A weary Palmer, worn and weak,
I wander for my sin;
O, open, for Our Lady's sake!
A pilgrim's blessing win!

'I'll give you pardons from the Pope,
And reliques from o'er the sea, —
Or if for these you will not ope,
Yet open for charity.

'The hare is crouching in her form,
The hart beside the hind;
An aged man amid the storm,

No shelter can I find.

'You hear the Ettrick's sullen roar, Dark, deep, and strong is he, And I must ford the Ettrick o'er, Unless you pity me.

'The iron gate is bolted hard,

At which I knock in vain; The owner's heart is closer barred, Who hears me thus complain.

'Farewell, farewell! and Mary grant
When old and frail you be,
You never may the shelter want
That's now denied to me.'

The ranger on his couch lay warm, And heard him plead in vain; But oft amid December's storm

He'll hear that voice again:

For lo! when through the vapors dank
Morn shone on Ettrick fair,
A corpse amid the alders rank,
The Palmer weltered there.