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SIR WALTER SCOTT.

Lord of the Isles" in 1814. "The Bridal of Triermain" and "Harold the Dauntless" ap. peared anonymously, the former in 1813 and the latter in 1817.

The first three of these narrative poems attained a grand success, both artistic and pecuniary; but then the charm began to pall. No one was more conscious of this than Scott himself. He says, too, that others had arisen who could overshoot him with his own bow, and he was obliged to resort to some other form of literary enchantment. The consequence was, that he introduced the historical romance and attained through his novels a larger fame than his poems had given him.

"Waverley was published in 1814, and the other novels followed in rapid succession. Scott was at the very pinnacle of prosperity for a dozen years while these romances were issuing from the press. Yet literary fame was not what he most desired. His darling ambition was to build a castle and found a family. He erected Abbotsford, the "romance in stone," and in 1820 he was created a baronet. But already his family is nearly extinct; only a granddaughter remains, and she seldom visits Abbotsford.

WALTER SCOTT was born in Edinburgh, on the 15th of August, 1771. His father was a writer to the signet, and of ancient and honorable 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," says 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." By the time he was twelve years old he had read an immense number of books, especially histories, travels, romances, and fairy tales. Percy's "Reliques of Ancient Poetry" gave him great delight, and encouraged him in the collection and preservation of old Scottish ballads. These he copied into little volumes which may still be seen at Abbotsford. "To this period," he says, "I can trace distinctly the awakening of that delightful feeling for the beauties of natural objects, which has never since deserted me. The romantic feelings which predominated in my mind naturally rested upon and associated themselves with the grand features of the landscape around me; and the historical incidents or traditional legends connected with many of them gave to my admiration a sort of intense impression of reverence, which at times made my heart feel too big for its bosom. From this time the love of natural beauty, more especially when combined with ancient ruins, or remains of our fathers' piety or splendor, became with me an insatiable passion." In 1783, he entered the University of Edin- In 1831 he was attacked with gradual paburgh, and in 1792 became an advocate at the ralysis. In the autumn of that year he was preScottish bar; but after a few years' attendance at vailed upon to visit the more genial climate of the courts, quitted it, in order to devote himself the south of Europe; but the experiment was to literature. He had, however, reached his twen- unsuccessful: he returned to Abbotsford, and ty-fifth year, before he manifested any desire, or died there on the 21st of September, 1832. rather intention, to contend for literary fame; His loss was mourned, not only by his own counand as he himself says his first attempt ended try, but in every portion of the civilized globe; in a transfer of his printed sheets to the service for there is scarcely a language into which his of the trunk-maker. Though discouraged, he works have not been translated. The kindness was not disheartened. In 1802, "The Min- of his heart, the benevolence of his disposition, strelsy of the Scottish Border" had a more for- the thorough goodness of his nature, were aptunate destiny; and about three years afterward preciated by all who had the privilege of his acthe publication of "The Lay of the Last Min-quaintance. In person he was tall, and had strel" completely established the fame of the writer. "Marmion" issued from the press in 1808; "The Lady of the Lake" in 1810; "Don Roderick" in 1811; "Rokeby " in 1813; "The VOL. II.-11

In 1826 the publishing house in Edinburgh in which he was a silent partner, became bankrupt. Scott met the crisis heroically; the creditors gave him time, and he set to work to pay off the enormous debt. He gave up Abbotsford, took lodgings in Edinburgh, and in three or four years performed an enormous amount of literary labor, including some of his novels and a "History of Napoleon" in eight volumes. In four years he paid off £70,000 of the debt.

But the tremendous labor had been too much for even Scott's vigor and endurance.

the appearance of a powerful and robust man. His countenance has been rendered familiar by artists in abundance; it is said that the best representation of it is the bust by Chantrey

THE

LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL.

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

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE CHARLES, EARL OF DALKEITH,

THIS POEM IS INSCRIBED, BY THE AUTHOR.

THE Pоem, 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

mance.

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.

INTRODUCTION.

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 war,
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 tunc 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. repre sentative of the ancient lords of Buccleuch, and widow of the unfortunate James, Duke of Monmouth, who was be headed 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.

CANTO I. I.

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.

II.

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.
III.

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.
IV.

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

bair'd.

V.

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.
VI.

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.
VII.

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.

VIII.

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!

IX.

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.

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