Он, young Lochinvar is come out of the west! Through all the wild Border his steed was the best; And, save his good broadsword, he weapon had
He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone!
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar!
He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone,
He swam the Esk river where ford there was none-
But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate,
The bride had consented!-the gallant came late;
For, a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar !
So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall,
'Mong bride's-men and kinsmen, and brothers, and
Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword
For the poor, craven bridegroom said never a word"Oh, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar ??
"I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied:
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide!
And now am I come, with this lost love of mine,
To tread but one measure, drink one cup of wine!-
There are maidens in Scotland, more lovely by far,
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar!"
The bride kissed the goblet! The knight took it up, He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup! She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh
With a smile on her lip, and a tear in her eye.
He took her soft hand ere her mother could bar,"Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar.
So stately his form and so lovely her face
That never a hall such a galliard did grace!
While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and
plume;
And the bride-maidens whispered, ""Twere better by far
To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar!"
One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, When they reached the hall-door, and the charger stood near
So light to the croup the fair lady he swung,
So light to the saddle before her he sprung!
"She is won!-we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur!
They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar.
There was mounting 'mong Græmes of the Netherby Clan;
Fosters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they
There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lea-
But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see.
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,
Have ye heard of gallant like the young Lochinvar ?
THE way was long, the wind was cold,
The minstrel was infirm and old;
His withered cheek, and tresses gray,
Seemed 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 oppressed,
Wished to be with them and at rest.
No more on prancing palfrey borne,
He carolled, light as lark at morn;
No longer courted and caressed,
High-placed in hall, a welcome guest,
He poured to lord and lady gay
The unpremeditated lay :
Old times were changed-old manners goneA stranger filled the Stuarts' throne.
The bigots of the iron time
Had called his harmless art-a crime:
A wandering harper, scorned and poor,
He begged his bread from door to door;
And tuned, to please a peasant's ear,
The harp a king had loved to hear.
He passed, 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 passed,
Whose ponderous grate and massy bar
Had oft rolled back the tide of war,
But never closed the iron door
Against the desolate and poor.
The duchess marked 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 degree;
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 Buccleugh;
And would the noble duchess deign
To listen to an old man's strain,
Though stiff his hand, his voice though weak,
He thought, even 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 obtained;
The aged minstrel audience gained:
But, when he reached the room of state,
Where she, with all her ladies sat,
Perchance he wished 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 ;-
Hẹ tried to tune his harp, in vain.
Amid the strings his fingers strayed,
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 lighted 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 soul were lost;
Each blank in faithless memory's void,
The poet's glowing thought supplied;
And while his harp responsive rung,
'Twas thus the latest minstrel sung:-
"Breathes there the man with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said,
'This is my own, my native land!' Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned, As home his footsteps he hath turned
From wandering on a foreign strand?
If such there breathe, go-mark him well;
For him no minstrel raptures swell:
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth, as wish can claim;
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentred all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonoured, and unsung!'
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