Marmion - Вальтер Скотт 8 стр.

Like April morning clouds, that pass,
With varying shadow, oer the grass,
And imitate, on field and furrow,
Lifes chequerd scene of joy and sorrow;
Like streamlet of the mountain north,                        5
Now in a torrent racing forth,
Now winding slow its silver train,
And almost slumbering on the plain;
Like breezes of the autumn day,
Whose voice inconstant dies away,                          10
And ever swells again as fast,
When the ear deems its murmur past;
Thus various, my romantic theme
Flits, winds, or sinks, a morning dream.
Yet pleased, our eye pursues the trace                      15
Of Light and Shades inconstant race;
Pleased, views the rivulet afar,
Weaving its maze irregular;
And pleased, we listen as the breeze
Heaves its wild sigh through Autumn trees;                  20
Then, wild as cloud, or stream, or gale,
Flow on, flow unconfined, my Tale!

Need I to thee, dear Erskine, tell
I love the license all too well,
In sounds now lowly, and now strong,                        25
To raise the desultory song?
Oft, when mid such capricious chime,
Some transient fit of lofty rhyme
To thy kind judgment seemd excuse
For many an error of the muse,                              30
Oft hast thou said, If, still misspent,
Thine hours to poetry are lent,
Go, and to tame thy wandering course,
Quaff from the fountain at the source;
Approach those masters, oer whose tomb                    35
Immortal laurels ever bloom:
Instructive of the feebler bard,
Still from the grave their voice is heard;
From them, and from the paths they showd,
Choose honourd guide and practised road;                  40
Nor ramble on through brake and maze,
With harpers rude of barbarous days.

  Or deemst thou not our later time
Yields topic meet for classic rhyme?
Hast thou no elegiac verse                                  45
For Brunswicks venerable hearse?
What! not a line, a tear, a sigh,
When valour bleeds for liberty? -
Oh, hero of that glorious time,
When, with unrivalld light sublime,                        50
Though martial Austria, and though all
The might of Russia, and the Gaul,
Though banded Europe stood her foes-
The star of Brandenburgh arose!
Thou couldst not live to see her beam                      55
For ever quenchd in Jenas stream.
Lamented Chief!  it was not given
To thee to change the doom of Heaven,
And crush that dragon in its birth,
Predestined scourge of guilty earth.                        60
Lamented Chief!  not thine the power,
To save in that presumptuous hour,
When Prussia hurried to the field,
And snatchd the spear, but left the shield!
Valour and skill twas thine to try,                        65
And, tried in vain, twas thine to die.
Ill had it seemd thy silver hair
The last, the bitterest pang to share,
For princedoms reft, and scutcheons riven,
And birthrights to usurpers given;                          70
Thy lands, thy childrens wrongs to feel,
And witness woes thou couldst not heal!
On thee relenting Heaven bestows
For honourd life an honourd close;
And when revolves, in times sure change,                  75
The hour of Germanys revenge,
When, breathing fury for her sake,
Some new Arminius shall awake,
Her champion, ere he strike, shall come
To whet his sword on BRUNSWICKS tomb,                      80

  Or of the Red-Cross hero teach
Dauntless in dungeon as on breach:
Alike to him the sea, the shore,
The brand, the bridle, or the oar:
Alike to him the war that calls                            85
Its votaries to the shatterd walls,
Which the grim Turk, besmeard with blood,
Against the Invincible made good;
Or that, whose thundering voice could wake
The silence of the polar lake,                              90
When stubborn Russ, and metald Swede,
On the warpd wave their death-game playd;
Or that, where Vengeance and Affright
Howld round the father of the fight,
Who snatchd, on Alexandrias sand,                        95
The conquerors wreath with dying hand.

  Or, if to touch such chord be thine,
Restore the ancient tragic line,
And emulate the notes that rung
From the wild harp, which silent hung                      100
By silver Avons holy shore,
Till twice an hundred years rolld oer;
When she, the bold Enchantress, came,
With fearless hand and heart on flame!
From the pale willow snatchd the treasure,                105
And swept it with a kindred measure,
Till Avons swans, while rung the grove
With Montforts hate and Basils love,
Awakening at the inspired strain,
Deemd their own Shakspeare lived again.                  110

  Thy friendship thus thy judgment wronging,
With praises not to me belonging,
In task more meet for mightiest powers,
Wouldst thou engage my thriftless hours.
But say, my Erskine, hast thou weighd                    115
That secret power by all obeyd,
Which warps not less the passive mind,
Its source conceald or undefined;
Whether an impulse, that has birth
Soon as the infant wakes on earth,                        120
One with our feelings and our powers,
And rather part of us than ours;
Or whether fitlier termd the sway
Of habit, formd in early day?
Howeer derived, its force confest                        125
Rules with despotic sway the breast,
And drags us on by viewless chain,
While taste and reason plead in vain.
Look east, and ask the Belgian why,
Beneath Batavias sultry sky,                              130
He seeks not eager to inhale
The freshness of the mountain gale,
Content to rear his whitend wall
Beside the dank and dull canal?
Hell say, from youth he loved to see                      135
The white sail gliding by the tree.
Or see yon weatherbeaten hind,
Whose sluggish herds before him wind,
Whose tatterd plaid and rugged cheek
His northern clime and kindred speak;                      140
Through Englands laughing meads he goes,
And Englands wealth around him flows;
Ask, if it would content him well,
At ease in those gay plains to dwell,
Where hedge-rows spread a verdant screen,                  145
And spires and forests intervene,
And the neat cottage peeps between?
No! not for these will he exchange
His dark Lochabers boundless range;
Not for fair Devons meads forsake                        150
Bennevis grey, and Carrys lake.

  Thus while I ape the measure wild
Of tales that charmd me yet a child,
Rude though they be, still with the chime
Return the thoughts of early time;                        155
And feelings, roused in lifes first day,
Glow in the line, and prompt the lay.
Then rise those crags, that mountain tower
Which charmd my fancys wakening hour.
Though no broad river swept along,                        160
To claim, perchance, heroic song;
Though sighd no groves in summer gale,
To prompt of love a softer tale;
Though scarce a puny streamlets speed
Claimd homage from a shepherds reed;                    165
Yet was poetic impulse given,
By the green hill and clear blue heaven.
It was a barren scene, and wild,
Where naked cliffs were rudely piled;
But ever and anon between                                  170
Lay velvet tufts of loveliest green;
And well the lonely infant knew
Recesses where the wall-flower grew,
And honey-suckle loved to crawl
Up the low crag and ruind wall.                          175
I deemd such nooks the sweetest shade
The sun in all its round surveyd;
And still I thought that shatterd tower
The mightiest work of human power;
And marvelld as the aged hind                            180
With some strange tale bewitchd my mind,
Of forayers, who, with headlong force,
Down from that strength had spurrd their horse,
Their southern rapine to renew,
Far in the distant Cheviots blue,                          185
And, home returning, filld the hall
With revel, wassel-rout, and brawl.
Methought that still with trump and clang,
The gateways broken arches rang;
Methought grim features, seamd with scars,                190
Glared through the windows rusty bars,
And ever, by the winter hearth,
Old tales I heard of woe or mirth,
Of lovers slights, of ladies charms,
Of witches spells, of warriors arms;                    195
Of patriot battles, won of old
By Wallace wight and Bruce the bold;
Of later fields of feud and fight,
When, pouring from their Highland height,
The Scottish clans, in headlong sway,                      200
Had swept the scarlet ranks away.
While stretchd at length upon the floor,
Again I fought each combat oer,
Pebbles and shells, in order laid,
The mimic ranks of war displayd;                          205
And onward still the Scottish Lion bore,
And still the scattered Southron fled before.

  Still, with vain fondness, could I trace,
Anew, each kind familiar face,
That brightend at our evening fire!                      210
From the thatchd mansions grey-haird Sire,
Wise without learning, plain and good,
And sprung of Scotlands gentler blood;
Whose eye, in age, quick, clear, and keen,
Showd what in youth its glance had been;                  215
Whose doom discording neighbours sought,
Content with equity unbought;
To him the venerable Priest,
Our frequent and familiar guest,
Whose life and manners well could paint                    220
Alike the student and the saint;
Alas! whose speech too oft I broke
With gambol rude and timeless joke:
For I was wayward, bold, and wild,
A self-willd imp, a grandames child;                    225
But half a plague, and half a jest,
Was still endured, beloved, caressd.

  From me, thus nurtured, dost thou ask
The classic poets well-connd task?
Nay, Erskine, nay-On the wild hill                        230
Let the wild heath-bell flourish still;
Cherish the tulip, prune the vine,
But freely let the woodbine twine,
And leave untrimmd the eglantine:
Nay, my friend, nay-Since oft thy praise                  235
Hath given fresh vigour to my lays;
Since oft thy judgment could refine
My flattend thought, or cumbrous line;
Still kind, as is thy wont, attend,
And in the minstrel spare the friend.                      240
Though wild as cloud, as stream, as gale,
Flow forth, flow unrestraind, my Tale!

Like April morning clouds, that pass,
With varying shadow, oer the grass,
And imitate, on field and furrow,
Lifes chequerd scene of joy and sorrow;
Like streamlet of the mountain north,                        5
Now in a torrent racing forth,
Now winding slow its silver train,
And almost slumbering on the plain;
Like breezes of the autumn day,
Whose voice inconstant dies away,                          10
And ever swells again as fast,
When the ear deems its murmur past;
Thus various, my romantic theme
Flits, winds, or sinks, a morning dream.
Yet pleased, our eye pursues the trace                      15
Of Light and Shades inconstant race;
Pleased, views the rivulet afar,
Weaving its maze irregular;
And pleased, we listen as the breeze
Heaves its wild sigh through Autumn trees;                  20
Then, wild as cloud, or stream, or gale,
Flow on, flow unconfined, my Tale!

Need I to thee, dear Erskine, tell
I love the license all too well,
In sounds now lowly, and now strong,                        25
To raise the desultory song?
Oft, when mid such capricious chime,
Some transient fit of lofty rhyme
To thy kind judgment seemd excuse
For many an error of the muse,                              30
Oft hast thou said, If, still misspent,
Thine hours to poetry are lent,
Go, and to tame thy wandering course,
Quaff from the fountain at the source;
Approach those masters, oer whose tomb                    35
Immortal laurels ever bloom:
Instructive of the feebler bard,
Still from the grave their voice is heard;
From them, and from the paths they showd,
Choose honourd guide and practised road;                  40
Nor ramble on through brake and maze,
With harpers rude of barbarous days.

  Or deemst thou not our later time
Yields topic meet for classic rhyme?
Hast thou no elegiac verse                                  45
For Brunswicks venerable hearse?
What! not a line, a tear, a sigh,
When valour bleeds for liberty? -
Oh, hero of that glorious time,
When, with unrivalld light sublime,                        50
Though martial Austria, and though all
The might of Russia, and the Gaul,
Though banded Europe stood her foes-
The star of Brandenburgh arose!
Thou couldst not live to see her beam                      55
For ever quenchd in Jenas stream.
Lamented Chief!  it was not given
To thee to change the doom of Heaven,
And crush that dragon in its birth,
Predestined scourge of guilty earth.                        60
Lamented Chief!  not thine the power,
To save in that presumptuous hour,
When Prussia hurried to the field,
And snatchd the spear, but left the shield!
Valour and skill twas thine to try,                        65
And, tried in vain, twas thine to die.
Ill had it seemd thy silver hair
The last, the bitterest pang to share,
For princedoms reft, and scutcheons riven,
And birthrights to usurpers given;                          70
Thy lands, thy childrens wrongs to feel,
And witness woes thou couldst not heal!
On thee relenting Heaven bestows
For honourd life an honourd close;
And when revolves, in times sure change,                  75
The hour of Germanys revenge,
When, breathing fury for her sake,
Some new Arminius shall awake,
Her champion, ere he strike, shall come
To whet his sword on BRUNSWICKS tomb,                      80

  Or of the Red-Cross hero teach
Dauntless in dungeon as on breach:
Alike to him the sea, the shore,
The brand, the bridle, or the oar:
Alike to him the war that calls                            85
Its votaries to the shatterd walls,
Which the grim Turk, besmeard with blood,
Against the Invincible made good;
Or that, whose thundering voice could wake
The silence of the polar lake,                              90
When stubborn Russ, and metald Swede,
On the warpd wave their death-game playd;
Or that, where Vengeance and Affright
Howld round the father of the fight,
Who snatchd, on Alexandrias sand,                        95
The conquerors wreath with dying hand.

  Or, if to touch such chord be thine,
Restore the ancient tragic line,
And emulate the notes that rung
From the wild harp, which silent hung                      100
By silver Avons holy shore,
Till twice an hundred years rolld oer;
When she, the bold Enchantress, came,
With fearless hand and heart on flame!
From the pale willow snatchd the treasure,                105
And swept it with a kindred measure,
Till Avons swans, while rung the grove
With Montforts hate and Basils love,
Awakening at the inspired strain,
Deemd their own Shakspeare lived again.                  110

  Thy friendship thus thy judgment wronging,
With praises not to me belonging,
In task more meet for mightiest powers,
Wouldst thou engage my thriftless hours.
But say, my Erskine, hast thou weighd                    115
That secret power by all obeyd,
Which warps not less the passive mind,
Its source conceald or undefined;
Whether an impulse, that has birth
Soon as the infant wakes on earth,                        120
One with our feelings and our powers,
And rather part of us than ours;
Or whether fitlier termd the sway
Of habit, formd in early day?
Howeer derived, its force confest                        125
Rules with despotic sway the breast,
And drags us on by viewless chain,
While taste and reason plead in vain.
Look east, and ask the Belgian why,
Beneath Batavias sultry sky,                              130
He seeks not eager to inhale
The freshness of the mountain gale,
Content to rear his whitend wall
Beside the dank and dull canal?
Hell say, from youth he loved to see                      135
The white sail gliding by the tree.
Or see yon weatherbeaten hind,
Whose sluggish herds before him wind,
Whose tatterd plaid and rugged cheek
His northern clime and kindred speak;                      140
Through Englands laughing meads he goes,
And Englands wealth around him flows;
Ask, if it would content him well,
At ease in those gay plains to dwell,
Where hedge-rows spread a verdant screen,                  145
And spires and forests intervene,
And the neat cottage peeps between?
No! not for these will he exchange
His dark Lochabers boundless range;
Not for fair Devons meads forsake                        150
Bennevis grey, and Carrys lake.

  Thus while I ape the measure wild
Of tales that charmd me yet a child,
Rude though they be, still with the chime
Return the thoughts of early time;                        155
And feelings, roused in lifes first day,
Glow in the line, and prompt the lay.
Then rise those crags, that mountain tower
Which charmd my fancys wakening hour.
Though no broad river swept along,                        160
To claim, perchance, heroic song;
Though sighd no groves in summer gale,
To prompt of love a softer tale;
Though scarce a puny streamlets speed
Claimd homage from a shepherds reed;                    165
Yet was poetic impulse given,
By the green hill and clear blue heaven.
It was a barren scene, and wild,
Where naked cliffs were rudely piled;
But ever and anon between                                  170
Lay velvet tufts of loveliest green;
And well the lonely infant knew
Recesses where the wall-flower grew,
And honey-suckle loved to crawl
Up the low crag and ruind wall.                          175
I deemd such nooks the sweetest shade
The sun in all its round surveyd;
And still I thought that shatterd tower
The mightiest work of human power;
And marvelld as the aged hind                            180
With some strange tale bewitchd my mind,
Of forayers, who, with headlong force,
Down from that strength had spurrd their horse,
Their southern rapine to renew,
Far in the distant Cheviots blue,                          185
And, home returning, filld the hall
With revel, wassel-rout, and brawl.
Methought that still with trump and clang,
The gateways broken arches rang;
Methought grim features, seamd with scars,                190
Glared through the windows rusty bars,
And ever, by the winter hearth,
Old tales I heard of woe or mirth,
Of lovers slights, of ladies charms,
Of witches spells, of warriors arms;                    195
Of patriot battles, won of old
By Wallace wight and Bruce the bold;
Of later fields of feud and fight,
When, pouring from their Highland height,
The Scottish clans, in headlong sway,                      200
Had swept the scarlet ranks away.
While stretchd at length upon the floor,
Again I fought each combat oer,
Pebbles and shells, in order laid,
The mimic ranks of war displayd;                          205
And onward still the Scottish Lion bore,
And still the scattered Southron fled before.

  Still, with vain fondness, could I trace,
Anew, each kind familiar face,
That brightend at our evening fire!                      210
From the thatchd mansions grey-haird Sire,
Wise without learning, plain and good,
And sprung of Scotlands gentler blood;
Whose eye, in age, quick, clear, and keen,
Showd what in youth its glance had been;                  215
Whose doom discording neighbours sought,
Content with equity unbought;
To him the venerable Priest,
Our frequent and familiar guest,
Whose life and manners well could paint                    220
Alike the student and the saint;
Alas! whose speech too oft I broke
With gambol rude and timeless joke:
For I was wayward, bold, and wild,
A self-willd imp, a grandames child;                    225
But half a plague, and half a jest,
Was still endured, beloved, caressd.

  From me, thus nurtured, dost thou ask
The classic poets well-connd task?
Nay, Erskine, nay-On the wild hill                        230
Let the wild heath-bell flourish still;
Cherish the tulip, prune the vine,
But freely let the woodbine twine,
And leave untrimmd the eglantine:
Nay, my friend, nay-Since oft thy praise                  235
Hath given fresh vigour to my lays;
Since oft thy judgment could refine
My flattend thought, or cumbrous line;
Still kind, as is thy wont, attend,
And in the minstrel spare the friend.                      240
Though wild as cloud, as stream, as gale,
Flow forth, flow unrestraind, my Tale!