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 croupe the fair lady he swung,

So light to the saddle before her he sprung! 40

"She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur;2

They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar.

There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan;

Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran:

There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee,

But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see.

So daring in love and so dauntless in war, Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?

(1808)

MARMION AND DOUGLAS

(From Marmion, Canto VI)

SIR WALTER SCOTT

[Marmion has been sent as an envoy from Henry VIII of England to James IV of Scotland, who has defied the southern ruler. James receives Marmion and sends him to Tantallon Castle, the hall of Archibald Douglas, Earl of Angus, who is remaining behind the Scottish army. Presently, learning that the Scots have crossed into England, Marmion leaves Tantallon under a safe conduct to join the English.]

Not far advanced was morning day
When Marmion did his troop array

To Surrey's camp to ride;
He had safe-conduct for his band
Beneath the royal eal and hand,

"Of cold respect to stranger guest,
Sent hither by your king's behest,
While in Tantallon's towers I stayed,
Part we in friendship from your land,
And, noble earl, receive my hand."
But Douglas round him drew his cloak,
Folded his arms, and thus he spoke :- 20
"My manors, halls, and bowers shall still*
Be open at my sovereign's will
To each one whom he lists, howe'er
Unmeet to be the owner's peer.
My castles are my king's alone,
From turret to foundation-stone,-
The hand of Douglas is his own,
And never shall in friendly grasp
The hand of such as Marmion clasp."

Burned Marmion's swarthy cheek like fire,

And shook his very frame for ire.
And-"This to me!" he said.

"An 't were not for thy hoary beard,
Such hand as Marmion's had not spared
To cleave the Douglas' head!
And first I tell thee, haughty peer,
He who does England's message here,
Although the meanest in her state,
May well, proud Angus, be thy mate;
And, Douglas, more I tell thee here,
Even in thy pitch of pride,
Here in thy hold, thy vassals near,-
Nay, never look upon your lord,
And lay your hands upon your sword,-
I tell thee, thou 'rt defied!

And if thou saidst I am not peer To any lord in Scotland here, Lowland or Highland, far or near,

Lord Angus, thou hast lied!"

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On the earl's cheek the flush of rage 50 O'ercame the ashen hue of age;

Fierce he broke forth,-"And darest thou

then

And dashed the rowels5 in his steed,
Like arrow through the archway sprung,-
The ponderous grate behind him rung;

each gun

From its adamantine lips

Spread a death-shade round the ships, Like the hurricane eclipse

Of the sun.

Again! again! again!

And the havoc did not slack,

Till a feeble cheer the Dane

To our cheering sent us back;—

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Their shots along the deep slowly boom;-
Then ceased-and all is wail,

As they strike the shattered sail,
Or in conflagration pale
Light the gloom.

Out spoke the victor then

As he hailed them o'er the wave:
"Ye are brothers! ye are men!
And we conquer but to save;
So peace instead of death let us bring.
But yield, proud foe, thy fleet
With the crews, at England's feet,
And make submission meet
To our king."

Then Denmark blessed our chief,
That he gave her wounds repose;
And the sounds of joy and grief
From her people wildly rose,

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As death withdrew his shades from the 50 day;

While the sun looked smiling bright
O'er a wide and woeful sight,
Where the fires of funeral light

THE DESTRUCTION OF

SENNACHERIB

LORD BYRON

[This poem is one of a number of "Hebrew Melodies," and is imagined to have been sung by the Hebrews in the days of King Hezekiah; see 2 Kings, 18-19.]

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,

And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;

And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,

When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,

That host with their banners at sunset were seen:

Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown,

That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,

And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;

ΙΟ

And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,

And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,

But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride;

And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,

And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

And there lay the rider distorted and pale, With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail:

And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,

19

The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,

And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;

And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,

Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!

(1815)

THE PRISONER OF CHILLON

GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON

[An actual "prisoner of Chillon" existed in the person of François de Bonnivard, who, imbued with republican ideas, resisted the rule of the Duke of Savoy and was imprisoned from 1530 to 1536. He was confined in the castle of Chillon, on the shore of Lake Geneva (or Leman). The success of the republican cause brought about his release. Byron has supplied the two brothers, their deaths, and the story of the prisoner's life.]

My hair is gray, but not with years,
Nor grew it white

In a single night,

As men's have grown from sudden fears; My limbs are bowed, though not with toil,

But rusted with a vile repose,
For they have been a dungeon's spoil,

And mine has been the fate of those
To whom the goodly earth and air 9
Are banned, and barred-forbidden fare.
But this was for my father's faith
I suffered chains and courted death;
That father perished at the stake
For tenets he would not forsake;
And for the same his lineal race
In darkness found a dwelling-place;
We were seven-who now are one,
Six in youth, and one in age,
Finished as they had begun,

Proud of Persecution's rage;
One in fire, and two in field,
Their belief with blood have sealed,
Dying as their father died,
For the God their foes denied;
Three were in a dungeon cast,
Of whom this wreck is left the last.

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There are seven pillars of Gothic mould,
In Chillon's dungeons deep and old,
There are seven columns, massy and gray,
Dim with a dull imprisoned ray,
A sunbeam which hath lost its way
And through the crevice and the cleft
Of the thick wall is fallen and left;
Creeping o'er the floor so damp,
Like a marsh's meteor lamp:
And in each pillar there is a ring,
And in each ring there is a chain;
That iron is a cankering thing,

For in these limbs its teeth remain,
With marks that will not wear away,
Till I have done with this new day,
Which now is painful to these eyes,
Which have not seen the sun so rise

40

For years-I cannot count them o'er,
I lost their long and heavy score,
When my last brother drooped and died,
And I lay living by his side.

50

They chained us each to a column stone,
And we were three-yet, each alone;
We could not move a single pace,
We could not see each other's face,
But with that pale and livid light
That made us strangers in our sight:
And thus together-yet apart,
Fettered in hand, but joined in heart,
'Twas still some solace, in the dearth
Of the pure elements of earth,
To hearken to each other's speech,
And each turn comforter to each
With some new hope, or legend old,
Or song heroically bold;
But even these at length grew cold.
Our voices took a dreary tone,
An echo of the dungeon stone,

A grating sound, not full and free,
As they of yore were wont to be;
It might be fancy, but to me
They never sounded like our own.

I was the eldest of the three,

And to uphold and cheer the rest I ought to do and did my bestAnd each did well in his degree.

The youngest, whom my father loved, Because our mother's brow was given To him, with eyes as blue as heavenFor him my soul was sorely moved; And truly might it be distressed To see such bird in such a nest; For he was beautiful as day

(When day was beautiful to me As to young eagles, being free) A polar day, which will not see A sunset till its summer's gone,

Its sleepless summer of long light, The snow-clad offspring of the sun:

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And thus he was as pure and bright, And in his natural spirit gay, With tears for nought but others' ills, And then they flowed like mountain rills, Unless he could assuage the woe

Which he abhorred to view below.

90

The other was as pure of mind,
But formed to combat with his kind;
Strong in his frame, and of a mood
Which 'gainst the world in war had stood,
And perished in the foremost rank

With joy-but not in chains to pine: His spirit withered with their clank,

I saw it silently decline

And so perchance in sooth did mine: 100 But yet I forced it on to cheer Those relics of a home so dear. He was a hunter of the hills,

Had followed there the deer and wolf; To him this dungeon was a gulf, And fettered feet the worst of ills.

Lake Leman lies by Chillon's walls: A thousand feet in depth below Its massy waters meet and flow; Thus much the fathom-line was sent 110 From Chillon's snow-white battlement,

Which round about the wave inthrals: A double dungeon wall and wave Have made and like a living grave. Below the surface of the lake The dark vault lies wherein we lay: We heard it ripple night and day;

Sounding o'er our heads it knocked; And I have felt the winter's spray Wash through the bars when winds were high

And wanton in the happy sky;

And then the very rock hath rocked, And I have felt it shake, unshocked, Because I could have smiled to see The death that would have set me free.

I said my nearer brother pined,

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I said his mighty heart declined,
He loathed and put away his food;
It was not that 'twas coarse and rude,
For we were used to hunter's fare,
And for the like had little care:
The milk drawn from the mountain goat
Was changed for water from the moat,
Our bread was such as captives' tears
Have moistened many a thousand years,
Since man first pent his fellow men
Like brutes within an iron den;
But what were these to us or him?
These wasted not his heart or limb;
My brother's soul was of that mould 140
Which in a palace had grown cold,
Had his free breathing been denied
The range of the steep mountain's side.
But why delay the truth?-he died.
I saw, and could not hold his head,
Nor reach his dying hand-nor dead,-
Though hard I strove, but strove in vain
To rend and gnash my bonds in twain.
He died, and they unlocked his chain,
And scooped for him a shallow grave 150
Even from the cold earth of our cave.
I begged them as a boon to lay
His corse in dust whereon the day

Might shine-it was a foolish thought,
But then within my brain it wrought,
That even in death his freeborn breast
In such a dungeon could not rest.
I might have spared my idle prayer-
They coldly laughed, and laid him there:
The flat and turfless earth above
The being we so much did love;
His empty chain above it leant,
Such murder's fitting monument!

But he, the favourite and the flower,
Most cherished since his natal hour,
His mother's image in fair face,
The infant love of all his race,
His martyred father's dearest thought,
My latest care, for whom I sought
To hoard my life, that his might be
Less wretched now, and one day free;
He, too, who yet had held untired
A spirit natural or inspired-
He, too, was struck, and day by day
Was withered on the stalk away.
Oh, God! it is a fearful thing
To see the human soul take wing
In any shape, in any mood;

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I've seen it rushing forth in blood,
I've seen it on the breaking ocean
Strive with a swoln convulsive motion,
I've seen the sick and ghastly bed
Of Sin delirious with its dread:

But these were horrors-this was woe
Unmixed with such-but sure and slow:
He faded, and so calm and meek,
So softly worn, so sweetly weak,

So tearless, yet so tender, kind,

And grieved for those he left behind;

And rushed to him:-I found him not,
I only stirred in this black spot,
I only lived, I only drew

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The accursed breath of dungeon-dew;
The last, the sole, the dearest link
Between me and the eternal brink,
Which bound me to my failing race,
Was broken in this fatal place.
One on the earth, and one beneath-
My brothers-both had ceased to breathe:
I took that hand which lay so still,
Alas! my own was full as chill;
I had not strength to stir, or strive,
But felt that I was still alive-
A frantic feeling, when we know
That what we love shall ne'er be so.
I know not why

I could not die,

I had no earthly hope-but faith, And that forbade a selfish death.

What next befell me then and there I know not well-I never knewFirst came the loss of light, and air, And then of darkness too:

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There were no stars, no earth, no time,
No check, no change, no good, no crime,
But silence, and a stirless breath
Which neither was of life nor death;
A sea of stagnant idleness,
Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless!

A light broke in upon my brain,-
It was the carol of a bird;

It ceased, and then it came again,
The sweetest song ear ever heard,
And mine was thankful till my eyes
Ran over with the glad surprise,
And they that moment could not see
I was the mate of misery;
But then by dull degrees came back
My senses to their wonted track;
I saw the dungeon walls and floor
Close slowly round me as before,
I saw the glimmer of the sun
Creeping as it before had done,

I wist, Knew.

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