 | The Poetical Works of Robert Anderson |  |
95
CANTO THE FIRST.
1
“Go saddle me the milk-white steed,In costly proud array;
My errand do with mickle speed,
And three times fleeter than the wind,
Tho' day is fled, my path I'll find
To Margaret's Bower.—Away! away!
2
“For I have dreamt a frightful dream;For I a solemn oath have sworn,
Spite of the flood, to cross the stream,
And pull a rose at Margaret's Bower,
That blooms like her, a matchless flower,
Ere thrice the cock proclaims the morn.”
96
3
Thus to his groom, Sir Edward said,All in his gilded hall;
'Twas his the feeble still to aid,
For knight more courteous and brave,
Ne'er scorn'd the name of coward slave;
Tho' he would fight, but never flee,
Mild as the mountain lamb was he,
And Margaret of the east country,
Whom nobles woo'd,
And many sue'd,
Did long his heart enthrall.
4
Then up, and spake the little page,His eye let fall a tear;
“If e'er you deign'd to hear a page,
Your trusty page now hear:
O list! O list to me!
Upon my bended knee,
I do beseech you, tarry here!
Venture not forth, good master dear!
Cold, dark, and angry is the night,
Nor lends one star its feeble light;
97
Dang'rous the wood;
O go not forth!” quoth he.
5
“Peace, peace, thou little trembling page,Nor drop a tear for me!
I ne'er took counsel of a page,
Nor will I now of thee!
The bleakest blast I'd boldly brave,
Or cross the highest white-topp'd wave,
Nor heed the angry storms of night,
Tho' not one star lends me its light,
The peerless maid I'll see.
6
“I'll hear her voice, ere rise the moon,If Heaven doth me spare;
For by her beauteous matchless face,
And by her artless winning grace,
Now solemnly I swear,
Ne'er, ne'er did sun or pale-fac'd moon
Shine on a face so fair!”
98
7
The milk-white steedNow prancing neigh'd,
His mane shook with the wind;
Loud blew the blast, down came the shower,
But many a lofty lonely tower,
He soon left far behind:
And many a deep-ton'd castle bell
Told him each hour in distant dell.
8
'Twas tempest all, and all was dark,Save from the steed's feet many a spark;
Thro' mossy glens, and soughing woods,
Mid' rugged rocks, and roaring floods,
O'er mountains wild, and moors he flew;
And pluck'd a rose at Margaret's Bower,
That bloom'd like her, the sweetest flower,
Long ere the grey-cock crew.
9
And now below the Bower window,Without or dread or fear,
He anxious listens, pacing slow,
All expectation, breathing low,
99
That well-known voice he cannot hear.
10
“Awake, fair Margaret, awake!All silent is around,
Save many a watch-dog's far-heard voice,
And Tyne's hoarse-murmuring sound:
Far have I wander'd for thy sake,
Awake, awake, blest choice!
The pale moon resteth on the hill,
Then bid thy true love now rejoice,
And haste to him who loves thee still!
11
“O dear Margaret!O fair Margaret!
Thy true-love calls on thee!
O fair Margaret!
O dear Margaret!
Come quickly down to me!
12
“Thy father is perchance at rest,And nought, methinks, hast thou to dread;
100
A captive by thy beauty led;
'Tis Edward calls on thee!
Ere day's bright dawn
We'll far begone,
To-morrow's sun
Will see us one;
Think of thy vows to me!”
13
“What voice is that, which bids her rise?”In whispers low, a stranger cries;
“Who dare on Margaret call?
I swear by yon bright lamp of night,
Ruin awaits the luckless wight;
He ne'er will see the morning light,
But by this arm shall fall!”
14
“O dear Margaret!O fair Margaret!
Again I call on thee!
Maid of my love,
Thy faith now prove!
And pity shew to me!”
101
15
Enrag'd, his sword the stranger drew;Ah! wretch, the deed long wilt thou rue!
Deep, deep it drank life's purple gore;
Like some mute victim doom'd to bleed,
The dauntless youth now struggl'd sore,
But thought not who had done the deed:
Sir Edward fell, his country's pride,
On Margaret call'd, his promis'd bride;
“For thee I bleed!” he said and sigh'd,
But word spake never more.
END OF CANTO FIRST.
| The Poetical Works of Robert Anderson | |