 | The Poetical Works of Robert Anderson |  |
THE ROSE OF CORBYE,
IN TWO CANTOS.
1
CANTO THE FIRST.
1
O may this tale of former daysBut cheat the bosom of a sigh,
How pleas'd will be the unknown Bard,
Who boasteth not of minstrelsy !
Tho' weak the tones of his broken harp,
And he in song with few can vie,
Fain would he sing in virtue's praise,
And dry the tear from sorrow's eye;
Tho' poverty hath bow'd him low,
And the wise and wealthy pass him by.
2
O have you heard of young Ellinor,The peerless maid of fair Cumberland?
How, where Eden steals to merry Carlyle,
Her castle did hill and dale command?
2
And the Black Baron he sought her hand?
3
And have you heard how young EllinorHad suitors far from east and west?
How, she was fairest of all the fair,
And of maidens good, she was the best?
How, virtue shone in every smile,
And pity's mansion was her breast?
How, when the helpless sought her aid,
Each found himself a welcome guest?
How, many a courteous knight and squire,
For love of her, could take no rest?
4
But love is oft a load of woe;And love is oft a dangerous snare;
It makes time fly on leaden wings,
And fills the breast with every care;
It robs youth of the rose's hue,
And plants a faded lily there:
Love leads to bliss; love leads to pain;
To heavenly joys, or to dark despair.
3
5
And have you heard of the gallant Dacre,The tyrant's scourge; his country's pride?
Whose shield borne by his ancestry,
With many a foeman's blood was dy'd;
His look made captive high-born dames,
Yet ne'er to win a heart he tried:
War was the hero's dear delight;
Ay when his country call'd, he hied;
Yet to soothe the sorrows of weak man,
O'er moor and mountain he would ride.
6
And have you heard of Corbye Castle,Where wild woods wave, and waters flow;
And many an aged spreading oak
Shelters the nimble deer and roe?
How its rocks are high, and its bow'rs are sweet,
And it seems a paradise below?
How it is the seat of as bold a race,
As e'er welcom'd friend, or fac'd a foe?
How there fair Ellinor first drew breath,
As sweet a bud as the eye e'er saw?
O never from this castle gate,
May the beggar poor unpitied go!
4
And heal the pains of want, and woe!
7
If you have not heard, then rest a while,And you shall hear a true-told song;
It first was chaunted by old Grey Graeme,
Who lived the silver birks among:
And now the minstrel rests in peace,
Long may it please both old and young!
8
A song oft drives dull care away,When Winter nights are dark and long;
Beguiles the labour of the day;
And he who scorns a well-meant song,
Whate'er he be, it seemeth to me,
In that he always acteth wrong.
9
“And who,” you say, “was old Grey Graeme?”He was a minstrel, blithe and gay;
And oft in Corbye's antient hall,
He to fair Ellinor lov'd to play;
And sweet to her were his ditties wild,
That told of many a former day;
5
And how fell the brave in border fray;
But alas! his songs are heard no more,
Or the harp's wild notes on the stone so grey;
For time who worketh every change,
Hath swept the simple strains away.
10
How few they be now in our days,Who in old hall e'er sweep the string!
How few reward the minstrel poor!
How few of other times can sing!
'Tis sweet to hear the song of old,
That oft hath made the wild woods ring;
It warms the heart of wrinkl'd age,
And makes man taste a second spring;
It cheats the bosom of a sigh;
And from the eye a tear can bring.
11
Grey Graeme was born in western Isle,And for Scotland's King had fought and bled;
But when he spake of his five brave sons,
The old man wept and hung his head:
For they were slain by the furious Dane,
When the foe's bleak shore was dy'd with red;
6
Though every joy of life was fled;
And long in hall, or by ivied tow'r,
Or near castle gate had he play'd for bread.
12
Oft he would tell right merry tales;Oft he would caution list'ning youth;
Oft warn the old of death's approach,
With serious look, in lays uncouth:
For much Grey Graeme had seen, I trow,
And much had sought in quest of truth:
And many a mountain steep had cross'd,
Since time had mark'd his manly growth.
13
Sweet were his strains, at eve's grey hour,When Summer's carpet deck'd the ground;
And now to love he'd strike the harp;
Now to wild war the strings he'd sound:
Now songs of sorrow, soft and slow,
Would draw a tear from all around;
Next changing to a lightly strain,
The laughing maid would frisk and bound.
7
14
O music! music, thy pow'r is great!It cures the mind of many a wound;
Cold is the heart it cannot melt—
Of such, I hope but few are found!
15
Alas! alas! how few they be,Who in old hall now sweep the string!
How few reward the minstrel poor!
How few of other times can sing!
'Tis sweet to hear the song of old,
That oft hath made the wild woods ring;
It warms the heart of wrinkl'd age,
And makes man taste a second spring;
It cheats the bosom of a sigh,
And from the eye a tear can bring:
By music sooth'd, in want or woe,
Quick to the winds all cares we fling.
16
Grey Graeme was bent, his locks were white,Pale was his face, and sunk his een;
Yet still a smile bespoke content,
Tho' poor this harper was, I ween:
8
And clad him all in a garb of green.
17
His lodgment was a small house of stone,Where he could laugh at the winter keen:
Still was he priz'd whene'er he stray'd,
By wealthy squire, or peasant mean.
The ruin near the silver birks,
Tells where old Grey Graeme's hut has been;
And the mould'ring stone that marks his grave,
By many a wanderer yet is seen.
18
Now it fell about the blithe new year,When mountains high were capp'd with snows;
Young Dacre he would a hunting go,
And threescore men and three he chose:
Saying “We will range both wood and wild,
Where to merry Carlyle old Eden flows!”
19
Ne'er would he bow to tyranny;His mind was bent on Freedom's cause;
Ne'er had he sigh'd a slave to love,
Nor did he dream of a peerless rose.
9
20
In border fray, or in foreign fight,He brav'd the boldest of the field;
Ay when his country cried to arms,
The first was he to grasp the shield,
For many a foe had own'd his might,
But few his massy sword could wield;
And glory was his whole delight,
But glory oft to love must yield.
21
Yes, glory must to love give way;The brave to beauty still must bow;
In vain we scorn the urchin bold,
In vain to 'scape his snares we vow:
The crimson'd cheek, and the eye of fire,
Will drive a frown from the hero's brow;
And he who scorns the fairest fair,
May soon be captive led, I trow!
22
With merry hearts, each drank his ale,And they are all a hunting gone;
The dogs were swift, and the sports were good,
And bounding deer full many a one,
10
And hare as fleet as e'er could run;
Such, Dacre, and his merry clan,
Had slain, before the day was done.
23
They hunted many a wood and wild,Where Eden strays to merry Carlyle;
And when the evening frosts come on,
What pleasure was, was now a toil.
Red Robin on a high hill stood,
And distant saw an antient pile;
“And in that castle,” quoth the Dacre,
“We may, methinks, find rest a while.
24
“For rest brings health, and blithe content;And rest can all our cares beguile;
And rest is still the good man's friend,
But justly scorns the sinner vile.
25
“And when the moon peeps o'er the hill,We will hie home right speedily;
And to-morrow drink of the nut-brown ale,
And tell what merry sports had we;
11
Who hunting hates, or a fair ladie!
26
“Yet by my fay, I none have seen,Who e'er could make a slave of me!
The piercing eye, the rosy cheek,
The snowy breast, and the heart of glee;
Nay, were she fairest of the fair,
With every grace of the graces three,
I would not bow a female's slave,
For all the wealth of Christendie!
He who delighteth in hero's deeds,
From ladie's look must keep him free!
27
“For when love shoots his arrows keen,Care snatches all our joys away;
Sunk in an agony of woe,
Love claims the night, love claims the day:
And love can pierce decrepid age,
With furrow'd cheeks, and locks so grey;
Love opes alike the palace gates,
And the lowly latch of the shepherd gay;
Love holds each lure to glowing youth,
That oft, alas! the heart betray.
12
28
“Now, comrades all, let's merry be,And thankful, still, for pleasures past—
Oh! mercy on the houseless poor,
Who bear keen want, and the piercing blast!
But He who guides this frightful storm,
Can give the weary ease at last.”
29
The light shone bright in Corbye Castle,And loud the northern blast did blow,
Where spreading woods of leafless trees
Shelter'd the trembling deer and roe:
The star of eve now lent a ray,
Now hid by many a cloud of snow;
While Eden o'er his rocky bed,
In hollow sounds was heard below.
30
The Dacre knock'd loud at the gate;And who so ready was, within,
As fair Ellinor to unbolt the gate,
And welcome strangers, kith or kin?
Quoth Dacre, “An angel by my fay!
Such beauty would tempt to sin:
13
'Twas wisely meant the world to win!”
31
Yes glory must to love give way;The brave to beauty still must bow;
In vain we scorn the urchin bold,
In vain to 'scape his snares we vow:
The crimson'd cheek, and the eye of fire,
Will drive a frown from the hero's brow;
And he who scorns the fairest fair,
May soon be captive led, I trow!
32
Now she has curtsey'd to the Dacre,And bid them welcome, one by one;
She has given to each the nut-brown ale,
To the bold Dacre she gave none;
But a silver horn of the blood-red wine,
And a look that any heart might won;
For fairer maid was never form'd,
I trow, to grace a proud monarch's throne
33
With trembling lips, and blushing cheek,With gazing eye, and breast of flame,
14
And who he was, and whence he came;
The look of pleasure mark'd her face,
Soon as she heard the hero's name,
And he was welcomed with a smile,
That tyranny itself might tame.
34
And much he suffer'd from that look,For it has cost him many a sigh:
Now having learn'd where stands his hall,
And the streaming Lyne hoarse murmurs by,
And O his name! a name well known,
O'er oceans wide, and mountains high,
She lighted him to the fairest chamber,
Wherein the Dacre he might lie;
Tho' he wearied was, the long, long night,
Love wou'd not let him close an eye.
35
For love it causeth sleepless nights,And love it causeth days of pain;
And when love robs us of our rest,
'Tis long ere we can rest again;
It makes a coward of the hero bold,
And binds him with a silken chain;
15
To struggle proves too oft in vain:
From palac'd prince, to vassal vile,
Mankind he tames o'er earth and main.
36
How cou'd he sleep? He saw her form;Her winning look; her easy grace;
He heard her voice, most musical,
Then thought he of her matchless face;
And of the praise her sire had won,
For she was of a noble race:
The more he thought, the more he sigh'd,
All seemed quite an enchanted place.
With pride, long may he bless the hour,
When with his clan he sought the chace!
37
But love is like the opening rose,When Phoebus ushers in the morn;
Tho' fragrant blooms this queen of flow'rs,
Its leaves conceal a piercing thorn:
As fades a rose, when the bleak blast blows,
So love is blighted by ladie's scorn.
16
38
And love is like a lily flow'r;And love is like a feverish dream;
A bitter draught it soon may turn,
Tho' now life's luxury supreme.
39
Young Ellinor is to her chamber gone,But good lack-a-day! she cannot rest!
She dreams not of the lords and knights
Who sought her, far from east and west;
But feels a pain ne'er felt before,
And many a sigh escapes her breast:
In fancy, she beholds the smile,
And manly form of her far-fam'd guest—
Of Dacre, why does she think and start?
Those who in love have been, know best.
40
But love is oft a load of woe;And love is oft a dang'rous snare;
It makes time fly on leaden wings,
And fills the breast with ev'ry care;
It robs youth of the rose's hue,
And plants a faded lily there;
17
To heav'nly joys, or to dark despair.
41
When the black shades of night were gone,And from his roost the grey cock crew,
Who rose so ready as the young Dacre,
In hopes soon Ellinor to view?
For she was fair as the mountain snows;
Her cheek bloom'd with health's rosy hue;
And o'er her bosom, pure as white,
Her flaxen locks in tresses flew.
Ah! who cou'd gaze, and not be won,
When Love laugh'd in her eyes of blue!
42
For Love can wound, without a scar;And Love can bind, without a chain;
Mid' savage Winter's frightful storms,
Love finds his way o'er land and main:
Love's arrows pierce the bravest heart,
And soon subdue the proud and vain;
And when man bows a slave to Love,
'Tis hard his freedom to regain.
18
43
By day and night, Love wings his flight,O'er barren heath, and flow'ry plain;
Mid' Summer's heat, and Winter's cold,
Love glories in his tyrant reign:
His bow is bent to wound the heart
Of monarch proud, or lowly swain;
But one kind glance from her we prize,
Can freedom give, and banish pain!
44
The next that rose Brown Adam was;And the Gibsons, that by Irthing dwell;
The Scotts, who fear no Scottish laws;
The Weirs; the Jardins; and the Bell;
Jocks Tom, who knew each roaring linn,
Each moor and mountain, moss and dell;
Hob o' the Syke, and his two sons,
Who fought the best at Tindle Fell;
The Howme Foot Harry; Grizzy's George;
And Hardy Wat, no man cou'd fell.
45
The Potts'; the Elliots o' the Buss;Strang Wull; and Gib o' Hether Side;
19
The laird's young Ralph, Kirklinton's pride;
The Nobles; Fosters; John o' Cleugh;
Old Hardin, that had most been tried;
Black Fergus, that slew young Buccleugh,
And Liddal's flood ay scorn'd to ride;
Braid Andrew; Geordie o' the Burn;
Names known and dreaded, the borders wide.
46
Brown Barney, o' the Buller Syke;And Smiddy Dick; and Cocker Will;
And white Tom's Tom; and Kirsty's Kit;
And Rose-trees Rob; and Three-thoum'd Gill:
Lang Philip, now bent short with age,
Fam'd far and wide, for healing skill;
The dart o' death ay fain to ward,
But ne'er wou'd draw a doctor's bill.
47
The Carrs, the brag o' Leversdale;The Jameses five, from Scaleby Hill,
Who wan the day at Brampton fray,
And drave the fae-men 'yont the mill;
They'd fly to face the fiercest Scot,
But ne'er wou'd do a neighbour ill.
20
48
And Bolton Clem, with Clem his son;White Willy o' the Bleaberry;
Mad Matt; and Sawney o'er the Knowe;
Red Sim, with all his billies three;
The least stood full two yards in height,
The one a giant was to see;
Oft did they strip the Scottish howmes,
And many a Scot they made to flee:
Each had his home on the Dacre' lands,
And they were a goodly company.
49
And they were welcom'd, one, two, and three,By Ellinor, into the hall;
Where the tables groan'd with wholesome fare,
And blithe and merry I trow were all:
And old Grey Graeme, in his garb of green,
Who still was ready at our ladie's call,
Now with his harp was seated near,
And sung of many a brave warrior's fall.
50
O music! music, thy power is great!It cures the mind of many a wound;
21
Of such, I hope but few are found.
51
Alas! the Dacre nor eat nor drank,But sunk a willing prey to love;
And oft he check'd the rising sigh,
And oft to join in mirth he strove.
Ah! little thinks the dauntless youth,
What pains, what pleasures, he must prove!
52
Yes, glory must to love give place;The brave to beauty still must bow;
In vain we scorn the urchin bold,
In vain to 'scape his snares we vow:
The crimson'd cheek, and the eye of fire,
Will drive a frown from the hero's brow;
Who scorns the fairest of the fair,
May soon be captive led, I trow;
And he who was so bold of late,
A willing slave, sits sighing now.
53
With wistful gaze, uprose the Dacre,'Tis far, far to his woody glen;
22
The Scots oft tried to seize in vain:
There, watching, sits his feeble mother,
Praying for him, and his dauntless men;
For, O, he was her only son,
Her only child now left of ten!
54
Yound Ellinor's lily hand he kiss'd,And sad he look'd, and she turn'd pale;
What moment of this life so sweet,
As when we list true lover's tale?
And thrice he vow'd a solemn vow,
Ere the next moon shone in the vale,
Again he'd range both wood and wild,
And his comrades drink of her nut-brown ale:
The last look told her how he lov'd,
And how her loss he would bewail.
55
For when Love shoots his arrows keen,Mirth follows mirth, hours dance away
Rapt in an exstacy of bliss,
Love claims the night, Love claims the day:
Love opes alike the proud palace gates,
And the lowly latch of the shepherd gay;
23
With furrow'd cheeks, and locks of grey;
Love lends new joys to glowing youth,
That oft, alas! the heart betray!
56
Now as they homeward bent their way,Where waters flow, and wild woods wave,
Young Dacre many a look behind,
To Corbye's fading castle gave.
The tale and song, the laugh and joke,
No more his sinking spirits save;
Nor heeded he their revelrie,
For he was beauty's willing slave,
Whose smile gives man each dear delight,
Whose frown oft sends him to the grave.
57
Quoth Potts, “I's haud my guid scotch quey,We suin wull hunt thes way again!”
“Nay!” cries old Hardin, “tous ay wrang!
Our laird maun come tes way hes lane!
Hey's stout and comely, a beauty shey,
And o' his choize he may weel be vain;
But the fairest shey, in a' Chressendie,
I wad the Dacre caw'd her his ain!”
24
58
Quoth Noble, “shey's a bwonnie bird,Whare we hae been! woo but I'd gie
My weyfe, my gear, my bairnies five,
Just yenze her hinny mou to prie!”
“Hout, hout!” cries Sim, “gie mey her yell!
For her kisses I'd no care a flea!”
“Haith!” quoth the Cleugh, “our laird afore,
Has gott'n his deeth frae her pawkie e'e!
But a lass sae bwonnie, young, and guid,
I trow, wull a reeght kind doctress be!”
59
Now as they pass'd thro' merry Carlyle,They were a comely sight to view;
The wives threw open their windows wide,
And marvell'd much what was to do:
Not one was there, but in border fray,
Had made his man full dearly rue;
And not all the men in old Carlyle town,
Could have taken the Dacre and his brave few!
60
And as they pass'd thro' Rickar Gate,In this street or gate leading north from Carlisle, the inhabitants of the borders (or debateable lands) commonly assemble on market-days. Filled with poisonous liquors, and more so with a maddening spirit of revenge for any trifling injury a friend or relative may have sustained, an uprorious evening scene formerly took place, to the great annoyance of the town. The combatants generally fought with leaden-headed whips, made for the purpose. This antient and barbarous custom has now given way to friendly intercourse and rational pleasures. The education of a family, and agricultural improvements, engross the attention of the aged farmers: a spirit of industrious emulation having been occasioned by the great increase of rents. Horse-racing, cockfighting, and other amusements, equally idle, have been superseded by an ever-pleasing thirst after useful knowledge.
Quoth Brown Adam, “There's the spot, I trow,
25
And sweet to me was her hinny mou!
Tho' she was woo'd by a' around,
Yet to be mine, she made a vow;
And for my winsome breyde, my Jean,
I wheyles gat bang'd; bein aft blin fou:
But, Deil rive my sark, gin a Carel chiel
Dare cry bo! to Brown Yeddy, now!”
61
And when they cross'd the Carlyle sands,Cries Davie, “Mark yon castle wa';
Mak our young Dacre the governor,
And the bravest Scot e'er Scotland sa'
Shou'd he an Armstrang dare rescue,
He suin wad feel a Dacre's blow:
The girt Buccleugh,
This stanza alludes to the brother of Johnny Armstrong, the noted free-booter, who lived at Gilnockie Tower, now a ruin, on the banks of the river Esk, near Langholm. Kinmont Willy suffered a long and unjust confinement in Carlisle Castle. Young Buccleugh, with forty chosen from among the sons of his tenantry, bravely determined, at every hazard, to rescue suffering Willy. They succeeded in the dangerous attempt, and had it in their power to have seized the governor (Lord Hunsdon) and all his attendants.
Wad ne'er hae ventur'd here awa!
But wae betide yer suthern lwords!
A manly sword they darena dra'!”
62
The Dacre heard, but silent heard,For love had fill'd his breast with care;
And love oft proves a load of woe,
And love is oft a dang'rous snare;
26
And plants a faded lily there:
Love leads to bliss; love leads to pain;
To heav'nly joys, or to dark despair.
63
How eager sits his good old mother,Young Dacre watching, from tower high;
And many with their children look,
“They suin wull come!” oft do they cry:
They gaze along the woody glen,
And o'er the hill with eager eye,
When swift and swifter over the moor,
Foremost they see the Dacre fly.
“O, God be prais'd!” says the feeble mother,
“I count them all in safety nigh!
And long may happiness be theirs,
The manly clan I now espy!”
64
They parted, fain to be at home,A father, child, or wife to see;
To-morrow they drink the nut-brown ale,
And keep the Dacre good companie:
Each man will drink to fair Ellinor,
And tell their sports, with merry glee;
27
Who hunting hates, or a fair ladie!
And he whose heart is sunk in love,
I wish him soon from trouble free!
65
For Love can wound, without a scar;And Love can bind, without a chain;
Mid' savage Winter's frightful storms,
Love finds his way o'er land and main:
Love's arrows pierce the bravest heart,
And soon subdue the proud and vain;
And when man bows a slave to Love,
'Tis hard his freedom to regain.
66
By day and night, Love wings his flight,O'er barren heath, and flow'ry plain;
Mid' Summer's heat, and Winter's cold,
Love glories in his tyrant reign:
He bends his bow to wound the heart
Of monarch proud, or lowly swain;
But one kind glance from her we prize,
Will freedom give, and banish pain!
END OF CANTO FIRST.
31
CANTO THE SECOND.
O would to me some pitying Muse
A while her cheering aid impart!
'Tis sweet to sooth the pensive mind,
When sorrow's tear begins to start;
But vainly have I sought to twine
The wreath that shews a Poet's art:
Tho' weak my lays, in virtue's praise,
They yet may touch the feeling heart!
A while her cheering aid impart!
'Tis sweet to sooth the pensive mind,
When sorrow's tear begins to start;
But vainly have I sought to twine
The wreath that shews a Poet's art:
Tho' weak my lays, in virtue's praise,
They yet may touch the feeling heart!
2
Now wou'd you know of the Black Baron?His castle stands on the banks of Tyne;
Its walls are strong, and its dungeons deep,
In which the feeble are doom'd to pine:
And he has wagered a thousand merks,
As they sat drinking the blood-red wine.
32
3
Quoth he, “Ere twelvemonths and a day,The Rose of Corbye shall be mine!”
But woe unto thee, thou Black Baron!
May never maid to thee incline!
4
“I wager, ere twelvemonths and a day,The Rose of Corbye sits in this hall;
Where I have had young, fair, and gay;
And tho' she fairer be than all,
I will not woo her for a bride;
Love shall not so this heart enthrall:
Who takes denial from womankind,
He, by my fay, deserves a fall!
Ah! little think'st thou, peerless Rose,
How soon life's cup I'll fill with gall!
5
“Who stoops to ladie, still she scorns;Who gently woos her, woos in vain;
I would not ask her for a bride,
The wealth of worlds, if sure to gain;
I laugh at love, and ladie's frowns,
Neither can give this bosom pain:
33
I'd force her here, o'er land and main!
6
“For Love can wound, without a scar;And Love can bind, without a chain;
Mid' savage Winter's ruthless storms,
Love finds his way o'er land and main;
And he who bows to tyrant Love,
His freedom never can regain:
For Love can cause a thousand woes,
And Love's the source of endless pain;
Love's arrows pierce too many hearts,
But now he bends his bow in vain!
7
“The urchin, Love, with wily snares,May lure the fondling beardless boy;
But soon he loads weak youth with cares,
And every bliss wou'd fain annoy:
Then why shall man bow to thy pow'r,
That health and peace will quick destroy?
—Ah! little think'st thou, ladie fair,
How soon I'll change thy cup of joy!”
34
8
Now he has gone to Tom o' Clint,“O Tom! good Tom, do favor me!
Where Eden rowes to merry Carlyle,
There stands a castle, it's name Corbye:
Young Ellinor dwells in that castle,
The fairest fair in Chrissendie;
Her beauty wounds both lords and knights,
Go, force her here, I ask of thee:
I'll give thee house, I'll give thee land,
And gold and silver shall be thy fee!”
9
The Clint has sworn a solemn oath,A solemn oath, most furiouslie,
“Gie' me thy hand, thou great Baron,
By th' blood that warmeth this bodie!
The proudest fair in a' Cumberland,
Shall suin be here, gif thy will it be!
10
“At thy command, the bonniest flow'r,That bloometh in a' Chrissendie,
I'll mak her thine, but gin I fail,
The Clint will forfeit life to thee!
35
11
“For luive maks life a weary load;And luive, alake! is hard to bide;
It gars man cla' a sairy pow,
To see a jilt, fuils ca' a bride;
And wae befa' the witless loon,
Wha tamely bows to woman's pride,
Better to hing on the gallows tree,
Than tak fause woman for a guide!
Here beats a heart, but ne'er for luive—
Now quick thy errand I will ride;
And ere to-morrow's sun gaes down,
I'll seat the ladie by thy side!”
12
The Clint he mounted the swiftest steed,Regardless of the wintry show'r,
The tempest wild, the foaming flood,
He flew o'er mountain, moss, and moor;
Quick as an arrow from the bow,
By abbey, castle, hall, and tow'r;
And where Eden rowes to merry Carlyle,
He did espy a blooming flow'r;
Who should it be, but fair Ellinor,
As she was reading in her bow'r.
36
13
Ah! woe is me, that villain manE'er seeks such virtue to devour;
Who parts with all the bliss of life,
For the false pleasures of an hour!
Forgetful of a future state,
And heedless of the Ruling Pow'r,
Whose goodness is for ever shewn
To monarch proud, or thoughtless boor!
14
The Clint he kneel'd down to the ground,“Come, ladie fair, to the banks of Tyne!
The Black Baron lacketh thy companie;
His castles, lands, wull a' be thine:
At his command, I ride this errand,
While he sits drinking the bluid-red wine,
Wi' courteous lords, and walthy knights—
Say, ladie, shall his will be thine?”
15
The ladie started, as he spoke—“Shall Ellinor to such deeds incline!
Go back! go back, vain is thy errand,
I never will to the banks of Tyne!
37
Reflection drowning with madd'ning wine;
Where, daily in the dungeon deep,
The virtuous starve, and vainly pine—
Be it proud castle; from that foul place,
O God keep me! and God keep mine!”
16
The Clint he seiz'd her in his arms,And she grew weak, and she grew pale—
“O where! O where art thou, young Dacre!
How little know'st thou what I ail!
O wert thou near me, gallant Dacre!
I need not thus my fate bewail!”
But all her struggles, sighs, and tears,
Alas! with him did nought avail!
17
Now when the Clint bound her lily hands,She shrieked loud, and she shrieked long;
Her cries soon brought forth Andrew's Willie,
Right stout he was, I ween, and strong;
And with his staff, a full ell in length,
He has fell'd the Clint, the grass among:
“Ay sic a deeth may he die!” quoth Willie,
“The loon wha con'd sic a ladie wrang!”
38
18
Next, he cut off the Clint's black head,And hung it on the highest tree;
“There wad I hing ilka head,” quoth Willie,
“O' th' man wha'd harm our guid ladie!”
The crows came east, the kites came west,
The hawks came fast as they cou'd flee;
They perch'd around the Clint's black head,
And Willie stared the sight to see;
But when they peck'd out the Clint's large eyes,
Loud Willie laugh'd, as tho' mad were he.
19
He has thrown the body into Eden deep;“Troth! there's a ready-made grave for thee!
Thus wad I bury thousands mair,
Gin they sud harm our sweet ladie!
Deil tak a' sic black-hearted loons,
Wha glory in their crueltie!”
20
Now up the stream, and down the stream,The twisted eels swam greedily;
And twined around the bleeding trunk,
Like gluttons feasting furiouslie:
39
Eager to taste the Clint's bodie;
And Willie stood on Eden's brink,
And loud he laugh'd the sight to see.
“Deil tak a' sic black-hearted loons,
Wha glory in their crueltie!”
21
He has driv'n the steed far from the castle;O'er moor and mountain home flew he;
When the Black Baron the steed beheld,
I trow an angry man was he:
He call'd his clan, he vow'd revenge,
He made the table in flinders flee;
And he has sworn three solemn oaths,
That the Rose of Corbye his shall be.
22
“Who stoops to ladie, still she soorns;Who gently woos her, woos in vain;
I would not ask her for a bride,
The wealth of worlds, if sure to gain.
A curse on Love, and ladie's frowns!
Neither can give this bosom pain;
Liv'd she in farthest Chrissendie,
I'd force her soon o'er land and main!
40
23
“Tho' Love can wound, without a scar,And Love can bind without a chain,
His arrows pierce the coward's heart,
But now he bends his bow in vain.
What tho' mid Winter's thousand storms,
He wings his way o'er land and main;
Woe to the slave who bows to Love!
Freedom he never can regain.
Love sows the seeds of black despair
In mighty king, or silly swain;
But by the joys of life I prize,
Love ne'er shall give this bosom pain!”
24
“Dear Tom o' Clint! good Tom o' Clint!Perish the wretch who murder'd thee!
Ere thrice the sun beams on this castle,
Now thrice I swear reveng'd to be!
Be who he will, the Baron's sword
Shall draw the blood from his foul bodie!
Tho' I command a fearless clan,
Dearest of all wert thou to me!”
41
25
As Ellinor sat in her gilded chamber,Surrounded by her maidens gay,
There came a letter from the Dacre,
That he again must hunt that way;
And three times did she read that letter,
While blushes sweet did her thoughts betray.
26
And three times did she kiss that letter,And place it near her bosom white;
But many a sigh that bosom heav'd,
For still the Dacre was in her sight.
Who would not cherish virtuous love?
Its joys are pure, its cares are light;
But who can say love's joys will last?
The fairest flow'r a storm may blight.
27
For love is oft a load of woe,And love is oft a dang'rous snare;
It makes time fly on leaden wings,
And fills the breast with every care;
It robs youth of the rose's hue,
And plants a faded lily there:
42
To heav'nly joys, or to dark despair.
28
Now she has sent for Andrew's Willie,And ordered him her swiftest steed;
And the three best cows that graze around,
And the three best fields wherein they feed:
And she has giv'n him twenty merks,
For they are good, in time of need;
Saying, “There's a youth in Cumberland,
Will well reward thee for such a deed.”
29
Now Willie off his bonnet threw,And down he sunk on his bended knee;
And Willie blush'd, and Willie star'd,
And Willie laughed the sight to see;
“I'd face the warl, and rejoice at deeth,
Were it to sairve our guid ladie!
The Deil waits a' black-hearted loons,
Wha glory in their crueltie!”
“Rise, Willie, rise,” quoth fair Ellinor,
“What thou hast done, will remember'd be.”
43
30
Why looks the Dacre so wan and pale?Alas! alas! how chang'd is he!
He cannot eat, he cannot drink,
He cannot sleep, or merry be!
Brown Adam whispers, “Guid maister mine!
To see ye thus, sair grieveth me!
'Tis a' for love o' the Corbye Rose,
A hundred merks to ae penny!
31
Yes, love it causeth sleepless nights,And love it causeth days of pain;
And when love robs us of our rest,
'Tis long ere we can rest again:
It makes a coward of the hero bold,
And binds him with a silken chain;
Time only can relief afford,
To struggle proves too oft in vain:
From palac'd prince, to vassal vile,
Mankind he tames, o'er earth and main.
32
“O woe is me!” said the feeble mother,“A-well-a-day! what ails my son!
44
Or if thou had'st an ill deed done:
A medicine strong will give thee rest,
To Carlyle town, I'll send anon.
O luckless hour, thou left this hall!
A weary hunting thou hast gone!
And griev'd am I, to hear thee sigh;
Thy joys of life, alas! are done!'
33
“O chide me not, my good old mother!O heed me not, I beg of thee!
Sick, sick at heart I am, I trow,
But an ill-doer I hate to see!
No med'cine healeth the wounded mind,
Nor can it bring relief to me;
For I must range both wood and wild,
Ere well again I can hope to be!”
34
Now with his comrades, one and all,Young Dacre is a hunting gone;
The dogs were swift, and the sports were good,
But dogs or sport he heeded none,
Tho' bounding deer, and fox, and hare,
Ere noon they'd slain full many a one.
45
Just as the evening shades drew on;
And thrice he knock'd loud at the ring,
Where first his youthful heart was won.
35
Young Ellinor down from her maidens five,Quick to the castle gate is gone;
And she has curtsey'd to young Dacre,
And bid them welcome, one by one.
She has giv'n to each the nut-brown ale,
To the young Dacre she gave none,
But a silver horn of the blood-red wine,
And a smile, such as his heart first won;
For fairer maid was never form'd,
I trow, to grace proud monarch's throne:
But one is more than monarch dear,
Her thoughts are fix'd on one alone.
36
Now thrice he kiss'd her lily hand,And he has told her, with a sigh,
A tale as sweet as e'er lover told,
How, without her, he soon must die:
She lighted him to the fairest chamber,
Wherein the Dacre he might lie;
46
Love would not let him close an eye.
37
For when Love shoots his arrows keen,The lazy hours pass slow away;
Toss'd on a sea, 'twixt hopes and fears,
Love claims the night, Love claims the day:
Love lends new joys, time quick destroys;
Love changes every month to May;
Love opes alike the proud palace gates,
And the lowly latch of the shepherd gay:
Love's arrows wound the world around,
From rosy youth, to age grown grey!
38
And love is like the opening rose,When Phoebus ushers in the morn;
Tho' fragrant blooms this queen of flow'rs,
Its leaves conceal a piercing thorn:
As fades the rose, when the bleak blast blows,
So love is blighted by ladie's scorn!
39
And love is like a lily flow'rAnd love is like a feverish dream;
47
Tho' now life's luxury supreme!
40
A prey to love, the Dacre lies;No deeds of arms his soul delight;
For she is all his thoughts by day,
And she is all his thoughts by night:
On mountain, moor, in hall, or bower,
Fair Ellinor is in his sight:
And now to view her matchless form,
That captive led full many a knight,
Oft did he chide the ling'ring hours,
Oft did he wish for morning bright.
41
The gloomy night pac'd slow away,At op'ning dawn the Dacre rose;
For who by Beauty captive led,
Can hope for peace, or soft repose?
Pleas'd he beheld fair Ellinor,
Whose eye sleep tried in vain to close;
He, sighing, sung a sonnet wild,
Love was the theme the hero chose.
48
SONG.
Welcome to man is gay Spring's returning;
Nature, ever beauteous, delights his view:
Dearer to this fond bosom, burning,
When that matchless grace I behold in you,
Dearest treasure!
Life's sole pleasure!
This beating heart proves the Dacre true.
Nature, ever beauteous, delights his view:
Dearer to this fond bosom, burning,
When that matchless grace I behold in you,
Dearest treasure!
Life's sole pleasure!
This beating heart proves the Dacre true.
Blithe sings the lark, when he hails the morning,
Shaking from his wings the drops of dew;
Thus blithe am I, all others scorning,
Happy, happy still, when I gaze on you,
Dearest treasure!
Life's sole pleasure!
Your smile can bless the Dacre true.
Shaking from his wings the drops of dew;
Thus blithe am I, all others scorning,
Happy, happy still, when I gaze on you,
Dearest treasure!
Life's sole pleasure!
Your smile can bless the Dacre true.
Sweet bloom the flow'rs on the lap of Flora;
Rapt in fond delight, we behold each hue:
But the fairest flow'r on which beams Aurora,
Tho' stern Winter reigns, yet I see in you,
Dearest treasure!
Life's sole pleasure!
O look with pity on the Dacre true!
Rapt in fond delight, we behold each hue:
But the fairest flow'r on which beams Aurora,
Tho' stern Winter reigns, yet I see in you,
Dearest treasure!
Life's sole pleasure!
O look with pity on the Dacre true!
49
42
By love o'erpower'd, of speech bereft,Fair Ellinor her chamber sought;
With frenzied gaze, the Dacre stood,
Now sooth'd by hope, now sunk in thought:
The languid look, the trembling frame,
The tortur'd mind avail'd him nought.
43
The Dacre gaz'd, the Dacre sigh'd,With aching heart, and giddy head;
In vain he struggled to be free;
Life's pleasures all, alas! were fled:
Forgotten are the feats of youth,
When by his arm vain tyrants bled.—
Leave we the hero for a while,
By Love an easy captive led.
44
Yes! glory must to love give way;The brave to beauty still must bow;
In vain we scorn the urchin bold,
In vain to 'scape his snares we vow;
The crimson'd cheek, and the eye of fire,
Will drive a frown from the hero's brow;
50
May soon a captive be, I trow;
And he who was so bold of late,
A willing slave, sits sighing now.
45
The golden morn gleam'd o'er the hills;The soaring lark did Phoebus call;
Whose gladsome rays illum'd the woods,
When the little Page look'd from the hall,
And mounted on a palfrey grey,
He spied a stranger, fierce and tall:
Dark was his visage, sunk his eyes,
And oft his steed was like to fall,
For he spurr'd, and spurr'd the wearied steed,
Until he came to the castle wall.
46
The weighty sword hung by his side,And black the armour the stranger wore;
He lighted from his palfrey grey,
Whose sides were wet with purple gore:
With angry frown he gaz'd around;
The little Page was troubled sore;
And with the look of tyranny,
He ey'd the Page now o'er and o'er.
51
47
And he has said to the little Page,“Sweet boy! do thou but hearken me;
Shew which chamber in this proud castle,
It is, were sleeps thy fair ladie.
I'm the Black Baron, of Northumberland,
And fain young Ellinor would see;
I'll make thee greater than a Page,
And gold and silver shall be thy fee!”
48
The Page he frown'd, the Page he laugh'd,The Page he spake right angrily;
“Think'st thou my ladie I would betray,
For all the gold in Chrissendie!
No!—Know, Black Baron, my ladie's love,
Is dearer, far, than gold to me:
And woe awaits the luckless fair,
Who wares a look of love on thee!”
49
The Baron took a silver whistle,And thrice he blew, both loud and clear,
When one score men, and two score men
Did quickly by his side appear;
52
“Thy proud reply, boy, shall cost thee dear:
Thy aid to me, do but quickly lend,
And thou thro' life hast nought to fear.”
50
The Page he laugh'd, the Page he frown'd,The Page he spake right angrily;
“My ladie hates thee, thou Black Baron,
As I do thy gold, and thy silver fee!
For wander east, or wander west,
The widow's curse still follows thee!
Who such a tyrant gives her hand,
But binds herself to slaverie!
There is a squire within this castle,
A match for thee and thy companie!”
51
The Page he spake, but he spake no more;For, Oh! his life was at an end!
“Take, take thee that!” quoth an angry loon,
“Poor noisy worm! it will thee mend!
Or man, or boy, who thus speaks our Baron,
To heav'n, or hell, his soul I'll send!”
53
52
The Dacre from his window sawThe bloody deed; quick down he came;
“Now rise! now rise! my comrades all!
Brown Adam! Andrew! Dick o' Graeme!
Rise Johnstons! Armstrongs! and the Shaws!
And all the rest that I could name;
Rise! try your swords, that never fail'd,
Fair Ellinor your help doth claim;
And curs'd be he who will not rise,
To save from harm an injur'd dame!”
53
When each had sworn to kill or die,The Dacre opened the castle gate,
And he has said to the Black Baron,
“Thy strength I scorn! thy deeds I hate!
Who stains his sword with virtue's gore,
Will sore repent, when 'tis too late!
54
“Come on! come on! man to his man!Methinks it loss of time to wait;
We fight the cause of a ladie fair,
And for the rest, we trust to fate!”
54
55
The first who fell was the Black Baron;For the Dacre cleft his head in twain:
Soon, of his luckless threescore men,
Full forty on the ground lay slain:
The rest sunk down; from many a wound
The crimson tide pour'd out amain;
Each look'd on Dacre, with a sigh,
A brave man's mercy proud to gain.
56
“Spare! spare, and pity!” quoth the Dacre,“No more their gore our swords shall stain;
And may he who fights for a good ladie,
Ne'er fear a foe, nor fight in vain!
57
“The wounded gently bear to the hall,For need of help, I trow, have they;
And some a grave dig wide and deep,
And in it soon these dead men lay:
The mangled corse of the Black Baron,
Quick to his castle we will convey;
And give due thanks to the King of kings,
For favors he hath shewn this day!”
55
58
And Andrew's Willie, he was there,And loud he laugh'd, the sight to see;
And fain the corse of the Black Baron
He would have hung on the highest tree,
Or thrown it into Eden deep,
A feast for eels and pikes to be.
The Dacre gave him a well-lin'd purse,
For saving of our good ladie;
And he has join'd the Dacre's clan,
And a merry wight long may he be!
59
Now stepped forth ladie Ellinor,The bloody fray she had trembling seen;
And she has knelt most fervently,
And thanked heav'n, with uplifted een:
The Dacre bending o'er her, sigh'd,
And rais'd her, with a courteous mien.
60
From her fair finger she took a ring,And gave it the Dacre, with kisses three,
Saying, “For the deed thine arm hath done,
The Lord of Corbye, thou shalt be.”
56
A sorrie ladie, I trow was she:
“A-lack-a-day! my faithful boy!
A Page so true, I ne'er hope to see!”
She hung her head, pale grew her cheek,
And many a tear fell from her e'e.
61
She has giv'n the Dacre her lily hand,And her lands that lay both far and wide;
Again the red blooms on his cheeks,
When he beholds so fair a bride:
For she seem'd an angel, and no woman,
With her maidens seated by her side;
And fain will be the feeble mother,
To hear what luck did her son betide.
62
Who would not cherish virtuous love,Its joys are pure, its cares are light;
But who can say love's joys will last,
The fairest flow'r a storm may blight:
63
For love is like a lily flow'r;And love is like a feverish dream;
57
Tho' now life's luxury supreme!
64
Now one by one the Dacre's clanWere welcomed into the hall,
Where the tables groan'd with dainty fare,
And blithe and merry, I trow were all:
And old Grey Graeme, in his garb of green,
Who still was ready at our ladie's call,
Now with his harp was seated near,
And loudly sang the Black Baron's fall;
Whilst the castle echoed their revelrie,
Till the grey cock thrice did on them call.
65
How eager sits his good old mother,Young Dacre watching, from tower high;
And many with their children look,
“They suin wull come!” oft do they cry.
They gaze along the woody glen,
And over the hill, with eager eye,
When swift and swifter o'er the moor,
Foremost they see the Dacre fly.
58
66
“O God be prais'd!” says the feeble mother,“I count them all in safety nigh!
And on grey palfrey array'd in white,
Methinks an angel I espy!”
67
And when she kiss'd the Dacre's bride,She dropp'd an aged mother's tear;
And when they told of what had pass'd,
Rejoic'd was she, the tale to hear:
“Thrice happy day!” quoth the feeble mother,
“That gave my son a dame so dear!”
“Thrice happy day!” quoth the Dacre's clan,
“When man to man, we knew no fear!”
68
Now safe arriv'd on the banks of Lyne,A father, mother, wife, they see,
And there they drink the nut-brown ale,
And tell their feats, with merry glee:
For man to man, ne'er a border clan
Cou'd fight the Dacre, and his companie.
59
69
He has to each brave comrade giv'nBoth gold and silver, for a fee;
But may the penny ne'er cross his purse,
Who will not fight for a good ladie!
And he whose heart is sunk in love,
I wish him soon from trouble free!
70
For Love can wound without a scar;And Love can bind without a chain;
Mid' savage Winter's frightful storms,
Love finds his way o'er land and main:
Love's arrows pierce the bravest heart,
And soon subdue the proud and vain;
And when man bows a slave to Love,
'Tis hard his freedom to regain,
For the greatest trial man endures,
Is lovely woman's cold disdain!
71
By day and night, Love wings his flightO'er barren heath, and flow'ry plain;
Mid' Summer's heat, and Winter's cold,
Love glories in his tyrant reign:
60
Of monarch proud, and lowly swain,
But one kind glance from her we prize,
Will freedom give, and banish pain!
72
O may this tale of former daysBut cheat the bosom of a sigh,
How pleas'd will be the unknown Bard,
Who boasteth not of minstrelsy!
Tho' weak the tones of his broken harp,
And he in song with few can vie,
Fain would he sing in virtue's praise,
And dry the tear from sorrow's eye;
Tho' poverty hath bow'd him low,
And the wise and wealthy pass him by.
| The Poetical Works of Robert Anderson | |