The poetical works of Leigh Hunt Now finally collected, revised by himself, and edited by his son, Thornton Hunt. With illustrations by Corbould |
The poetical works of Leigh Hunt | ||
WALLACE AND FAWDON.
This ballad was suggested by one of the notes to the Lay of the Last Minstrel. Wallace, the great Scottish patriot, had been defeated in a sharp encounter with the English. He was forced to retreat with only sixteen followers; the English pursued him with a bloodhound; and his sole chance of escape from that tremendous investigator was either in baffling the scent altogether (which was impossible, unless fugitives could take to the water, and continue there for some distance), or in confusing it by the spilling of blood. For the latter purpose, a captive was sometimes sacrificed; in which case the hound stopped upon the body.
The supernatural part of the story of Fawdon is treated by its first relator, Harry the Minstrel, as a mere legend, and that not a very credible one; but as a mere legend it is very fine, and quite sufficient for poetical purposes; nor should the old poet's philosophy have thought proper to gainsay it. Nevertheless, as the mysteries of the conscience are more awful things than any merely gratuitous terror (besides leaving optical phenomena quite as real as the latter may find them), even the supernatural part of the story becomes probable when we consider the agitations which the noble mind of Wallace may have undergone during such trying physical circumstances, and such extremes of moral responsibility. It seems clear, that however necessary the death of Fawdon may have been to his companions, or to Scotland, his slayer regretted it; I have suggested the kind of reason which he would most likely have had for the regret; and upon the whole, it is my opinion, that Wallace actually saw the visions, and that the legend originated in the fact. I do not mean to imply that Fawdon became present, embodied or disembodied, whatever may have been the case with his image. I only say that what the legend reports Wallace to have seen, was actually in the hero's eyes. The remainder of the question I leave to the psychologist.
1. PART THE FIRST.
Is on his weary way;
They have hasting been all night,
And hasting been all day;
And now, to lose their only hope,
They hear the bloodhound bay.
Right upon the road;
Town and tower are yet to pass,
With not a friend's abode.
Closer drew the men;
Little had they said that day,
But most went cursing then.
Coming from English ground,
And leave their bodies on the track,
To cheat King Edward's hound.
That left them in the fight,
And leave him cloven to the ribs,
To mock the bloody spite.
As they near'd a town;
He stumbled with a desperate oath,
And cast him fiercely down.
My body is unblest;
Come dog, come devil, or English rack,
Here must Fawdon rest.”
Had join'd them in the war;
Four orphan children waited him
Down by Eden Scawr.
That were both fierce and shy;
And at his words he turn'd, and said,
“That's a traitor's lie.
A captive for the hound;
Thine eye is bright; thy lucky flesh
Hath not a single wound;
The moment we depart, the lane
Will see thee from the ground.”
Speak as any might;
Scorn'd or sooth'd, he sat and lour'd,
As though in angry spite.
And waved his men apart;
And Fawdon half leap'd up and cried,
“Thou wilt not have the heart!”
Without further speech,
Clean cut off dark Fawdon's head,
Through its stifled screech:
The arm that fenc'd his brow;
And Fawdon, as he leap'd, fell dead,
And safe is Wallace now.
And silent is the hound;
And on their way to Castle Gask
They quit the sullen ground.
2. PART THE SECOND.
Safely with his men;
Not a soul has come, three days,
Within the warder's ken.
Yet he fareth ill;
There is fever in his blood;
His mind may not be still.
Talking long and late;
Who is this that blows the horn
At the castle-gate?
Which none but Wallace hears?
Loud and louder grows the blast
In his frenzied ears.
He sends them all to learn;
He stands upon the stairs, and calls,
But none of them return.
And there the moonlight fell
Across the yard upon a sight,
That makes him seem in hell.
With an arm in air,
Brandishing his bloody head
By the swinging hair.
Turn'd and fled amain,
Up the stairs, and through the bowers
With a burning brain:
Fifteen feet to ground,
And never stopp'd till fast within
A nunnery's holy bound.
To see the fiend retire,
And saw him not at hand, but saw
Castle Gask on fire.
And on its top, endued
With the bulk of half a tower,
Headless Fawdon stood.
And blackly fill'd the light;
His body seem'd, by some black art,
To look at Wallace, heart to heart,
Threatening through the night.
From a feeble bed;
And gentle though he was before,
Yet now to orphans evermore
He gentlier bow'd his head,
The poetical works of Leigh Hunt | ||