LXXXIV.—THE LAST MINSTREL.SCOTT.Sir Walter Scott was born in Edinburgh, August 15, 1771, died September 21, 1832. He was distinguished as a poet, and unrivaled as a novelist.
SCOTT.
Sir Walter Scott was born in Edinburgh, August 15, 1771, died September 21, 1832. He was distinguished as a poet, and unrivaled as a novelist.
1. The way was long, the wind was cold,The Minstrel was infirm and old;His withered cheek, and tresses gray,Seemed to have known a better day:The harp, his sole remaining joy,Was carried by an orphan boy;The last of all the Bards was he,Who sung of Border chivalry.2. For well a day! their date was fled,His tuneful brethren all were dead;And he neglected and oppressed,Wished to be with them and at rest.No more on prancing palfrey borne,He caroled, light as lark at morn;No longer courted and caressed,High-placed in hall, a welcome guest,He poured to lord and lady gayThe unpremeditated lay.3. Old times were changed, old manners gone,A stranger filled the Stuart throne,The bigots of the Iron timeHad called the harmless art a crime.A wandering Harper, scorned and poor,He begged his bread from door to door,And tuned, to please a peasants ear,The harp a king had loved to hear.4. He passed where Newark’s stately towerLooks out from Yarrow’s birchen bower;The Minstrel gazed with wistful eye,No humbler resting-place was nigh;With hesitating step, at last,The embattled portal arch he passed,Whose pond’rous grate and massy barHad oft rolled back the tide of war,But never closed the iron doorAgainst the desolate and poor.5. The Duchess marked his weary pace,His timid mien, and reverend face,And bade her page the menials tell,That they should tend the old man well:For she had known adversity,Though born in such a high degree;In pride of power and beauty’s bloom,Had wept o’er Monmouth’s bloody tomb!
1. The way was long, the wind was cold,The Minstrel was infirm and old;His withered cheek, and tresses gray,Seemed to have known a better day:The harp, his sole remaining joy,Was carried by an orphan boy;The last of all the Bards was he,Who sung of Border chivalry.2. For well a day! their date was fled,His tuneful brethren all were dead;And he neglected and oppressed,Wished to be with them and at rest.No more on prancing palfrey borne,He caroled, light as lark at morn;No longer courted and caressed,High-placed in hall, a welcome guest,He poured to lord and lady gayThe unpremeditated lay.3. Old times were changed, old manners gone,A stranger filled the Stuart throne,The bigots of the Iron timeHad called the harmless art a crime.A wandering Harper, scorned and poor,He begged his bread from door to door,And tuned, to please a peasants ear,The harp a king had loved to hear.4. He passed where Newark’s stately towerLooks out from Yarrow’s birchen bower;The Minstrel gazed with wistful eye,No humbler resting-place was nigh;With hesitating step, at last,The embattled portal arch he passed,Whose pond’rous grate and massy barHad oft rolled back the tide of war,But never closed the iron doorAgainst the desolate and poor.5. The Duchess marked his weary pace,His timid mien, and reverend face,And bade her page the menials tell,That they should tend the old man well:For she had known adversity,Though born in such a high degree;In pride of power and beauty’s bloom,Had wept o’er Monmouth’s bloody tomb!
1. The way was long, the wind was cold,The Minstrel was infirm and old;His withered cheek, and tresses gray,Seemed to have known a better day:The harp, his sole remaining joy,Was carried by an orphan boy;The last of all the Bards was he,Who sung of Border chivalry.
1. The way was long, the wind was cold,
The Minstrel was infirm and old;
His withered cheek, and tresses gray,
Seemed to have known a better day:
The harp, his sole remaining joy,
Was carried by an orphan boy;
The last of all the Bards was he,
Who sung of Border chivalry.
2. For well a day! their date was fled,His tuneful brethren all were dead;And he neglected and oppressed,Wished to be with them and at rest.No more on prancing palfrey borne,He caroled, light as lark at morn;No longer courted and caressed,High-placed in hall, a welcome guest,He poured to lord and lady gayThe unpremeditated lay.
2. For well a day! their date was fled,
His tuneful brethren all were dead;
And he neglected and oppressed,
Wished to be with them and at rest.
No more on prancing palfrey borne,
He caroled, light as lark at morn;
No longer courted and caressed,
High-placed in hall, a welcome guest,
He poured to lord and lady gay
The unpremeditated lay.
3. Old times were changed, old manners gone,A stranger filled the Stuart throne,The bigots of the Iron timeHad called the harmless art a crime.A wandering Harper, scorned and poor,He begged his bread from door to door,And tuned, to please a peasants ear,The harp a king had loved to hear.
3. Old times were changed, old manners gone,
A stranger filled the Stuart throne,
The bigots of the Iron time
Had called the harmless art a crime.
A wandering Harper, scorned and poor,
He begged his bread from door to door,
And tuned, to please a peasants ear,
The harp a king had loved to hear.
4. He passed where Newark’s stately towerLooks out from Yarrow’s birchen bower;The Minstrel gazed with wistful eye,No humbler resting-place was nigh;With hesitating step, at last,The embattled portal arch he passed,Whose pond’rous grate and massy barHad oft rolled back the tide of war,But never closed the iron doorAgainst the desolate and poor.
4. He passed where Newark’s stately tower
Looks out from Yarrow’s birchen bower;
The Minstrel gazed with wistful eye,
No humbler resting-place was nigh;
With hesitating step, at last,
The embattled portal arch he passed,
Whose pond’rous grate and massy bar
Had oft rolled back the tide of war,
But never closed the iron door
Against the desolate and poor.
5. The Duchess marked his weary pace,His timid mien, and reverend face,And bade her page the menials tell,That they should tend the old man well:For she had known adversity,Though born in such a high degree;In pride of power and beauty’s bloom,Had wept o’er Monmouth’s bloody tomb!
5. The Duchess marked his weary pace,
His timid mien, and reverend face,
And bade her page the menials tell,
That they should tend the old man well:
For she had known adversity,
Though born in such a high degree;
In pride of power and beauty’s bloom,
Had wept o’er Monmouth’s bloody tomb!