William Stanley Braithwaite, ed. The Book of Georgian Verse. 1909.
The Eve of Saint JohnSir Walter Scott (17711832)
T
He spurred his courser on,
Without stop or stay, down the rocky way,
That leads to Brotherstone.
His banner broad to rear;
He went not ’gainst the English yew
To lift the Scottish spear.
And his vaunt-brace of proof he wore;
At his saddle-gerthe was a good steel sperthe,
Full ten pound weight and more.
And his looks were sad and sour;
And weary was his courser’s pace
As he reached his rocky tower.
Ran red with English blood;
Where the Douglas true and the bold Buccleuch
’Gainst keen Lord Evers stood.
His acton pierced and tore,
His axe and his dagger with blood imbrued,—
But it was not English gore.
He held him close and still;
And he whistled thrice for his little foot-page,
His name was English Will.
Come hither to my knee;
Though thou art young and tender of age,
I think thou art true to me.
And look thou tell me true!
Since I from Smaylho’me tower have been,
What did thy lady do?’
That burns on the wild Watchfold;
For from height to height the beacons bright
Of the English foeman told.
The wind blew loud and shrill;
Yet the craggy pathway she did cross
To the eiry Beacon Hill.
Where she sat her on a stone;—
No watchman stood by the dreary flame,
It burnèd all alone.
Till to the fire she came,
And, by Mary’s might! an armèd knight
Stood by the lonely flame.
Did speak to my lady there;
But the rain fell fast and loud blew the blast,
And I heard not what they were.
And the mountain-blast was still,
As again I watched the secret pair
On the lonesome Beacon Hill.
And name this holy eve;
And say, ‘Come this night to thy lady’s bower;
Ask no bold baron’s leave.
His lady is all alone;
The door she’ll undo to her knight so true
On the eve of good Saint John.’
I dare not come to thee:
On the eve of Saint John I must wander alone:
In thy bower I may not be.’
Thou shouldst not say me nay;
For the eve is sweet, and when lovers meet
Is worth the whole summer’s day.
And rushes shall be strewed on the stair;
So, by the black rood-stone and by the holy Saint John,
I conjure thee, my love, to be there!’
And the warder his bugle should not blow,
Yet there sleepeth a priest in the chamber to the east,
And my footsteps he would know.’
For to Dryburgh the way he has ta’en;
And there to say mass, till three days do pass,
For the soul of a knight that is slayne.’
Then he laughed right scornfully—
‘He who says the mass-rite for the soul of that knight
May as well say mass for me:
In thy chamber will I be.—’
With that he was gone and my lady left alone,
And no more did I see.’
From the dark to the blood-red high;
‘Now, tell me the mien of the knight thou hast seen,
For, by Mary, he shall die!’
His plume it was scarlet and blue;
On his shield was a hound in a silver leash bound,
And his crest was a branch of the yew.’
Loud dost thou lie to me!
For that knight is cold and low laid in mould
All under the Eildon-tree.’
For I heard her name his name;
And that lady bright, she called the knight
Sir Richard of Coldinghame.’
From high blood-red to pale—
‘The grave is deep and dark—and the corpse is stiff and stark—
So I may not trust thy tale.
And Eildon slopes to the plain,
Full three nights ago by some secret foe
That gay gallant was slain.
And the wild winds drowned the name;
For the Dryburgh bells ring and the white monks do sing
For Sir Richard of Coldinghame!’
And he mounted the narrow stair
To the bartizan-seat where, with maids that on her wait,
He found his lady fair.
Looked over hill and vale;
Over Tweed’s fair flood and Mertoun’s wood,
And all down Teviotdale.
‘Now hail, thou baron true!
What news, what news, from Ancram fight?
What news from the bold Buccleuch!’
For many a Southern fell;
And Buccleuch has charged us evermore
To watch our beacons well.’
Nor added the baron a word:
Then she stepped down the stair to her chamber fair
And so did her moody lord.
And oft to himself he said,—
‘The worms around him creep, and his bloody grave is deep—
It cannot give up the dead!’
The night was well-nigh done,
When a heavy sleep on that baron fell,
On the eve of good Saint John.
By the light of a dying flame;
And she was aware of a knight stood there—
Sir Richard of Coldinghame!
‘For the holy Virgin’s sake!’
‘Lady, I know who sleeps by thy side;
But, lady, he will not awake.
In bloody grave have I lain;
The mass and the death-prayer are said for me,
But, lady, they are said in vain.
Most foully slain I fell;
And my restless sprite on the beacon’s height
For a space is doomed to dwell.
I must wander to and fro;
But I had not had power to come to thy bower
Hadst thou not conjured me so.’
‘How, Richard, hast thou sped?
And art thou saved or art thou lost?’
The vision shook his head!
So bid thy lord believe:
That lawless love is guilt above,
This awful sign receive.’
His right upon her hand;
The lady shrunk and fainting sunk,
For it scorched like a fiery brand.
Remains on that board impressed;
And forevermore that lady wore
A covering on her wrist.
Ne’er looks upon the sun;
There is a monk in Melrose tower
He speaketh word to none.
That monk who speaks to none—
That nun was Smaylho’me’s lady gay,
That monk the bold baron.