. The poetical works of Sir Walter Scott, baronet; ed. with a careful revision of the text. have heard thee measure bold on festal yon lone isle, — again where neerShall harper play or warrior hear ! —That stirring air that peals on Dermids race our victory. —Strike it ! — and then, — for well thou canst, —Free from thy minstrel-spirit glanced,Fling me the picture of the met my clan the Saxon 11 listen, till my fancy hearsThe clang of swords, the crash of spears !These grates, these walls, shall vanish thenFor the fair field of fighting my f
. The poetical works of Sir Walter Scott, baronet; ed. with a careful revision of the text. have heard thee measure bold on festal yon lone isle, — again where neerShall harper play or warrior hear ! —That stirring air that peals on Dermids race our victory. —Strike it ! — and then, — for well thou canst, —Free from thy minstrel-spirit glanced,Fling me the picture of the met my clan the Saxon 11 listen, till my fancy hearsThe clang of swords, the crash of spears !These grates, these walls, shall vanish thenFor the fair field of fighting my free spirit burst if it soared from battle trembling Bard with awe obeyed, —Slow on the harp his hand he laid ;But soon remembrance of the sightHe witnessed from the mountains height,With what old Bertram told at night,Awakened the full power of bore him in career along; —As shallop launched on rivers tide,That slow and fearful leaves the side,But, when it feels the middle stream,Drives downward swift as lightnings beam. THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 239. JSattlc of JScal an Quine. * The Minstrel came once more to viewThe eastern ridge of Benvenue,For ere he parted he would sayFarewell to lovely Loch Achray —Where shall he find, in foreign land,So lone a lake, so sweet a strand ! —There is no breeze upon the fern. No ripple on the her eyry nods the erne, The deer has sought the brake;The small birds will not sing aloud. The springing trout lies still,So darkly glooms yon thunder-cloud,That swathes, as with a purple shroud, Benledis distant it the thunders solemn soundThat mutters deep and echoes from the groaning ground The warriors measured tread ?Is it the lightnings quivering glance That on the thicket streams,Or do they flash on spear and lanceThe suns retiring beams ? —I see the dagger-crest of Mar,I see the Morays silver star,Wave oer the cloud of Saxon up the lake comes winding far!To hero boune f
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Keywords: ., bookauthorrol, bookcentury1800, bookdecade1880, bookyear1888, harp
