Sir Walter Scott - Poems
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Classic Poetry Series Sir Walter Scott - poems - Publication Date: 2004 Publisher: Poemhunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive Sir Walter Scott(1771-1832) Walter Scott, born in College Wynd, Edinburgh, was the son of a lawyer. Educated first at Edinburgh High School and then University he was apprenticed to his father and called to the bar in 1792. An avid reader of poetry, history, drama and romances, the young Scott read widely in Italian, Spanish, Latin and German. In his twenties he was influenced particularly by the German Romantics and his first published works were translations of G.A. Bürger and Goethe. These were followed by the collections of border ballads and the narrative poems, written between 1805 and 1815, that first made him famous. By by this time he had also married Margaret Charlotte Charpenter, of a French Royalist family, and became sheriff-deputy of Selkirkshire, in 1797 and 1799 respectively. In 1809 Scott became partners with John Ballanytne in a book-selling business and also, as an ardent political conservative, helped to found the Tory 'Quarterly Review'. In 1811 he built a residence at Abbotsford on the Tweed. By 1815, beginning to feel eclipsed as a poet by Byron, he turned to the novel form for which he is now chiefly famous. A vast number of these were published, anonymously, over approximately the next fifteen years. In 1820 Scott was made a baronet and seven years later, in 1827, he first gave his name to his works. However, in 1826 the book-selling business became involved in the bankruptcy of another company, leaving Scott with debts of approximately £114,000. It is generally believed that some part at least of the profligacy of his writing is attributed to his desire to pay off these debts personally. His work, and along stay at Naples in 1831, undertaken in an attempt to regain his health, took up the rest of his life. He is now generally hailed as the inventor of the historical novel. His work was widely read and imitated across the whole of Europe throughout the Nineteenth- Century in particular and his influence is marked even in such writers as Elizabeth Gaskell, George Eliot and the Brontes. www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 1 A Serenade Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh The sun has left the lea, The orange-flower perfumes the bower, The breeze is on the sea. The lark, his lay who trill’d all day, Sits hush’d his partner nigh; Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour, But where is County Guy? The village maid steals through the shade Her shepherd’s suit to hear; To Beauty shy, by lattice high, Sings high-born Cavalier. The star of Love, all stars above, Now reigns o’er earth and sky, And high and low the influence know— But where is County Guy? Sir Walter Scott www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 2 An Hour With Thee An hour with thee! When earliest day Dapples with gold the eastern gray, Oh, what can frame my mind to bear The toil and turmoil, cark and care, New griefs, which coming hours unfold, And sad remembrance of the old? One hour with thee. One hour with thee! When burning June Waves his red flag at pitch of noon; What shall repay the faithful swain, His labor on the sultry plain; And, more than cave or sheltering bough, Cool feverish blood and throbbing brow? One hour with thee. One hour with thee! When sun is set, Oh, what can teach me to forget The thankless labors of the day; The hopes, the wishes, flung away; The increasing wants, and lessening gains, The master's pride, who scorns my pains? One hour with thee. Sir Walter Scott www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 3 Ancient Gaelic Melody I. Birds of omen dark and foul, Night-crow, raven, bat, and owl, Leave the sick man to his dream - All night long he heard you scream. Haste to cave and ruin'd tower, Ivy tod, or dingled-bower, There to wink and mop, for, hark! In the mid air sings the lark. II. Hie to moorish gills and rocks, Prowling wolf and wily fox, - Hie ye fast, nor turn your view, Though the lamb bleats to the ewe. Couch your trains, and speed your flight, Safety parts with parting night; And on distant echo borne, Comes the hunter's early horn. III. The moon's wan crescent scarcely gleams, Ghost-like she fades in morning beams; Hie hence, each peevish imp and fay That scarce the pilgrim on his way, - Quench, kelpy! quench, in bog and fen, Thy torch, that cheats benighted men; Thy dance is o'er, thy reign is done, For Benyieglo hath seen the sun. IV. Wild thoughts, that, sinful, dark, and deep, O'erpower the passive mind in sleep, Pass from the slumberer's soul away, Like night-mists from the brow of day: Foul hag, whose blasted visage grim Smothers the pulse, unnerves the limb, Spur thy dark palfrey, and begone! Thou darest not face the godlike sun. www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 4 Sir Walter Scott www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 5 Answer Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife! To all the sensual world proclaim, One crowded hour of glorious life Is worth an age without a name. Sir Walter Scott www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 6 As Lords Their Labourers' Hire Delay As lords their labourers' hire delay, Fate quits our toil with hopes to come, Which, if far short of present pay, Still, owns a debt and names a sum. Quit not the pledge, frail sufferer, then, Although a distant date be given; Despair is treason towards man, And blasphemy to Heaven. Sir Walter Scott www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 7 Bonaparte From a rude isle, his ruder lineage came. The spark, that, from a suburb hovel's hearth Ascending, wraps some capital in flame, Hath not a meaner or more sordid birth. And for the soul that bade him waste the earth— The sable land-flood from some swamp obscure, That poisons the glad husband-field with dearth, And by destruction bids its fame endure, Hath not a source more sullen, stagnant, and impure. Before that Leader strode a shadowy form, Her limbs like mist, her torch like meteor shew'd; With which she beckon'd him through fight and storm, And all he crush'd that cross'd his desp'rate road, Nor thought, nor fear'd, nor look'd on what he trode; Realms could not glut his pride, blood not slake, So oft as e'er she shook her torch abroad— It was Ambition bade his terrors wake; Nor deign'd she, as of yore, a milder form to take. No longer now she spurn'd at mean revenge, Or stay'd her hand for conquer'd freeman's moan, As when, the fates of aged Rome to change, By Caesar's side she cross'd the Rubicon; Nor joy'd she to bestow the spoils she won, As when the banded Powers of Greece were task'd To war beneath the Youth of Macedon: No seemly veil her modern minion ask'd, He saw her hideous face, and lov'd the fiend unmask'd. That Prelate mark'd his march—On banners blaz'd With battles won in many a distant land. On eagle standards and on arms he gaz'd; 'And hop'st thou, then,' he said, 'thy power shall stand? O! thou hast builded on the shifting sand, And thou hast temper'd it with slaughter's flood; And know, fell scourge in the Almighty's hand, Gore-moisten'd trees shall perish in the bud, And, by a bloody death, shall die the Man of Blood.' www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 8 The ruthless Leader beckon'd from his train A wan, paternal shade, and bade him kneel, And pale his temples with the Crown of Spain, While trumpets rang, and Heralds cried, 'Castile!' Not that he lov'd him—No!—in no man's weal, Scarce in his own, e'er joy'd that sullen heart; Yet round that throne he bade his warriors wheel, That the poor puppet might perform his part, And be a scepter'd slave, at his stern beck to start. Sir Walter Scott www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 9 Bonny Dundee To the Lords of Convention ’twas Claver’se who spoke. ‘Ere the King’s crown shall fall there are crowns to be broke; So let each Cavalier who loves honour and me, Come follow the bonnet of Bonny Dundee. Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can, Come saddle your horses, and call up your men; Come open the West Port and let me gang free, And it’s room for the bonnets of Bonny Dundee!’ Dundee he is mounted, he rides up the street, The bells are rung backward, the drums they are beat; But the Provost, douce man, said, ‘Just e’en let him be, The Gude Town is weel quit of that Deil of Dundee.’ <i>Come fill up my cup</i>, etc. As he rode down the sanctified bends of the Bow, Ilk carline was flyting and shaking her pow; But the young plants of grace they looked couthie and slee, Thinking luck to thy bonnet, thou Bonny Dundee! <i>Come fill up my cup</i>, etc.