{London Poems 1866}

195

MISCELLANEOUS.

[‘London, 1864’ concludes the London Poems of 1866. To complete the edition, four poems are added in a Miscellaneous section. In the 1884 edition of 'The Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan', ‘The Death of Roland’ and ‘The Gift of Eos’ are included in Miscellaneous Poems (1866-70), and ‘The Scaith o’ Bartle’ and ‘The Glamour’ are added to North Coast, And Other Poems (1867-68).]

197

THE DEATH OF ROLAND.

De Karlemane et de Rolant,
Et d’Olivier, et des vassaus,
Qui moururent à Rainscevaux! ¹

 

I.

DEAD was Gerard the fair, the woman-mouth’d, the gay,                             [1:1]
Who jested with the foe he slung his sword to slay;
Dead was the giant Guy, big-hearted, small of brain;
Dead was the hunchback Sanche, his red haunch slit in twain;                         [1:4]
Dead was the old hawk Luz, and sleeping by his side
His twin-sons, Charles the Fleet, and Pierre the serpent-eyed;                        [1:6]
Dead was Antoine, the same who swore to speak no word                             198
Till twice a hundred heads fell by his single sword;                                          [1:8]
Dead was the wise Gerin, who gripp’d both spear and pen;                            [1:9]
Sansun was dead, Gereir was dead!—dead were the mighty men!

II.

     Then Roland felt his sense return, and stirr’d, and cried,
Felt down if Adalmar lay safe against his side,
And smilèd quietlie, for joy the sword was there,                                            [2:3]
With heavy mailèd hand push’d back his bloody hair,                                     [2:4]
And lying prone upon his back, beheld on high
The stars like leopard-spots strewn in the deep gray sky,                                [2:6]
And turn’d his head, and saw the great hills looming dim,                                [2:7]
And in the west the Moon with red and wasting rim;                                       [2:8]
Then sighing deep, swung round his head as in a swoon,                                 [2:9]
And met the hunchback's eyne, glazèd beneath the Moon.
Chill was the air, and frosty vapours to and fro,                                               199
Like sheeted shapes, in dim moonshine, crawl’d to and fro;                           [2:12]
And Roland thought, because his wound had made him weak,
The cold shapes breathed alive their breath upon his cheek,                           [2:14]
And crawling to his knees, shivering in the cold,                                             [2:15]
Loosen’d his helm, and dimly gleaming down it roll’d;                                    [2:16]
And slowly his faint eyes distinguish’d things around,—                                  [2:17]
The dark and moveless shapes asleep upon the ground,                                 [2:18]
A helmet glittering dim, a sword-hilt twinkling red,                                         [2:19]
A white horse quivering beside a warrior dead,                                              [2:20]
And in one moonlit place, a ring on a white hand,
When Roland thought, “Gerard! the merriest of the band!”                             [2:22]
And no one stirr’d; behind, the hills loom’d cold and dim;                              [2:23]
And in the west the waning Moon with red and wasting rim.

III.

     Then Roland cried aloud, “If living man there be
Among these heaps of slain, let that man answer me!”
And no man spake. The wind crept chilly over all,                                     200 [3:3]
But no man felt it breathe, or heard the leader call.                                          [3:4]
“Ho, Olivier! Gerin! speak, an’ ye be not dead!”                                            [3:5]
Small voices of the hills afar off echoèd,—                                                      [3:6]
Only a heathen churl rose cursing on his side,
And spat at him who spake, and curl’d his limbs, and died.
Then Roland’s mighty heart was heavy with its woes,—
When suddenly, across the fields, faint radiance rose,                                    [3:10]
First a faint spark, and then a gleam, and then a glare,
Then smoke and crimson streaks that mingled in the air,
And as the thick flame clear’d, and the black smoke swam higher,
There loom’d beyond a shape like one girt round with fire.                            [3:14]
And Roland cried aloud, because his joy was great,
And brandish’d Adalmar, and fell beneath the weight,
And lying prone strain’d eyes, and, gazing through the night,                           [3:17]
Still saw the glittering shape girt round with smoky light,                                 [3:18]
And seemèd in a dream, and could not think at all,                                         [3:19]
Until his heart rose up, and he had strength to crawl,                                      [3:20]
Then, like a bruisèd worm weary he crept and slow,                                 201 [3:21]
Straining his fever’d eyes lest the sweet light should go,                                  [3:22]
And often paused to breathe, feeling his pulses fail,                                        [3:23]
’Mong heathens foul to smell and warriors clad in mail,
But coming near the light beheld the godly man,                                             [3:25]
Turpin the archbishòp, unhelm’d and gaunt and wan,—                                 [3:26]
Gripping with skinny hand the ivory Cross sat he,
Clad head to heel in bright white mail and propp’d against a tree.                   [3:28]

 

IV.

     And when on hands and knees the stricken chief came near,                      [4:1]
The Bishop raised the Cross, and knew his comrade dear;
And Roland did not speak, though tears were in his ee,                                   [4:3]
But touch’d the blessèd Cross, and smilèd painfullie;                                       [4:4]
While, “Glory be to God!” the Bishop faintly said,
“Thou livest, kinsman dear, though all the rest be dead!
For while I linger’d here and listen’d for a sound,
And in the dim red moon beheld the dead around,                                          [4:8]
Thinking I heard a cry, I sought to cry again,
But all my force had fled, and I was spent with pain;
When, peering round, I saw this heathen at my heel,                                        202
And search’d his leathern scrip and found me flint and steel,                           [4:12]
Then crawl’d, though swooning-sick, and found his charger gray,
And searching in the bags found wither’d grass and hay,
And made a fire, a sign for thee, whoe’er thou wert,
And fainted when it blazed, for I am sorely hurt;                                            [4:16]
And waken’d to behold thee near, wounded and weak,
The red fire flaming on thy face, thy breath upon my cheek.”

V.

     Then those brave chiefs wrung hands, and as the smoky flare                     [5:1]
Died out, and all was dark, the Bishop said a prayer,                                      [5:2]
And shadows loom’d out black against the frosty shine,
While Turpin search’d his pouch and murmur’d, “Here is wine!”
And Roland on his elbows raised himself and quaff’d,
Drank, till his head swam round, a deep and goodly draught,                           [5:6]
And quickly he felt strong, his heart was wild and light,                                    203
He placed his dear sword softly down, and rose his height,                             [5:8]
Loosening his mail, drew forth the shirt that lay beneath,
And took the blood-stain’d silk and tore it with his teeth,
And dress’d the Bishop’s wounds with chilly hand and slow,                         [5:11]
Then, while the Bishop pray’d, bound up his own wide wound alsoe.

 

VI.

     Then Roland search’d around, dipping his hands in blood,
Till in a henchman’s pack he found a torch of wood,
And taking flint and steel, blew with his mouth, and lo!
The torch blazed bright, and all grew crimson in the glow;                               [6:4]
And gave the torch unto the man of holy fame,                                                [6:5]
Who glittering like fire, sat sickening in the flame,                                            [6:6]
And crept across the mead, into the dark again,
And felt the faces of the slain, seeking the mighty men.                                    [6:8]

204

VII.

     Bless’d be thy name, white Mary, for thy breath and light,                          [7:1]
Like vapour cold, did fill the nostrils of thy knight!
Yea, all his force came back, his red wound ceased to bleed,
And he had hands of strength to do a blessèd deed!
For one by one he found each well-belovèd head,
Sought out the mighty chiefs, among the heaps of dead,                                   [7:6]
Softly unloosed their helms, let the long tresses flow,
Trail’d them to Turpin’s feet and set them in a row;
And underneath the tree the pine-torch blazèd bright                                       [7:9]
On dreadful shapes in mail and faces ghastly white:                                        [7:10]
Sansun, who held his sword with grip that ne’er unloosed;                             [7:11]
Gerin, with chin on breast, as if he breathed and mused;
Great Guy, with twisted limbs, and bosom gash’d and bare,
And blood-clots on his arms the cold had frozen there;                                  [7:14]
Old Luz, his skinny hands fill’d with a foeman's beard;                                   [7:15]
Charles with his feet lopp’d off, Pierre with his green eye spear’d;
Sanche, the fierce woman’s foe, and round his neck, behold!                          205
A lock of lady’s hair set in a ring of gold;
Antoine, with crafty smile, as if new fights he plann’d;
Gerard, still smiling on the ring upon his hand;                                                [7:20]
And, brightest of the band, our Roland’s comrade dear,                                [7:21]
The iron woman-shape, the long-lock’d Olivier,
Who gript the bladeless hilt of Durandal his pride,
And held it to his kissing lips, as when he swoon’d and died.                          [7:24]

VIII.

And Turpin raised the torch, counted them one by one:                                   [8:1]
“Ah, woe is me, sweet knights, for now your work is done!”
Then, reaching with the Cross, he touch’d their brows and cried:
“White Mary take your souls, and place them at her side!                               [8:4]
White Mary take your souls, and guard them tenderlie,—
For ye were goodly men as any men that be!”
And Roland stooping touch’d the brow of Olivier,
Smoothing the silken hair behind the small white ear,
And cried, “Ah, woe is me, that we should ever part!”                                    206
And kiss’d him on the foamy lips, and swoon’d for ache of heart.                  [8:10]

IX.

And Turpin dropp’d the torch, that flamed upon the ground,                           [9:1]
But meeting new-shed blood, went out with hissing sound;                              [9:2]
He groped for Roland’s heart, and felt it faintly beat,
And, groping on the earth, he found the wine-flask sweet,                               [9:4]
And fainting with the toil, slaked not his own great drouth,
But, shivering, held the flask to Roland’s foamy mouth:                                    [9:6]
E’en then, his Soul shot up, and in its shirt of steel
The corse sank back with crash like ice that cracks beneath the heel.              [9:8]

X.

The frosty night-wind waken’d Roland from his swound,                               [10:1]
And, spitting salt foam from his tongue, he look’d around,
And saw the Bishop dear lying at length close by,—                                       207
Touch’d him, and found him cold, and utter’d up a cry:                                  [10:4]
“Now, dead and cold, alas! lieth the noblest wight
For preaching sermons sweet and wielding sword in fight;
His voice was as a trump that on a mountain blows,
He scatter’d oils of grace and wasted heathen-foes,—
White Mary take his soul, to join our comrades dear,
And let him wear his bishop’s crown in heaven above as here!”                    [10:10]

XI.

Then it grew chiller far, the grass grew moist with dew,                                  [11:1]
The landskip glimmer’d pale, the hoary breezes blew,                                    [11:2]
The many stars above melted like snow-flakes white,
And far behind the hills the east was laced with light,                                      [11:4]
The dismal vale loom’d clear against a crimson glow,
Clouds spread above like wool, pale steam arose below,
And on the faces dead the frosty morning came,                                            [11:7]
On mighty men, and foes, and squires unknown to fame,                                [11:8]
And armèd mail gleam’d bright, and broken steel gleam’d gray,                208 [11:9]
And cold dew fill’d the wounds of those who sleeping lay;                            [11:10]
And Roland, rising, drank the dawn with lips apart,
But scents were in the air that sicken’d his proud heart!
Yea, all was deathly still; and now, though it was day,
The moon grew small and pale, but did not pass away,                                 [11:14]
The white mist wreath’d and curl’d over the glittering dead,                          [11:15]
A cock crew, far among the hills, and echoes answerèd.

XII.

Then peering to the east, across the dewy steam,                                           [12:1]
He spied a naked wood, and there a running stream;                                     [12:2]
Thirsting full sore, he rose, and thither did he hie,
Faintly, and panting hard, because his end was nigh;
But first he stooping loosed from Turpin’s fingers cold
The Cross inlaid with gems and wrought about with gold,
And bare the holy Cross aloft in one weak hand,
And with the other trail’d great Adalmar his brand.
Thus wearily he came into the woody place,                                                    209
And stooping to the stream dippèd therein his face,                                      [12:10]
And in the pleasant cold let swim his great black curls,
Then swung his forehead up, glittering as with pearls;                                    [12:12]
And while the black blood spouted in a burning jet,
He loosed the bandage of his wound and made it wet,
Wringing the silken bands, making them free from gore,                                [12:15]
Then placed them cool upon the wound, and tighten’d them once more.

XIII.

     Eastward rose cloudy mist, drifting like smoke in wind,                             [13:1]
Ghastly and round the sun loom’d dismally behind,                                        [13:2]
High overhead the moon faded with sickle chill,                                             [13:3]
The frosty wind dropp’d down, and all was deathlier still,
And Roland, drawing deep the breath of vapours cold,                                  [13:5]
Beheld three marble steps, as of a ruin old,                                                    [13:6]
And at the great tree-bolls lay many a carven stone,
Thereto a dial quaint, where slimy grass had grown;                                       [13:8]
And frosted were the boughs that gatherèd around,                                  210 [13:9]
And cold the runlet crept, with soft and soothing sound,
And Roland smilèd sweet, and thought, “Since death is nigh,                         [13:11]
In sooth, I know no gentler place where gentle man could die!”

XIV.

     Whereon the warrior heard a sound of breaking boughs,                           [14:1]
And, from the thicket wild, leapt one with tannèd brows;                               [14:2]
Half-naked, glistening dark with oily limbs, he came,                                      [14:3]
His long-nail’d fingers curl’d, his little eyes aflame,                                         [14:4]
Shrieking in his own tongue, as on the chief he flew,                                       [14:5]
“Yield thee thy sword of fame, and thine own flesh thereto!”
Then Roland gazed and frown’d, though nigh unto his death,
Sat still, and drew up all his strength in a great breath,                                    [14:8]
Pray’d quickly to the saints he served in former days                                     [14:9]
With right hand clutch’d the sword he was too weak to raise,                       [14:10]
And in the left swung up the Cross, and, shrieking hoarse,                       211 [14:11]
Between the eyebrows smote the foe with all his force,
Yea, smote him to the brain, crashing through skin and bone,
And prone the heathen fell, as heavy as a stone,                                           [14:14]
And gold and gems of price were loosen’d by the blow,                               [14:15]
And, as he fell, rain’d round the wild hair of the foe;                                     [14:16]
But Roland kiss’d the cross, and, laughing, backward fell,                            [14:17]
And on the hollow air the laugh rang heavy, like a knell.

 

XV.

     And Roland thought: “I surely die; but, ere I end,
Let me be sure that thou art ended too, my friend!                                         [15:2]
For should a heathen hand grasp thee when I am clay,
My ghost would grieve full sore until the judgment day!”                                [15:4]
Then to the marble steps, under the tall bare trees,
Trailing the mighty sword, he crawl’d on hands and knees,                             [15:6]
And on the slimy stone he struck the blade with might—                                 212
The bright hilt, sounding, shook, the blade flash’d sparks of light;                   [15:8]
Wildly again he struck, and his sick head went round,
Again there sparkled fire, again rang hollow sound;
Ten times he struck, and threw strange echoes down the glade,
Yet still unbroken, sparkling fire, glitter’d the peerless blade.                         [15:12]

XVI.

     Then Roland wept, and set his face against the stone—
“Ah, woe, I shall not rest, though cold be flesh and bone!”                             [16:2]
And pain was on his soul to die so cheerless death;                                        [16:3]
When on his naked neck he felt a touch, like breath,                                      [16:4]
And did not stir, but thought, “O God, that madest me,
And shall my sword of fame brandish’d by heathens be?
And shall I die accursed, beneath a heathen’s heel,                                        [16:7]
Too weak to slay the slave whose hated breath I feel?”                                  [16:8]
Then, clenching teeth, he turn’d to look upon the foe,                                      213
His bright eyes growing dim with coming death; and lo!
His life shot up in fire, his heart arose again,
For no unhallow’d face loom’d dark upon his ken,                                       [16:12]
No heathen-breath he felt,—though he beheld, indeed,
The white arch’d head and round brown eyes of Veillintif, his steed!             [16:14]

XVII.

And pressing his moist cheek on his who gazed beneath,
Curling the upper lip to show the large white teeth,
The white horse, quivering, look’d with melancholy eye,                                [17:3]
Then waved his streaming mane, and uttered up a cry;                                   [17:4]
And Roland’s bitterness was spent—he laugh’d, he smiled,
He clasp’d his darling’s neck, wept like a little child;
He kiss’d the foamy lips, and hugged his friend, and cried:                             [17:7]
“Ah, nevermore, and nevermore, shall we to battle ride!
Ah, nevermore, and nevermore, shall we sweet comrades be!                  214 [17:9]
And Veillintif, had I the heart to die forgetting thee?
To leave thy mighty heart to break, in slavery to the foe?                              [17:11]
I had not rested in the grave, if it had ended so.                                            [17:12]
Ah, never shall we conquering ride, with banners bright unfurl’d,
A shining light ’mong lesser lights, a wonder to the world!”

 

XVIII.

And Veillintif neigh’d low, breathing on him who died,
Wild rock’d his great strong heart beneath his silken hide,                              [18:2]
Tears roll’d from his brown eyes upon his master’s cheek,
And Roland, gathering strength, though wholly worn and weak,                     [18:4]
Held up the point of Adalmar the peerless brand,                                           [18:5]
And at his comrade’s heart push’d with his dying hand;                                  [18:6]
And the black blood sprang forth, while heavily as lead,                                  215
With quivering, silken side, the mighty steed fell dead;                                    [18:8]
And Roland, for his eyes with frosty film were dim,                                        [18:9]
Groped for the steed, crept close, and smiled, embracing him,                      [18:10]
And, pillow’d on his neck, kissing the pure white hair,
Clasp’d Adalmar the brand, and tried to say a prayer,                                  [18:12]
And that he conquering died, wishing all men to know,                                 [18:13]
Set firm his lips, and turn’d his face towards the foe,
And closèd eyes, and slept, and never woke again.                                      [18:15]

Roland is dead, the gentle knight! dead is the crown of men!

[Notes:
¹ From the Roman de Rou by Wace, (ed. Fr. Pluquet, 1827 II p. 214).
According to the entry in the Literary Encyclopedia: “The Roman de Rou (literally the Romance of Rollo) is a verse narrative in French, around 17,000 lines in length. It relates the history of Normandy from its origins to the Battle of Tinchebray in 1106.” The lines occur in Part III of the poem (Part II in Pluquet's version): "But this section is dominated by the account of the Battle of Hastings. In l. 5319 Wace announces his “long account” of how William became King. The battle itself begins when Taillefer, after singing of Roland, Oliver and those who died at Rencesvals, strikes an Englishman and passes his lance right through his belly (ll. 8013-34)." [back]

Alterations in the 1884 edition of ‘The Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan’ - ‘The Death Of Roland’ is included in the ‘Miscellaneous Poems. (1866-70)’ section, pages 186 - 191:
v. 1, l. 1: Dead was Gerard the fair, the girl-mouth’d, the gay,
v. 1, l. 4: Dead was the hunchback Sanche, his red hunch slit in twain;
v. 1, l. 6: His twin-sons, Charles the fleet, and Pierre the serpent-eyed;
v. 1, l. 8: Till five score heathen heads fell by his single sword;
v. 1, l. 9: Dead was the wise Gerin, who gript both spear and pen;
v. 2, l. 3: And smiled most quietlie, for joy the Sword was there;
v. 2, l. 4: With heavy-mailed hand brush’d back his bloody hair,
v. 2, l. 6: The stars like leopard-spots strewn in the sapphire sky.
v. 2, l. 7: He turn'd his head, and lo! the large hills looming dim,
v. 2, l. 8: In the wan west the Moon with red and wasting rim;
v. 2, l. 9: Then sighing sore, swung round his head as in a swoon,
v. 2, l. 12: Like sheeted shapes, in dim moonshine, were stealing slow;
v. 2, l. 14: The cold shapes breathed alive their breath upon his cheek.
v. 2, l. 15: Crawling unto his knees, shivering in the cold,
v. 2, l. 16: He loosed his helm, and dimly gleaming down it roll’d;
v. 2, l. 17: And darkly his dim eyes distinguish’d things around,—
v. 2, l. 18: The mute and moveless shapes asleep upon the ground,
v. 2, l. 19: A helm glittering dim, a sword-hilt twinkling red,
v. 2, l. 20: A white steed quivering beside a warrior dead,
v. 2, l. 22: When Roland thought, “Gerard! the brightest of the band!”
v. 2, l. 23: And no one stirr’d; behind, the hills loom’d large and dim;
v. 3, l. 3: And no soul spake. The wind crept chilly over all,
v. 3, l. 4: And no man felt it creep, or heard the leader call.
v. 3, l. 5: “Ho, Olivier! Gerin! speak, an’ ye be not slain!”
v. 3, l. 6: The voices of the hills echoed the cry again,—
v. 3, l. 10: When fitfully, across the fields, faint radiance rose,
v. 3, l. 14: There loom’d beyond a Shape like one girt round with fire!
v. 3, l. 17: But lying prone strain’d eyes, and, gazing through the night,
v. 3, l. 18: Still saw the glittering Shape circled with spectral light.
v. 3, l. 19: He seem’d in a dark dream, he could not think at all,
v. 3, l. 20: Until his heart rose up, and he had strength to crawl:
v. 3, l. 21: Then, like a bruisèd worm weary he slipt and slow,
v. 3, l. 22: Straining his fever’d eyes lest the sweet ghost should go,
v. 3, l. 23: And oft he paused to breathe, feeling his pulses fail,
v. 3, l. 25: But coming near the gleam beheld the godly man,
v. 3, l. 26: Turpin the Archbishòp, unhelm’d and gaunt and wan,—
v. 3, l. 28: Clad head to heel in frost-white mail and propt against a tree.
v. 4, l. 1: And when on hands and knees the stricken Chief came near,
v. 4, l. 3: And Roland’s heart swell’d up, and tears were on his cheek,
v. 4, l. 4: He touch’d the blessèd Cross, and smiled and did not speak;
v. 4, l. 8: And in the dim red Moon beheld the dead around,
v. 4, l. 12: And search’d his leathern scrip and gat me flint and steel,
v. 4, l. 16: But fainted when it blazed, for I am sorely hurt;
v. 5, l. 1: Then those brave Chiefs wrung hands, and as the crimson flare
v. 5, l. 2: Died out, and all was dark, the Bishop said a prayer;
v. 5, l. 6: Yea, till his head reel’d round, a great and goodly draught,
v. 5, l. 8: He placed his dear Sword softly down, and rose his height,
v. 5, l. 11: Dressing the Bishop’s wounds with chilly hand and slow,
v. 6, l. 4: The torch blazed bright, and all grew crimson in the glow.
v. 6, l. 5: Then into Turpin’s hands he set that beacon bright
v. 6, l. 6: Who glittering like fire, sat looming in its light,
v. 6, l. 8: And felt the faces of the dead, seeking the mighty men.
v. 7, l. 1: Blest be thy name, White Mary, for thy breath and might,
v. 7, l. 6: Sought out the mighty Chiefs, among the drifts of dead,
v. 7, l. 9: And underneath the tree the pine-torch blazing bright
v. 7, l. 10: Lit shapes in silvern mail and faces snowy white:
v. 7, l. 11: Sansun, who grasp’d his sword with grip that ne’er unloosed;
v. 7, l. 14: And blood-clots on his arms the frost had frozen there;
v. 7, l. 15: Old Luz, his skinny hands filled with a foeman’s beard;
v. 7, l. 20: Gerard, still smiling on the ring that deckt his hand;
v. 7, l. 21: And, brightest of the host, our Roland’s comrade dear,
v. 7, l. 24: And held it to his kissing lips, as when he droop’d and died.
v. 8, l. 1: And Turpin raised the torch, counted them, one by one:
v. 8, l. 4: “White Mary take your souls, and place them at her side,
v. 8, l. 10: And kiss’d him on the clay-cold lips, and swoon’d, for ache of heart.
v. 9, l. 1: Then Turpin dropt the torch, that flamed upon the ground,
v. 9, l. 2: But drinking blood and dew, died out with drizzlie sound;
v. 9, l. 4: And, feeling on the earth, he found the wine-flask sweet,
v. 9, l. 6: But, shivering, held the flask to Roland’s gentle mouth:
v. 9, l. 8 The Corse sank back, with crash like ice that cracks beneath the heel!
v. 10, l. 1: The frosty wind awaken’d Roland from his swound,
v. 10, l. 4: Touch’d him, and found him cold, and utter’d a great cry:
v. 10, l. 10: And let him wear his Bishop’s crown in heaven above, as here!”
v. 11, l. 1: Now it grew chiller far, the grass was moist with dew,
v. 11, l. 2: The landskip glimmer’d pale, the frosty breezes blew,
v. 11, l. 4: Behind the great blue hills the East was laced with light,
v. 11, l. 7: And on the faces dead the frosty Morning came,
v. 11, l. 8 : On mighty men of mark and squires unknown to fame,
v. 11, l. 9: And golden mail gleam’d bright, and broken steel gleam’d gray,
v. 11, l. 10: And cold dew filled the wounds of those who sleeping lay;
v. 11, l. 14: The Moon grew small and pale, but did not pass away,
v. 11, l. 15: The white mist wreath’d and curl’d over the glittering dead;
v. 12, l. 1: Then peering to the East, through the thick vaporous steam,
v. 12, l. 2: He spied a naked wood, hard by a running stream;
v. 12, l. 10: And stooping to the stream therein did dip his face,
v. 12, l. 12: Then swung his head up, damp with the dim dewy pearls;
v. 12, l. 15: Wringing the silken folds, making them free from gore,
v. 13, l. 1: Eastward rose cloudy mist, drifting like smoke in air,
v. 13, l. 2: Ghastly and round the Sun loom’d with a lurid glare,
v. 13, l. 3: High overhead the Moon shrivell’d with sickle chill,
v. 13, l. 5: When Roland, drawing deep the breath of vapours cold
v. 13, l. 6: Beheld three marble steps, as of a Ruin old,
v. 13, l. 8: Thereto a Dial quaint, where slimy grass had grown;
v. 13, l. 9: And frosted were the boughs that gather’d all around,
v. 13, l. 11: And sweetly Roland smiled, thinking, “Since death is nigh,
v. 14, l. 1: Whereon he heard a cry, a crash of breaking boughs,
v. 14, l. 2: And from the thicket wild leapt one with painted brows;
v. 14, l. 3: Half-naked, glistening grim, with oily limbs, he came,
v. 14, l. 4: His long-nail’d fingers curl’d, his bloodshot eyes aflame,
v. 14, l. 5: Shrieking in his own tongue, as on the Chief he flew,
v. 14, l. 8: Sat still, and drew up all his strength in one great breath,
v. 14, l. 9: Pray’d swiftly to the Saints he served in former days,
v. 14, l. 10: With right hand clutch’d the Sword he was too weak to raise,
v. 14, l. 11: And in the left swung up the Cross!—and, shrieking hoarse,
v. 14, l. 14: And prone the heathen fell, as heavy as a stone,—
v. 14, l. 15: While gold and gems of price, unloosen’d by the blow,
v. 14, l. 16: Ev’n as he fell rain’d round the ringlets of the foe;
v. 14, l. 17: But Roland kiss’d the Cross, and, laughing, backward fell,
v. 15, l. 2: Let me be sure that thou art ended too, O friend!
v. 15, l. 4: My ghost would grieve full sore until the Judgment Day!”
v. 15, l. 6: Trailing the mighty Sword, he crawl’d on hands and knees,
v. 15, l. 8: The bright hilt sounding shook, the blade flash’d sparks of light;
v. 15, l. 12: Yet still unbroken, sparkling fire, glitter’d the peerless blade!
v. 16, l. 2: “Ah, woe! I shall not rest, though cold be flesh and bone!”
v. 16, l. 3: And sickness seized his soul to die so cheerless death;
v. 16, l. 4: When on his naked neck he felt a touch, like breath,—
v. 16, l. 7: And shall I die accursed, beneath a heathen’s heel?
v. 16, l. 8: Too spent to slay the slave whose hated breath I feel!”
v. 16, l. 12: For no unhallow’d face loom’d on his dying ken,
v. 16, l. 14: The white arch’d head and round brown eyes of Veillintif, his Steed!
v. 17, l. 3: The white horse, quivering, look’d with luminous liquid eye,
v. 17, l. 4: Then waved his streaming mane, and utter’d up a cry;
v. 17, l. 7: He kiss’d the foam-fleck’d lips, and clasp’d his friend and cried:
v. 17, l. 9: Ah, nevermore, and nevermore, shall we sweet comrades be,
v. 17, l. 11: To leave thy brave bright heart to break, in slavery to the foe?
v. 17, l. 12: I had not rested in the grave, if it had ended so!
v. 18, l. 2: Wild rock’d his strong sad heart beneath his silken side,
v. 18, l. 4: While Roland, gathering strength, though wholly worn and weak,
v. 18, l. 5: Held up the glittering point of Adalmar the brand,
v. 18, l. 6: And at his comrade’s heart drave with his dying hand;
v. 18, l. 8: With shivering, silken side, the mighty Steed fell dead.
v. 18, l. 9: Then Roland, for his eyes with frosty film were dim,
v. 18: l. 10: Groped for his friend, crept close, and smiled, embracing him;
v. 18, l. 12: Clasp’d Adalmar the brand, and tried to say a prayer:
v. 18, l. 13: And that he conquering died wishing all men to know,
v. 18, l. 15: Then closed his eyes, and slept, and never woke again.]

216

THE SCAITH O’ BARTLE:

A TALE OF THE NORTH-EAST COAST.

Fathoms deep the ship doth lie,
     Wreath’d with ocean weed and shell,
The cod slips past with round white eye,                                                           [i:3]
Still and deep the shadows lie,
     Dusky as a forest dell:
Tangled in the twisted sail,
     With the breathing of the Sea,
Stirs the Man who told this tale
     Staring upward dreamilie.

I LAID him here, and scarcely wept; but look!
His grave is green and wild and like a wave,
And strewn with ocean-weeds instead o’ flowers.                                 [1:3]

     You saw him, Jack, langsyne, on board the Crow,                           [2:1]
Cod-fishing in Newfoundland, and (you mind?)
We drank a gill, all three, the very day                                                  217
Before the Crow went down off Baker’s Head,                                    [2:4]
And all the crew were drown’d but brother Dan.
To think a man who faced so many a storm,                                         [2:6]
And stood on splitting planks and never quail’d,
And swam to save his life a dozen times,
Should ever die ashore! Why, from the first,
We twins were meant for sailors:—God himself                                   [2:10]
Planted a wind in both our brains to blow                                            [2:11]
Our bodies up and down His calms and storms.
Never had wilder, stormier year been known
Here in the clachan, than the very year
When Dan and I were born;—waters and winds
Roar’d through the wintry season, and the sounds
And sights weigh’d on our Highland mother’s heart,
Giving her whims and moods in which the bairns                                  [2:18]
Beneath her heart were fashion’d; and in March,                                 [2:19]
The Scaith came down the valley, roaring past                                     [2:20]
Our mother’s ears the hour we grat and saw.                                       [2:21]
Ay! we were made to sail the seas, and hear                                       [2:22]
The battling of the waters and the winds,
And should have sail’d the seas until the end.
Green fields and wimpling streams and inglesides
Were never meant for cairds like Dan and I.

     When other boys were mumping at the school,                                 218
Or yellowing their white livers at a desk,                                               [3:2]
I went as cabin-lad on board a whaler,
And Dan took his big handkerchief, tied up                                           [3:4]
His sark and comb and brush, and two or three                                    [3:5]
Big home-baked bannocks, and a lump of cheese,                                [3:6]
Kiss’d mother, (that’s her grave beside his own,)
And walk’d to Abereden,¹ where he found                                           [3:8]
A berth on board a brig—the Jessie Gray,
Bound south for Cadiz. After that, for years                                         [3:10]
We drifted up and down;—and when we met
Down in the Clyde, and journey’d home together,                               [3:12]
We both were twenty, Dan was poor as ever,
But I had saved. How changed he look’d! how fine!
Brown cheek and bit o’ whisker, hands like steel,
A build as sturdy as a mountain fir’s,—
Ay, every inch a sailor! Then, the tales
We had for one another!—tales of storms,
And sights on land, pranks play’d and places seen!—
But, “Bob, I’m tired of being on the seas,
The life’s a hard one at the best,” says Dan;
And I was like a fool, and thought the same.                                        [3:22]
So home we came, found father dead and gone,
And mother sorely push’d; and round her neck
We threw our arms, and kiss’d her, and she cried,                                219
And we cried too, and I took out my pay
And pour’d it in her lap; but Dan look’d grieved,
And, glancing from the pay to mother, cried,
“I’ll never, never go to sea again!”

     ’Tis thirty years ago, and yet right well
I mind it all. How pleasant for a time
Was life on land: the tousling with the girls,
The merry-making in the public-house,
The cosy bed on winter nights. We work’d—
I at the fishing, Dan at making nets—
And kept old mother for a year and more.
But ere the year was out, the life grew dull:
We never heard the wind blow, but we thought
Of sailing on the sea,—we got a knack
Of lying on the beach and listening
To the great waters. Still, for mother’s sake,
Ashore we had to tarry. By and by,
The restlessness grew worse, and show’d itself
In other ways,—taking a drop too much,
Fighting and cutty-stooling—and the folk
Began to shake their heads. Amid it all,
One night when Dan was reading out God’s Book,
(That bit about the storm, where Peter tries                                    220 [4:19]
To walk on water, and begins to sink,)
Old mother sigh’d and seem’d to go to sleep,
And when we tried to wake her, she was dead.

     With sore, sore hearts we laid poor mother down;
And walk’d that day up yonder cliffs, and lay
A hearkening to the sea that wash’d beneath:                                        [5:3]
Far, far away we saw a sail gleam wet
Out of a rainy spot below the line
Where sky and water meet; the sea was calm,                                      [5:6]
And overhead went clouds whose shadows floated
Slowly beneath, and here and there were places
Purple and green and blue, and close to land
The red-sail’d fish-boats in a violet patch.
I look’d at brother Dan, Dan look’d at me,—
And that same morning, off we went again!

     No rest for us on land from that day forth.
We grew to love the waters; they became
Part of our flesh and blood; the Sea, the Sea,
The busy whistling round the foam-girt world,
Was all our pleasure. Now and then we met,—
Once in a year or two, and never came
To Scotland but we took a journey here                                               221
To look on mother’s grave, and spend a day
With old companions. But we never thought
Of resting long, and never hoped to die
Ashore, like mother: we had fix’d it, Jack,
That we must drown some day. At last, by luck,
We ran together. Dan had got a place
As captain of a brig, and, press’d by him,
They made me mate. Ten years we sail’d together,
From Liverpool to New South Wales and back;
And we were lads no more, but staid, strong men,
Forty and upward,—yet with kibble arms,
Brown cheeks, and cheerful hearts. Then the ill wind
That blew no good to any one began,                                                  [6:20]
And puff’d us back to Scotland, to this place                                       [6:21]
Where we were born and bred.

                                                  Now, mark you, Jack,
Even a sailor is but flesh and blood,
Though out upon the water he can laugh
At women and their ways; a run on shore,
A splash among the dawties and the drink,
Soon tires, soon tires—then hey! away again
To the wild life that’s worthy of a man!
At forty, though, a sailor should be wise,                                               222
And ’ware temptation: whole a sailor, free,
But only half a sailor, though afloat,
When wedded. Don’t you guess? Though Dan was old,
His head was turn’d, while in the clachan here,
And by a woman,—Effie Paterson,
The daughter of a farmer on the hills,
And only twenty. Bonnie, say you? Ay!
As sweet a pout as ever grew on land;
But soft and tender, with a quiet face
That needed the warm hearth to light it up,
And went snow-pallid at a puff of wind
Or whiff of danger. When I saw the trap,
I tried my best to wheedle Dan away,
Back to the brig; but, red as ricks on fire,
He glinted dark with those deep eyes of his,                                        [7:23]
And linger’d. Then, ’twas nearly time to sail;
I talk’d of going, and it all came out:
He meant to marry, Jack!—and not content                                        [7:26]
With marrying, he meant to stop ashore!

     Why, if a lightning flash had split our brig,                                        [8:1]
I should have wonder’d less. But, “Bob,” says he,
“I love this lassie as I never thought
’Twas in my heart to love; and I have saved;                                        223
And I am tired of drifting here and there
On the great waters: I have earn’d my rest,                                           [8:6]
And mean to stop ashore until I die.”
’Twas little use to argue things with Dan
When he had settled aught within his mind;
So all I said was vain. What could I do
But put a sunny face upon it all,
And bid him hasten on the day, that I
Might see his wedding, and be off again?                                             [8:13]

     Yet soon I guess’d, before the wedding day,
That Effie did not care a cheep for Dan,
But scunner’d at his brave rough ways and tales
Of danger on the deep. His was a voice
Meant for the winds, with little power to whisper
The soft sleek things that make the women blush,
And tingle, and look sweet. Moreover, Dan
Was forty, and the lassie but a child.
I saw it all, but dared not speak my thought!
For Dan had siller, Effie's folks were poor,                                          [9:10]
And Dan was blind, and Effie gave consent,
And talk was no avail. The wedding guests
Went up to Jessie’s² home one pleasant day,                                       [9:13]
The minister dropp’d in, the kirk-bells rang,                                          224
And all was over. ’Twas a summer morn,
The blue above was fleck’d with feathery down,
The sea was smooth, and, like a ringdove’s neck,                                [9:17]
Changeful and full of colours, and the kirk                                           [9:18]
Stood mossy here upon the little hill,
And seem’d to ring a blessing over all.                                                 [9:20]

     And Effie? Ah! keep me from women, Jack!
Give them a bit o’ sunshine—and they smile,
Give them a bit o’ darkness—and they weep;
But smiles and tears with them are easy things,
And cheat ye like the winds. On such a day,
With everybody happy roundabout,
Effie look’d happy too; and if her face
Flush’d and was fearful, that was very joy;                                          [10:8]
For when a woman blushes, who can tell
Whether the cause be gladness, pride, or shame?
And Dan (God bless him!) look’d as young as you,
Trembled and redden’d lass-like, and I swear,
Had he not been a sailor, would have cried.
So I was cheer’d, next day, when off I went
To take his post as captain of the brig,
And I forgot my fears, and thought them wrong,
And went across the seas with easy heart,                                            225
Thinking I left a happy man behind.

     But often, out at sea, I thought of Dan,
Wonder’d if he was happy. When the nights
Were quiet, and the cabin where I slept                                               [11:3]
Was steaming with the moonshine, I would lie                                      [11:4]
And listen to the lapping of the waves,                                                 [11:5]
And think: “I wonder if this very light
Is shining far away on poor old Dan?                                                   [11:7]
And if his face looks happy in it, while                                                 [11:8]
He sleeps by Effie’s side?” On windy nights
I used to think of Dan with trouble and fear;
And often, when the waves were ribb’d and white,                             [11:11]
And on we drove bare-poled before the wind,                                   [11:12]
The foamy waters seem’d to take the shape                                       [11:13]
Of this old clachan, and I seem’d to hear
Dan calling me; and I would drink the salt,
And pace the deck with all my blood on fire,
And cry—“If Dan were driving on out here,                                       [11:17]
Dashing and weather-beaten, never still,
He would be happier!”

                                       Ay! though the storm                                   [12:1]
Roll’d fierce between us, voices came from Dan                             226 [12:2]
To tell me he was weary of the land.                                                    [12:3]
Often, when I was floating in the ship,
He hung about these caves and watch’d the moon                               [12:5]
Silv’ring the places where no wind was blowing,                                  [12:6]
And thought of me! or on the beach he lay,
And wearied to the breaking of the waves!
Or out from land he row’d his boat, and gazed
Wistfully eastward! or on windy nights
He speel’d yon cliffs above the shore, and set
His teeth together in the rain and wind,
Straining eyes seaward, seeking lights at sea,
And pacing up and down upon the brinks                                           [12:14]
As if he trode the decks! Why, things like those
Saved him from withering, salted all his blood,                                    [12:16]
And soothed his heartache. Wind and wave are far
More merciful than a young woman’s heart.                                       [12:18]

     Why, had she been a bickering hizzie, fill’d
With fire and temper, stubborn as a whin,
And cushlingmushling o’er a cheerless fire,
Dan might have brought her round: that was the work                          [13:4]
He understood full well; and, right or wrong,
He would have been the skipper to the end.                                        [13:6]
But though a man who has been train’d at sea,                                      227
Holding a hard strong grip on desperate men,
Can sink his voice and play a gentle part
In sunny seasons, he has little power
To fight with women’s weapons. Dan, be sure,                                   [13:11]
Loved Effie with a love the deeper far
And tenderer because he had been bred
On the rough seas; but when, from day to day,                                   [13:14]
He met a weary and a waning face,
That tried to smile, indeed, but could not smile,
And saw the tears where never tears should be,
Yet never met an angry look or word,
What could he do? He loved the lass too well
To flyte; tried tender words, but they were spent                                [13:20]
Upon a heart where the cold crancreuch grew;
And, when the sorrow grew too sharp to dree,                                   [13:22]
Turn’d soopit from the dwelling. Plain he saw                                     [13:23]
The lass was dreary, though she kept so still,
And loved him not, though nothing harsh was said,
But fretted, and grew thin, and haunted him
With a pale face of gentleness and blame.                                           [13:27]
O Jack, Jack, Jack, of all the things accurst,