Scott's Lady of the Lake. Walter ScottЧитать онлайн книгу.

      Alone, but with unbated zeal,

      That horseman plied the scourge and steel;20

      For jaded now, and spent with toil,

      Emboss’d with foam, and dark with soil,

      While every gasp with sobs he drew,

      The laboring stag strain’d full in view.

      Two dogs of black St. Hubert’s breed,

      Unmatch’d for courage, breath, and speed,

      Fast on his flying traces came,

      And all but won that desperate game;

      For, scarce a spear’s length from his haunch,

      Vindictive toil’d the bloodhounds stanch,

      Nor nearer might the dogs attain,

      Nor farther might the quarry strain.

      Thus up the margin of the lake,

      Between the precipice and brake,21

      O’er stock22 and rock their race they take.

      The Hunter mark’d that mountain23 high,

      The lone lake’s western boundary,

      And deem’d the stag must turn to bay,24

      Where that huge rampart barr’d the way;

      Already glorying in the prize,

      Measured his antlers with his eyes;

      For the death wound and death halloo,

      Muster’d his breath, his whinyard drew; —

      But thundering as he came prepared,

      With ready arm and weapon bared,

      The wily quarry shunn’d the shock,

      And turn’d him from the opposing rock;

      Then, dashing down a darksome glen,

      Soon lost to hound and Hunter’s ken,

      In the deep Trosachs’25 wildest nook

      His solitary refuge took.

      There, while close couch’d, the thicket shed

      Cold dews and wild flowers on his head,

      He heard the baffled dogs in vain

      Rave through the hollow pass amain,

      Chiding the rocks that yell’d26 again.

      Close on the hounds the Hunter came,

      To cheer them on the vanish’d game;

      But, stumbling on27 the rugged dell,

      The gallant horse exhausted fell.

      The impatient rider strove in vain

      To rouse him with the spur and rein,

      For the good steed, his labors o’er,

      Stretch’d his stiff limbs, to rise no more;

      Then, touch’d with pity and remorse,

      He sorrow’d o’er the expiring horse.

      “I little thought, when first thy rein

      I slack’d upon the banks of Seine,28

      That Highland eagle e’er should feed

      On thy fleet limbs, my matchless steed!

      Woe worth29 the chase, woe worth the day,

      That costs thy life, my gallant gray!”

      Then through the dell his horn resounds,

      From vain pursuit to call the hounds.

      Back limp’d, with slow and crippled pace,

      The sulky leaders of the chase;

      Close to their master’s side they press’d,

      With drooping tail and humbled crest;

      But still the dingle’s hollow throat

      Prolong’d the swelling bugle note.

      The owlets started from their dream,

      The eagles answer’d with their scream,

      Round and around the sounds were cast

      Till echo seem’d an answering blast;

      And on the Hunter hied his way,30

      To join some comrades of the day;

      Yet often paused, so strange the road,

      And wondrous were the scenes it show’d.

      The western waves of ebbing day

      Roll’d o’er the glen their level way;31

      Each purple peak, each flinty spire,

      Was bathed in floods of living fire.

      But not a setting beam could glow

      Within the dark ravines below,

      Where twined the path in shadow hid,

      Round many a rocky pyramid,

      Shooting abruptly from the dell

      Its thunder-splinter’d pinnacle;

      Round many an insulated32 mass,

      The native bulwarks of the pass,

      Huge as the tower33 which builders vain

      Presumptuous piled on Shinar’s plain.

      The rocky summits, split and rent,

      Form’d turret, dome, or battlement,

      Or seem’d fantastically set

      With cupola or minaret,

      Wild crests as pagod34 ever deck’d,

      Or mosque of Eastern architect.

      Nor were these earth-born castles bare,

      Nor lack’d they many a banner fair;

      For, from their shiver’d brows display’d,

      Far o’er the unfathomable glade,

      All twinkling with the dewdrop sheen,35

      The brier-rose fell in streamers green,

      And creeping shrubs, of thousand dyes,

      Waved in