The poetical works of Walter Scott, Volume 6

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Page 21 - And hear, — to fire thy flagging zeal, — The Saxon cause rests on thy steel; For thus spoke Fate, by prophet bred Between the living and the dead: 'Who spills the foremost foeman's life, His party- conquers in the strife.
Page 24 - Fitz-James's blade was sword and shield. He practised every pass and ward, To thrust, to strike, to feint, to guard; While less expert, though stronger far, The Gael maintained unequal war. Three times in closing strife they stood, And thrice the Saxon blade drank blood; No stinted draught, no scanty tide, The gushing flood the tartans dyed. Fierce Roderick felt the fatal drain, And...
Page 91 - I hate to learn the ebb of time, From yon dull steeple's drowsy chime, Or mark it as the sun-beams crawl, Inch after inch, along the wall. The lark was wont my matins...
Page 22 - Soars thy presumption, then, so high, Because a wretched kern ye slew, Homage to name to Roderick Dhu ? He yields not, he, to man nor Fate ! Thou add'st but fuel to my hate : — My clansman's blood demands revenge. Not yet prepared ? — By heaven, I change My thought, and hold thy valor light As that of some vain carpet knight, Who ill deserved my courteous care, And whose best boast is but to wear A braid of his fair lady's hair.
Page 196 - Her shirt was o' the grass-green silk, Her mantle o' the velvet fyne ; At ilka tett of her horse's mane, Hung fifty siller bells and nine. True Thomas, he pull'd aff his cap, And louted low down to his knee, " All hail, thou mighty queen of heaven ! For thy peer on earth I never did see.
Page 21 - Then, by my word," the Saxon said, " The riddle is already read. Seek yonder brake beneath the cliff, — There lies Red Murdoch, stark and stiff. Thus Fate has solved her prophecy, Then yield to Fate, and not to me.
Page 16 - Each warrior vanished where he stood, In broom or bracken, heath or wood ; Sunk brand, and spear, and bended bow, In osiers pale and copses low ; It seemed as if their mother Earth Had swallowed up her warlike birth.
Page 11 - These fertile plains, that softened vale, Were once the birthright of the Gael ; The stranger came with iron hand, And from our fathers reft the land. Where dwell we now ? See, rudely swell Crag over crag, and fell o'er fell. Ask we this savage hill we tread, For...
Page 14 - The rushes and the willow-wand Are bristling into axe and brand, And every tuft of broom gives life To plaided warrior armed for strife. That whistle garrisoned the glen At once with full five hundred men, As if the yawning hill to heaven A subterranean host had given.
Page 77 - The sun's retiring beams? — I see the dagger-crest of Mar, I see the Moray's silver star, Wave o'er the cloud of Saxon war, That up the lake comes winding far ! To hero bound for battle-strife, Or bard of martial lay, Twere worth ten years of peaceful life, One glance at their array ! XVI.

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