My name is Norval. On the Grampian Hills
My father feeds his flocks; a frugal swain,
Whose constant cares were to increase his store,
And keep his only son, myself, at home.
For I had heard of battles, and I long'd
To follow to the field some warlike lord:
And heav'n soon granted what my sire deny'd.
This moon, which rose last night, round as my shield,
Had not yet fill'd her horns, when by her light,
A band of fierce barbarians, from the hills
Rush'd, like a torrent, down upon the vale,
Sweeping our flocks and herds. The shepherds fled
For safety and for succour. I alone,
With bended bow, and quiver full of arrows,
Hover'd about the enemy, and mark'd
The road he took; then hasted to my friends;
Whom, with a troop of fifty chosen men,
I met advancing. The pursuit I led,
Till we o'ertook the spoil encumber'd foe.
We fought—and conquer'd. Ere a sword was drawn,
An arrow, from my bow, had pierc'd their chief,
Who wore, that day, the arms which now I wear.
Returning home in triumph, I disdain'd
The shepherd's slothful life: and having heard
That our good king had summon'd his bold peers,
To lead their warriors to the Carron side,
I left my father's house, and took with me
A chosen servant to conduct my steps—
Yon trembling coward who forsook his master.
Journeying with this intent, I pass'd these towers;
And, heaven directed, came this day, to do
The happy deed, that gilds my humble name.
DOUGLAS'S ACCOUNT OF THE MANNER IN WHICH HE LEARNED THE ART OF WAR.
Beneath a mountain's brow, the most remote
And inaccessible by shepherds trod,
In a deep cave, dug by no mortal hand,
A hermit liv'd; a melancholy man,
Who was the wonder of our wand'ring swains,
Austere and lonely, cruel to himself,
Did they report him; the cold earth his bed,
Water his drink, his food the shepherd's alms.
I went to see him, and my heart was touch'd
With rev'rence and with pity. Mild he spake,
And, entering on discourse, such stories told,
As made me oft revisit his sad cell.
For he had been a soldier in his youth,
And fought in famous battles, when the peers
Of Europe, by the bold Godfredo led,
Against th' usurping infidel display'd
The blessed cross, and won the Holy Land.
Pleas'd with my admiration, and the fire
His speech struck from me; the old man would shake
His years away, and act his young encounters.
Then having shewn his wounds; he'd sit him down.
And all the live long day, discourse of war.
To help my fancy, in the smooth green turf
He cut the figures of the marshall'd hosts:
Describ'd the motions, and explain'd the use
Of the deep column and lengthen'd line,
The square, the crescent, and the phalanx firm;
For, all that Saracen or Christian knew
Of war's vast art, was to this hermit known.
Unhappy man!
Returning homeward by Messina's port,
Loaded with wealth and honours bravely won,
A rude and boist'rous captain of the sea
Fasten'd a quarrel on him. Fierce they fought;
The stranger fell, and with his dying breath,
Declar'd his name and lineage! Mighty God!
The soldier cry'd, my brother! Oh! my brother!
They exchanged forgiveness:
And happy, in my mind, was he that died;
For many deaths has the survivor suffer'd,
In the wild desart on a rock he sits,
Or on some nameless stream's untrodden banks,
And ruminates all day his dreadful fate.
At times, alas! not in his perfect mind!
Hold's dialogues with his lov'd brother's ghost;
And oft each night forsakes his sullen couch,
To make sad orisons for him he slew.
BAUCIS AND PHILEMON.
In ancient times, as story tells,
The saints would often leave their cells,
And stroll about; but hide their quality,
To try good people's hospitality.
It happened, on a winter night,
As authors on the legend write,
Two brother hermits, saints by trade;
Taking their tour in masquerade,
Disguis'd in tattered habits, went
To a small village down in Kent;
Where, in the stroller's canting strain,
They begg'd from door to door, in-vain;
Tri'd every tone might pity win,
But not a soul would let them in.
Our wandering saints, in woeful state,
Treated at this ungodly rate,
Having through all the village pass'd,
To a small cottage came at last,
Where dwelt a good old honest yoeman,
Call'd in the neighbourhood, Philemon;
Who kindly did these saints invite
In his poor hut to pass the night;
And, then, the hospitable sire
Bid goody Baucis mend the fire;
While he, from out the chimney, took
A flitch of bacon off the hook,
And, freely from the fattest side,
Cut out large slices to be fry'd:
Then stept aside, to fetch them drink,
Fill'd a large jug up to the brink;
Then saw it fairly twice go round;
Yet (what is wonderful) they found,
'Twas still replenish'd to the top,
As if they had not touch'd a drop.
The good old couple were amaz'd,
And often on each other gaz'd;
For both were frighten'd to the heart,
And just began to cry—What art!
Then softly turn'd aside to view,
Whether the lights were turning blue,
The gentle pilgrims, soon aware on't,
Told them their calling and their errand;
"Good folks you need not be afraid;
"We are but saints," the hermit said;
"No hurt shall come to you or yours;
"But for that pack of churlish boors,
"Not fit to live on Christian ground,
"They, and their houses shall be drown'd;
"While you see your cottage rise,
"And grow a church before your eyes."