Chapter 4
From this outline, it will be evident that Scott had gained greatly in narrative power since the production of _The Lay of the Last Minstrel_. Not only are the elements of the "fable" (to use the word in its old-fashioned sense) harmonious and probable, but the various incidents grow out of each other in a natural and necessary way. The _Lay_ was at best a skillful bit of carpentering whereof the several parts were nicely juxtaposed; _The Lady of the Lake_ is an organism, and its several members partake of a common life. A few weaknesses may, it is true, be pointed out in it. The warning of Fitz-James by the mad woman's song makes too large a draft upon our romantic credulity. Her appearance is at once so accidental and so opportune that it resembles those supernatural interventions employed by ancient tragedy to cut the knot of a difficult situation, which have given rise to the phrase _deus ex machina_. The improbability of the episode is further increased by the fact that she puts her warning in the form of a song. Scott's love of romantic episode manifestly led him astray here. Further, the story as a whole shares with all stories which turn upon the revelation of a concealed identity, the disadvantage of being able to affect the reader powerfully but once, since on a second reading the element of suspense and surprise is lacking. In so far as _The Lady of the Lake_ is a mere story, or as it has been called, a "versified novelette," this is not a weakness; but in so far as it is a poem, with the claim which poetry legitimately makes to be read and reread for its intrinsic beauty, it constitutes a real defect.
Not only does this poem, with the slight exceptions just mentioned, show a gain over the earlier poems in narrative power, but it also marks an advance in character delineation. The characters of the _Lay_ are, with one or two exceptions, mere lay-figures; Lord Cranstoun and Margaret are the most conventional of lovers; William of Deloraine is little more than an animated suit of armor, and the Lady of Branksome, except at one point, when from her walls she defies the English invaders, is nearly or quite featureless. With the characters of _The Lady of the Lake_ the case is very different. The three rivals for Ellen's hand are real men, with individualities which enhance and deepen the picturesqueness of each other by contrast. The easy grace and courtly chivalry, of the disguised King, the quick kindling of his fancy at sight of the mysterious maid of Loch Katrine, his quick generosity in relinquishing his suit when he finds that she loves another, make him one of the most life-like figures of romance. Roderick Dhu, nursing darkly his clannish hatreds, his hopeless love, and his bitter jealousy, with a delicate chivalry sending its bright thread through the tissue of his savage nature, is drawn with an equally convincing hand. Against his gloomy figure the boyish magnanimity of Malcolm Graeme, Ellen's brave faithfulness, made human by a surface play of coquetry, and the quiet nobility of the exiled Douglas, stand out in varied relief. Judged in connection with the more conventional character types of _Marmion_, and with the draped automatons of the _Lay_, the characters of _The Lady of the Lake_ show the gradual growth in Scott of that dramatic imagination which was later to fill the vast scene of his prose romances with unforgettable figures.
But the most significant advance which this poem shows over earlier work is in the greater genuineness of the poetic effect. In the description, for example, of the approach of Roderick Dhu's boats to the island, there is a singular depth of race feeling. There is borne in upon us, as we read, the realization of a wild and peculiar civilization; we get a breath of poetry keen and strange, like the shrilling of the bag-pipes across the water. Again, in the speeding of the fiery cross there is a primitive depth of poetry which carries with it a sense of "old, unhappy, far-off things"; it appeals to latent memories in us, which have been handed down from an ancestral past. There is nothing in either _The Lay of the Last Minstrel_ or _Marmion_ to compare for natural dramatic force with the situation in _The Lady of the Lake_ when Roderick Dhu whistles for his clansmen to appear, and the astonished Fitz-James sees the lonely mountain side suddenly bristle with tartans and spears; and the fight which follows at the ford is a real fight, in a sense not at all to be applied to the tournaments and other conventional encounters of the earlier poems. Even where Scott still clung to supernatural devices to help along his story, he handles them with much greater subtlety than he had done in his earlier efforts. The dropping of Douglas's sword from its scabbard when his disguised enemy enters the room, arouses the imagination without burdening it. It has the same imaginative advantage over such an episode as that in the _Lay_, where the ghost of the wizard comes to bear off the goblin page, as suggestion always has over explicit statement. This gain in subtlety of treatment will be made still more apparent by comparing with any supernatural episode of the _Lay_, the account in _The Lady of the Lake_ of the unearthly parentage of Brian the Hermit.
The gain in style is less perceptible. Scott was never a great stylist; he struck out at the very first a nervous, hurrying meter, and a strong though rather commonplace diction, upon which he never substantially improved. Abundant action, rapid transitions, stirring descriptions, common sentiments and ordinary language heightened by a dash of pomp and novelty, above all a pervading animation, spirit, intrepidity--these are the constant elements of Scott's success, present here in their accustomed measure. In the broader sense of style, however, where the word is understood to include all the processes leading to a given poetical effect, _The Lady of the Lake_ has some advantage, even over _Marmion_. It contains nothing, to be sure, so fine or so typical of Scott's peculiar power, as the account of the Battle of Flodden in _Marmion_; the minstrel's recital of the battle of Beal' an Duine does not abide the comparison. The quieter parts of _The Lady of the Lake_, moreover, are sometimes disfigured by a sentimentality and "prettiness" happily unfrequent with Scott. But the description of the approach of Roderick Dhu's war-boats, already mentioned, the superb landscape delineation in the fifth canto, and the beautiful twilight ending of canto third, can well stand as prime types of Scott's stylistic power.
THE LADY OF THE LAKE
CANTO FIRST
THE CHASE
Harp of the North! that moldering long hast hung On the witch-elm that shades Saint Fillan's spring, And down the fitful breeze thy numbers flung, Till envious ivy did around thee cling, Muffling with verdant ringlet every string-- 5 O Minstrel Harp, still must thine accents sleep? Mid rustling leaves and fountains murmuring, Still must thy sweeter sounds their silence keep, Nor bid a warrior smile, nor teach a maid to weep?
Not thus, in ancient days of Caledon, 10 Was thy voice mute amid the festal crowd, When lay of hopeless love, or glory won, Aroused the fearful, or subdued the proud. At each according pause, was heard aloud Thine ardent symphony sublime and high! 15 Fair dames and crested chiefs attention bowed; For still the burden of thy minstrelsy Was Knighthood's dauntless deed, and Beauty's matchless eye.
O wake once more! how rude soe'er the hand That ventures o'er thy magic maze to stray; 20 O wake once more! though scarce my skill command Some feeble echoing of thine earlier lay; Though harsh and faint, and soon to die away, And all unworthy of thy nobler strain, Yet if one heart throb higher at its sway, 25 The wizard note has not been touched in vain. Then silent be no more! Enchantress, wake again!
I
The stag at eve had drunk his fill, Where danced the moon on Monan's rill, And deep his midnight lair had made 30 In lone Glenartney's hazel shade; But, when the sun his beacon red Had kindled on Benvoirlich's head, The deep-mouthed bloodhound's heavy bay Resounded up the rocky way, 35 And faint, from farther distance borne, Were heard the clanging hoof and horn.
II
As Chief, who hears his warder call, "To arms! the foemen storm the wall," The antlered monarch of the waste 40 Sprung from his heathery couch in haste. But ere his fleet career he took, The dew-drops from his flanks he shook; Like crested leader proud and high, Tossed his beamed frontlet to the sky; 45 A moment gazed adown the dale, A moment snuffed the tainted gale, A moment listened to the cry, That thickened as the chase drew nigh; Then, as the headmost foes appeared, 50 With one brave bound the copse he cleared, And, stretching forward free and far, Sought the wild heaths of Uam-Var.
III
Yelled on the view the opening pack; Rock, glen, and cavern, paid them back; 55 To many a mingled sound at once The awakened mountain gave response. A hundred dogs bayed deep and strong, Clattered a hundred steeds along, Their peal the merry horns rung out, 60 A hundred voices joined the shout; With hark and whoop and wild halloo, No rest Benvoirlich's echoes knew. Far from the tumult fled the roe; Close in her covert cowered the doe; 65 The falcon, from her cairn on high, Cast on the rout a wondering eye, Till far beyond her piercing ken The hurricane had swept the glen. Faint, and more faint, its failing din 70 Returned from cavern, cliff, and linn, And silence settled, wide and still, On the lone wood and mighty hill.
IV
Less loud the sounds of silvan war Disturbed the heights of Uam-Var, 75 And roused the cavern, where, 'tis told, A giant made his den of old; For ere that steep ascent was won, High in his pathway hung the sun, And many a gallant, stayed perforce, 80 Was fain to breathe his faltering horse, And of the trackers of the deer, Scarce half the lessening pack was near; So shrewdly on the mountain side, Had the bold burst their mettle tried. 85
V
The noble stag was pausing now Upon the mountain's southern brow, Where broad extended, far beneath, The varied realms of fair Menteith. With anxious eye he wandered o'er 90 Mountain and meadow, moss and moor, And pondered refuge from his toil, By far Lochard or Aberfoyle. But nearer was the copsewood grey, That waved and wept on Loch-Achray, 95 And mingled with the pine-trees blue On the bold cliffs of Benvenue. Fresh vigor with the hope returned, With flying foot the heath he spurned, Held westward with unwearied race, 100 And left behind the panting chase.
VI
'Twere long to tell what steeds gave o'er, As swept the hunt through Cambusmore; What reins were tightened in despair, When rose Benledi's ridge in air; 105 Who flagged upon Bochastle's heath, Who shunned to stem the flooded Teith-- For twice that day, from shore to shore, The gallant stag swam stoutly o'er. Few were the stragglers, following far, 110 That reached the lake of Vennachar; And when the Brigg of Turk was won, The headmost horseman rode alone.
VII
Alone, but with unbated zeal, That horseman plied the scourge and steel; 115 For jaded now, and spent with toil, Embossed with foam, and dark with soil, While every gasp with sobs he drew, The laboring stag strained full in view. Two dogs of black Saint Hubert's breed, 120 Unmatched 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, toiled the bloodhounds stanch; 125 Nor nearer might the dogs attain, Nor farther might the quarry strain. Thus up the margin of the lake, Between the precipice and brake, O'er stock and rock their race they take. 130
VIII
The Hunter marked that mountain high, The lone lake's western boundary, And deemed the stag must turn to bay, Where that huge rampart barred the way; Already glorying in the prize, 135 Measured his antlers with his eyes; For the death-wound and the death-halloo, Mustered his breath, his whinyard drew-- But thundering as he came prepared, With ready arm and weapon bared, 140 The wily quarry shunned the shock, And turned him from the opposing rock; Then, dashing down a darksome glen, Soon lost to hound and Hunter's ken, In the deep Trossachs' wildest nook 145 His solitary refuge took. There, while close couched, the thicket shed Cold dews and wild-flowers on his head, He heard the baffled dogs in vain Rave through the hollow pass amain, 150 Chiding the rocks that yelled again.
IX
Close on the hounds the Hunter came, To cheer them on the vanished game; But, stumbling in the rugged dell, The gallant horse exhausted fell. 155 The impatient rider strove in vain To rouse him with the spur and rein, For the good steed, his labors o'er, Stretched his stiff limbs, to rise no more; Then, touched with pity and remorse, 160 He sorrowed o'er the expiring horse. "I little thought, when first thy rein I slacked upon the banks of Seine, That Highland eagle e'er should feed On thy fleet limbs, my matchless steed! 165 Woe worth the chase, woe worth the day, That costs thy life, my gallant gray!"
X
Then through the dell his horn resounds, From vain pursuit to call the hounds. Back limped, with slow and crippled pace, 170 The sulky leaders of the chase; Close to their master's side they pressed, With drooping tail and humbled crest; But still the dingle's hollow throat Prolonged the swelling bugle-note. 175 The owlets started from their dream, The eagles answered with their scream, Round and around the sounds were cast, Till echo seemed an answering blast; And on the Hunter hied his way, 180 To join some comrades of the day; Yet often paused, so strange the road, So wondrous were the scenes it showed.
XI
The western waves of ebbing day Rolled o'er the glen their level way; 185 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, 190 Round many a rocky pyramid, Shooting abruptly from the dell Its thunder-splintered pinnacle; Round many an insulated mass, The native bulwarks of the pass, 195 Huge as the tower which builders vain Presumptuous piled on Shinar's plain. The rocky summits, split and rent, Formed turret, dome, or battlement, Or seemed fantastically set 200 With cupola or minaret, Wild crests as pagod ever decked, Or mosque of Eastern architect. Nor were these earth-born castles bare, Nor lacked they many a banner fair; 205 For, from their shivered brows displayed, Far o'er the unfathomable glade, All twinkling with the dewdrops sheen, The brier-rose fell in streamers green, And creeping shrubs, of thousand dyes, 210 Waved in the west-wind's summer sighs.
XII
Boon nature scattered, free and wild, Each plant or flower, the mountain's child. Here eglantine embalmed the air, Hawthorn and hazel mingled there; 215 The primrose pale and violet flower, Found in each cliff a narrow bower; Fox-glove and night-shade, side by side, Emblems of punishment and pride, Grouped their dark hues with every stain 220 The weather-beaten crags retain. With boughs that quaked at every breath, Grey birch and aspen wept beneath; Aloft, the ash and warrior oak Cast anchor in the rifted rock; 225 And, higher yet, the pine-tree hung His shattered trunk, and frequent flung, Where seemed the cliffs to meet on high, His bows athwart the narrowed sky. Highest of all, where white peaks glanced, 230 Where glist'ning streamers waved and danced, The wanderer's eye could barely view The summer heaven's delicious blue; So wondrous wild, the whole might seem The scenery of a fairy dream. 235
XIII
Onward, amid the copse 'gan peep A narrow inlet, still and deep, Affording scarce such breadth of brim As served the wild duck's brood to swim. Lost for a space, through thickets veering, 240 But broader when again appearing, Tall rocks and tufted knolls their face Could on the dark-blue mirror trace; And farther as the Hunter strayed, Still broader sweep its channels made. 245 The shaggy mounds no longer stood, Emerging from entangled wood, But, wave-encircled, seemed to float, Like castle girdled with its moat; Yet broader floods extending still 250 Divide them from their parent hill, Till each, retiring, claims to be An islet in an inland sea.
XIV
And now, to issue from the glen, No pathway meets the wanderer's ken, 255 Unless he climb, with footing nice, A far projecting precipice. The broom's tough roots his ladder made, The hazel saplings lent their aid; And thus an airy point he won, 260 Where, gleaming with the setting sun, One burnished sheet of living gold, Loch Katrine lay beneath him rolled, In all her length far winding lay, With promontory, creek, and bay, 265 And island that, empurpled bright, Floated amid the livelier light, And mountains, that like giants stand, To sentinel enchanted land. High on the south, huge Benvenue 270 Down on the lake in masses threw Crags, knolls, and mounds, confusedly hurled, The fragments of an earlier world; A wildering forest feathered o'er His ruined sides and summit hoar, 275 While on the north, through middle air, Ben-an heaved high his forehead bare.
XV
From the steep promontory gazed The stranger, raptured and amazed, And, "What a scene were here," he cried, 280 "For princely pomp, or churchman's pride! On this bold brow, a lordly tower; In that soft vale, a lady's bower; On yonder meadow, far away, The turrets of a cloister gray; 285 How blithely might the bugle-horn Chide, on the lake, the lingering morn! How sweet, at eve, the lover's lute Chime, when the groves were still and mute! And when the midnight moon should lave 290 Her forehead in the silver wave, How solemn on the ear would come The holy matin's distant hum, While the deep peal's commanding tone Should wake, in yonder islet lone, 295 A sainted hermit from his cell, To drop a bead with every knell-- And bugle, lute, and bell, and all, Should each bewildered stranger call To friendly feast, and lighted hall. 300
XVI
"Blithe were it then to wander here! But now--beshrew yon nimble deer-- Like that same hermit's, thin and spare, The copse must give my evening fare; Some mossy bank my couch must be, 305 Some rustling oak my canopy. Yet pass we that; the war and chase Give little choice of resting-place-- A summer night, in greenwood spent, Were but tomorrow's merriment: 310 But hosts may in these wilds abound, Such as are better missed than found; To meet with Highland plunderers here, Were worse than loss of steed or deer. I am alone; my bugle-strain 315 May call some straggler of the train; Or, fall the worst that may betide, Ere now this falchion has been tried."
XVII
But scarce again his horn he wound, When lo! forth starting at the sound, 320 From underneath an aged oak, That slanted from the islet rock, A damsel guider of its way, A little skiff shot to the bay, That round the promontory steep 325 Led its deep line in graceful sweep, Eddying, in almost viewless wave, The weeping willow-twig to lave, And kiss, with whispering sound and slow, The beach of pebbles bright as snow. 330 The boat had touched the silver strand, Just as the Hunter left his stand, And stood concealed amid the brake, To view this Lady of the Lake. The maiden paused, as if again 335 She thought to catch the distant strain. With head upraised, and look intent, And eye and ear attentive bent, And locks flung back, and lips apart, Like monument of Grecian art, 340 In listening mood, she seemed to stand, The guardian Naiad of the strand.
XVIII
And ne'er did Grecian chisel trace A Nymph, a Naiad, or a Grace Of finer form or lovelier face! 345 What though the sun, with ardent frown, Had slightly tinged her cheek with brown-- The sportive toil, which, short and light, Had dyed her glowing hue so bright, Served too in hastier swell to show 350 Short glimpses of a breast of snow. What though no rule of courtly grace To measured mood had trained her pace,-- A foot more light, a step more true, Ne'er from the heath-flower dashed the dew; 355 E'en the slight harebell raised its head, Elastic from her airy tread. What though upon her speech there hung The accents of the mountain tongue-- Those silver sounds, so soft, so dear, 360 The listener held his breath to hear!
XIX