Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
England: Vols. I–IV. 1876–79.
The Valley of St. John
By Sir Walter Scott (1771–1832)H
The shade more broad and deeper fell;
And though around the mountain’s head
Flowed streams of purple and gold and red,
Dark at the base, unblest by beam,
Frowned the black rocks and roared the stream.
With toil the king his way pursued
By lonely Threlkeld’s waste and wood,
Till on his course obliquely shone
The narrow valley of St. John,
Down sloping to the western sky,
Where lingering sunbeams love to lie.
Right glad to feel those beams again,
The king drew up his charger’s rein;
With gauntlet raised he screened his sight,
As dazzled with the level light,
And, from beneath his glove of mail,
Scanned at his ease the lovely vale,
While ’gainst the sun his armor bright
Gleamed ruddy like the beacon’s light.
The narrow dale lay smooth and still,
And, down its verdant bosom led,
A winding brooklet found its bed.
But, midmost of the vale, a mound
Arose, with airy turrets crowned,
Buttress and rampire’s circling bound,
And mighty keep and tower;
Seemed some primeval giant’s hand
The castle’s massive walls had planned,
A ponderous bulwark, to withstand
Ambitious Nimrod’s power.
Above the moated entrance slung,
The balanced drawbridge trembling hung,
As jealous of a foe;
Wicket of oak, as iron hard,
With iron studded, clenched, and barred,
And pronged portcullis, joined to guard
The gloomy pass below.
But the gray walls no banners crowned,
Upon the watch-tower’s any round
No warder stood his horn to sound,
No guard beside the bridge was found,
And, where the Gothic gateway frowned,
Glanced neither bill nor bow.