Ralph Waldo Emerson, comp. (1803–1882). Parnassus: An Anthology of Poetry. 1880.
Alice BrandSir Walter Scott (17711832)
M
When the mavis and merle are singing,
When the deer sweeps by, and the hounds are in cry,
And the hunter’s horn is ringing.
Is lost for love of you;
And we must hold by wood and wold,
As outlaws wont to do.
And ’twas all for thine eyes so blue,
That on the night of our luckless flight,
Thy brother bold I slew.
The hand that held the glaive,
For leaves to spread our lowly bed,
And stakes to fence our cave.
That wont on harp to stray,
A cloak must shear from the slaughtered deer,
To keep the cold away.”—
’Twas but a fatal chance;
For darkling was the battle tried,
And fortune sped the lance.
Nor thou the crimson sheen,
As warm, we’ll say, is the russet gray,
As gay the forest green.
And lost thy native land,
Still Alice has her own Richard,
And he his Alice Brand.”
So blithe Lady Alice is singing;
On the beech’s pride, and oak’s brown side,
Lord Richard’s axe is ringing.
Who woned within the hill,—
Like wind in the porch of a ruined church,
His voice was ghostly shrill.
“Why sounds yon stroke on beech and oak,
Our moonlight circle’s screen?
Or who comes here to chase the deer,
Beloved of our Elfin Queen?
Or who may dare on wold to wear
The fairies’ fatal green?
For thou wert christened man;
For cross or sign thou wilt not fly,
For muttered word or ban.”
Though the birds have stilled their singing;
The evening blaze doth Alice raise,
And Richard is fagots bringing.
Before Lord Richard stands,
And, as he crossed and blessed himself,
“I fear not sign,” quoth the grisly elf,
“That is made with bloody hands.”
That woman void of fear,—
“And if there’s blood upon his hand,
’Tis but the blood of deer.”—
It cleaves unto his hand,
The stain of thine own kindly blood,
The blood of Ethert Brand.”
And made the holy sign,—
“And if there’s blood on Richard’s hand,
A spotless hand is mine.
By Him whom Demons fear,
To show us whence thou art thyself,
And what thine errand here?”—
When the Fairy King has power,
That I sunk down in a sinful fray,
And, ’twixt life and death, was snatched away
To the joyless Elfin bower.
Who thrice my brow durst sign,
I might regain my mortal mould,
As fair a form as thine.”
That lady was so brave;
The fouler grew his goblin hue,
The darker grew the cave.
He rose beneath her hand
The fairest knight on Scottish mould,
Her brother, Ethert Brand!
When the mavis and merle are singing,
But merrier were they in Dunfermline gray,
When all the bells were ringing.