Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE WEIRD OF MICHAEL SCOTT, by WILLIAM SHARP Poet's Biography First Line: The wild wind moaned: fast waned the light Last Line: A black corpse tossing on the tide. Alternate Author Name(s): Macleod, Fiona Subject(s): Death; Fire; Mountains; Soul; Dead, The; Hills; Downs (great Britain) | ||||||||
The wild wind moaned: fast waned the light: Dense cloud-wrack gloomed the front of night: The moorland cries were cries of pain: Green, red, or broad and glaring white The lightnings flashed athwart the main. The sound and fury of the waves, Upon the rocks, among the caves, Boomed inland from the thunderous strand: Mayhap the dead heard in their graves The tumult fill the hollow land. With savage pebbly rush and roar The billows swept the echoing shore In clouds of spume and swirling spray: The wild wings of the tempest bore The salt rheum to the Haunted Brae. Upon the Haunted Brae (where none Would linger in the noontide sun) Michael the Wizard rode apace: Wildly he rode where all men shun, With madness gleaming on his face. Loud, loud he laugh'd whene'er he saw The lightnings split on Lammer-Law, "Blood, bride, and bier the auld rune saith Hell's wind tae me ae nicht sall blaw, The nicht I ride unto my death!" Across the Haunted Brae he fled, And mock'd and jeer'd the shuddering pead; Wan white the horse that he bestrode, The fire-flaughts stricken as it sped Flashed thro' the black mirk of the road. And even as his race he ran, A shade pursued the fleeing man, A white and ghastly shade it was; "Like saut sea-spray across wet san' Or wind abune the moonlit grass! -- "Like saut sea-spray it follows me, Or wind o'er grass -- so fast's I flee: In vain I shout, and laugh, and call -- The thing betwixt me and the sea God kens it is my ain lost saul!" Down, down the Haunted Brae, and past The verge of precipices vast And eyries where the eagles screech; By great pines swaying in the blast, Through woods of moaning larch and beech; On, on by moorland glen and stream, Past lonely lochs where ospreys scream, Past marsh-lands where no sound is heard, The rider and his white horse gleam, And, aye behind, that dreadful third. Wild and more wild the wild wind blew, But Michael Scott the rein ne'er drew: Loud and more loud his laughter shrill, His wild and mocking laughter, grew, In dreadful cries 'twixt hill and hill. At last the great high road he gained, And now with whip and voice he strained To swifter flight the gleaming mare; Afar ahead the fierce sleet rained Upon the ruin'd House of Stair. Then Michael Scott laughed long and loud: "Whan shone the mune ahint yon cloud I kent the Towers that saw my birth -- Lang, lang, sall wait my cauld grey shroud, Lang cauld and weet my bed o' earth!" But as by Stair he rode full speed His horse began to pant and bleed: "Win hame, win hame, my bonnie mare, Win hame if thou would'st rest and feed, Win hame, we're nigh the House of Stair!" But with a shrill heart-bursten yell The white horse stumbled, plunged, and fell, And loud a summoning voice arose, "Is't White-Horse Death that rides frae Hell, Or Michael Scott that hereby goes?" "Ah, Lord of Stair, I ken ye weel! Avaunt, or I your saul sall steal, An' send ye howling through the wood A wild man-wolf -- aye, ye maun reel An' cry upon your Holy Rood!" Swift swept the sword within the shade, Swift was the flash the blue steel made, Swift was the downward stroke and rash -- But, as though leven-struck, the blade Fell splintered earthward with a crash. With frantic eyes Lord Stair out-peered When Michael Scott laughed loud and jeered: -- "Forth fare ye now, ye've gat lang room! Ah, by my saul thou'lt dree thy weird! Begone, were-wolf, till the day o' doom!" A shrill scream pierced the lonely place; A dreadful change came o'er the face; The head, with bristled hair, swung low; Michael the Wizard turned and fled And laughed a mocking laugh of woe. And through the wood there stole and crept, And through the wood there raced and leapt, A thing in semblance of a man; An awful look its wild eyes kept As howling through the night it ran. PART II Athwart the wan bleak moonlit waste, With staring eyes, in frantic haste, With thin locks back-blown by the wind, A grey gaunt haggard figure raced And moaned the thing that sped behind. It followed him, afar or near: In wrath he curs'd; he shrieked in fear; But ever more it followed him: Eftsoons he'd stop, and turn, and peer To front the following phantom grim. Naught would he see; in vain would list For wing-like sound or feet that hissed Like wind-blown snow upon the ice; The grey thing vanished like a mist, Or like the smoke of sacrifice: "Come forth frae out the mirk," his cry, "For I maun live or I maun die, But na, nae mair I'll suffer baith!" Then, with a shriek, would onward fly And swift behind, his following wraith. Michael the Wizard sped across The peat and bracken o' the moss: He heard the muir-wind rise and fall, And laughed to see the birk-boughs toss An' the stealthy shadows leap or crawl. When white St. Monan's Water streamed For leagues athwart the muir, and gleamed With phosphorescent marish-fires, With wild and sudden joy he screamed, For scarce a mile was Kevan-Byres -- Sweet Kevan-Byres, dear Kevan-Byres, That oft of old was thronged with squires And joyous damsels blithe and gay: Alas, alas for Kevan-Byres That now is cold and grey. There in bed on linen sheet With white soft limbs and love-dreams sweet Fair Margaret o' the Byres would be: (Ah, when he'd lain and kissed her feet Had she not laughed in mockery!) Aye she had laughed, for what reck'd she O' a' the powers of Wizardie! "Win up, win up, guid Michael Scott, For ye sall ne'er win boon o' me, By plea, or sword, or spell, God wot!" Aye, these the words that she had said: These were the words that as he fled Michael the Wizard muttered o'er -- "My Margaret, bow your bonnie head, For ye sall never flout me more!" Swiftly he raced, with gleaming eyes, And wild, strange, sobbing, panting cries, Dire, dire, and fell his frantic mood; Until he gained St. Monan's Rise Whereon the House of Kevan stood. There looked he long and fixed his gaze Upon a room where in past days His very soul had pled love's boon: Lit was it now with the wan rays Flick-flickering from the cloud-girt moon. "Come forth, May Margaret, come, my heart! For thou and I nae mair sall part -- Come forth, I bid, though Christ himsel' My bitter love should strive to thwart, For I have a' the powers o' hell!" What was the white wan thing that came And lean'd from out the window-frame, And waved wild arms against the sky? What was the hollow echoing name, What was the thin despairing cry? Adown the long and dusky stair, And through the courtyard bleak and bare, And past the gate, and out upon The whistling, moaning, midnight air -- What is't that Michael Scott has won! Across the moat it seems to flee, It speeds across the windy lea, And through the ruin'd abbey-arch; Now like a mist all waveringly It stands beneath a lonely larch. "Come Margaret, my Margaret, Thou see'st my vows I ne'er forget: Come win wi' me across the waste -- Lang lang I've wandered cauld and wet; An' now thy sweet warm lips would taste!" But as a whirling drift of snow, Or flying foam the sea-winds blow, Or smoke swept thin before a gale It flew across the waste -- and oh 'Twas Margaret's voice in that long wail! Swift as the hound upon the deer, Swift as the stag when nigh the mere, Michael the Wizard followed fast -- What though May Margaret fled in fear, She should be his, be his, at last! -- O'er broom and whin and bracken high, Where the peat bog lay gloomily, Where sullenly the bittern boomed And startled curlews swept the sky, Until St. Monan's Water loomed! "The cauld wet water sall na be The bride-bed for my love and me -- For now upon St. Monan's shore May Margaret her love sall gie To him she mocked and jeered of yore!" Was that a heron in its flight? Was that a mere-mist wan and white? What thing from lonely kirkyard grave? Forlorn it trails athwart the night With arms that writhe and wring and wave! Deep down within the mere it sank, Among the slimy reeds and rank, And all the leagues-long loch was bare -- One vast, grey, moonlit, lifeless blank Beneath a silent waste of air. "O God, O God! her soul it is! Christ's saved her frae my blasting kiss! Her soul frae out her body drawn, The body I maun have for bliss! O body dead and spirit gaun!" Hours long o'er Monan's wave he stared; The fire-flaughts flashed and gleamed and glared, The death-lights o' the lonely place: And aye, dead still, he watch'd, till flared The sunrise on his haggard face. Full well he knew that with its fires Loud was the tumult 'mong the squires, And fierce the bitter pain of all Where stark and stiff in Kevan-Byres May Margaret lay beneath her pall. Then once he laughed, and twice, and thrice, Though deep within his hollow eyes Dull-gleamed a light of fell despair. Around, Earth grew a Paradise In the sweet golden morning air. Slowly he rose at last, and swift One gaunt and frantic arm did lift And curs'd God in his heav'n o'erhead: Then, like a lonely cloud adrift, Far from St. Monan's wave he fled. PART III All day the curlew wailed and screamed, All day the cushat crooned and dreamed, All day the sweet muir-wind blew free: Beyond the grassy knowes far gleamed The splendour of the singing sea. Above the myriad gorse and broom And miles of golden kingcup-bloom The larks and yellowhammers sang: Where the scaur cast an hour-long gloom The lintie's liquid notes out-rang. Oft as he wandered to and fro -- As idly as the foam-bells flow Hither and thither on the deep -- Michael the Wizard's face would grow From death to life, and he would weep -- Weep, weep wild tears of bitter pain For what might never be again: Yet even as he wept his face Would gleam with mockery insane And with fierce laughter on he'd race. At times he watched the white clouds sail Across the wastes of azure pale; Or oft would haunt some moorland pool Fringed round with thyme and fragrant gale And canna-tufts of snow-white wool. Long in its depths would Michael stare, As though some secret thing lay there: Mayhap the moving water made A gloom where crouched a Kelpie fair With death-eyes gleaming through the shade. Then on with weary listless feet He fared afar, until the sweet Cool sound of mountain brooks drew nigh, And loud he heard the strayed lambs bleat And the white ewes responsive cry. High up among the hills full clear He heard the belling of the deer Amid the corries where they browsed, And, where the peaks rose gaunt and sheer, Fierce swirling echoes eagle-roused. He watched the kestrel wheel and sweep, He watched the dun fox glide and creep, He heard the whaup's long-echoing call, Watched in the stream the brown trout leap And the grilse spring the waterfall. Along the slopes the grouse-cock whirred; The grey-blue heron scarcely stirred Amid the mossed grey tarn-side stones: The burns gurg-gurgled through the yird Their sweet clear bubbling undertones. Above the tarn the dragon-fly Shot like a flashing arrow by; And in a moving shifting haze The gnat-clouds sank or soared on high And danced their wild aerial maze. As the day waned he heard afar The hawking fern-owl's dissonant jar Disturb the silence of the hill: The gloaming came: star after star He watched the skiey spaces fill. But as the darkness grew and made Forest and mountain one vast shade, Michael the Wizard moaned in dread -- A long white moonbeam like a blade Swept after him where'er he fled. Swiftly he leapt o'er rock and root, Swift o'er the fern his flying foot, But swifter still the white moonbeam: Wild was the grey-owl's dismal hoot, But wilder still his maniac scream. Once in his flight he paused to hear A hollow shriek that echoed near: -- The louder were his dreadful cries, The louder rang adown the sheer Gaunt cliffs the echoing replies. As though a hunted wolf, he raced To the lone woods across the waste Steep granite slopes of Crammond-Low -- The haunted forest where none faced The terror that no man might know. Betwixt the mountains and the sea Dark leagues of pine stood solemnly, Voiceful with grim and hollow song, Save when each tempest-stricken tree A savage tumult would prolong. Beneath the dark funereal plumes, Slow waving to and fro -- death-blooms Within the void dim wood of death -- Oft shuddering at the fearful glooms Sped Michael Scott with failing breath. Once, as he passed a dreary place, Between two trees he saw a face -- A white face staring at his own: A weird strange cry he gave for grace, And heard an echoing moan. "Whate'er ye be, O thing that bides Among the trees -- O thing that hides In younder moving mass o' shade Come forth tae me!" -- wan Michael glides Swift, as he speaks, athrough the glade: "Whate'er ye be, I fear ye nought! Michael the Wizard has na fought Wi' men and demons year by year To shirk ae thing he has na sought Or blanch wi' any mortal fear!" But not a sound thrilled thro' the air -- Not even a she-fox in her lair Or brooding bird made any stir -- All was as still and blank and bare As is a vaulted sepulchre. Then awe, and fear, and wild dismay O'ercame mad Michael, ashy grey, With eyes as of one newly dead: "If wi' my sword I canna slay; Ye'll dree my weird when it is said!" "Whate'er ye be, man, beast, or sprite, I wind ye round wi' a sheet o' light -- Aye, round and round your burning frame I cast by spell o' wizard might A fierce undying sheet of flame!" Swift as he spoke a thing sprang out, A man-like thing, all hemmed about With blazing blasting burning fire! The wind swoop'd wi' a demon-shout And whirled the red flame higher and higher! And as, appalled, wan Michael stood The flying flaughts swift fired the wood; And even as he shook and stared The gaunt pines turned the hue of blood And all the waving branches flared. Then with wild leaps the accursed thing Drew nigh and nigher: with a spring Michael escaped its fiery clasp, Although he felt the fierce flame sting And all the horror of its grasp. Swift as an arrow far he fled, But swifter still the flames o'erhead Rushed o'er the waving sea of pines, And hollow noises crashed and sped Like splitting blasts in ruin'd mines. A burning league -- leagues, leagues of fire Arose behind, and ever higher The flying semi-circle came: And aye beyond this dreadful pyre There leapt a man-like thing in flame. With awful scream doom'd Michael saw The flying furnace reach Black-Law: "Blood, bride, and bier, the auld rune saith Hell's wind tae me ae nicht sall blaw, The nicht I ride unto my death!" "The blood of Stair is round me now: My bride can laugh to scorn my vow: My bier, my bier, ah sall it be Wi' a crown o' fire around my brow Or deep within the cauld saut sea!" Like lightning, over Black-Law's slope Michael fled swift with sudden hope: What though the forest roared behind -- He yet might gain the cliff and grope For where the sheep-paths twist and wind. The air was like a furnace-blast And all the dome of heaven one vast Expanse of flame and fiery wings: To the cliff's edge, ere all be past, With shriek on shriek lost Michael springs. But none can hear his bitter call, None, none can see him sway and fall -- Yea, one there is that shrills his name! "O God, it is my ain lost saul That I hae girt wi' deathless flame!" With waving arms and dreadful cries He cowers beneath those glaring eyes -- But all in vain -- in vain -- in vain! His own soul clasps him as its prize And scorches death upon his brain. Body and soul together swing Adown the night until they fling The hissing sea-spray far and wide: At morn the fresh sea-wind will bring A black corpse tossing on the tide. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CALIFORNIA SORROW: MOUNTAIN VIEW by MARY KINZIE CONTRA MORTEM: THE MOUNTAIN FASTNESS by HAYDEN CARRUTH GREEN MOUNTAIN IDYL by HAYDEN CARRUTH |
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