Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE THISTLE; A LEGENDARY BALLAD, by GEORGE MURRAY (1830-1910)


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE THISTLE; A LEGENDARY BALLAD, by                    
First Line: Twas midnight! Darkness, like the gloom of some funereal pall
Last Line: Hath scotland's honour tarnished been—god grant it ne'er may be!
Subject(s): France; Night; Scotland; Thistles; War; Bedtime


'Twas midnight! Darkness, like the gloom of some funereal pall,
Hung o'er the battlements of Slaines,—a fortress grim and tall.
The moon and stars were veiled in clouds and from the Castle's height
No gleam of torch or taper pierced the shadows of the night;
Only the rippling of the Dee blent faintly with the sound
Of weary sentry-feet that paced their slow, unvarying round.
The Earl was sleeping like a child that hath no cause for fear;
The Warder hummed a careless song his lonely watch to cheer;
Knight, squire and page, on rush-strewn floors were stretched in sound repose,
While spears and falchions, dim with dust, hung round in idle rows,
And none of all those vassals bold, who calmly dreaming lay,
Dreamed that a foe was lurking near, impatient for the fray.

But in that hour,—when Nature's self serenely seemed to sleep,—
In the dim valley of the Dee, a bow-shot from the keep,
A ghost-like multitude defiled, in silence, from the wood
That with its stately pines concealed the Fort for many a rood,—
The banner of that spectral host is soiled with murderous stains—
They are the "Tigers of the Sea," the cruel-hearted Danes!
Far o'er the billows they have swept to Caledonia's strand,
They carve the record of their deeds with battle-axe and brand,
Their march each day is tracked with flame, their path with carnage strewn,
For Pity is an angel-guest their hearts have never known.
And now the caitiffs steal by night to storm the Fort of Slaines—
They reck not of the fiery blood that leaps in Scottish veins!

Onward they creep with noiseless tread—their treacherous feet are bare,
Lest the harsh clang of iron heels their slumbering prey should scare.
"Yon moat," they vow, "shall soon be crossed, yon rampart soon be scaled,
And all who hunger for the spoil, with spoil shall be regaled.
Press on—press on—and high in air the Raven Standard wave;
Those drowsy Scots this night shall end their sleep within the grave!"

Silent as shadows, on they glide, the gloomy fosse is nigh,
"Glory to Odin, Victory's Lord! its shelving depths are dry.
Speed, warriors, speed,"—but hark! a shriek of agonizing pain
Bursts from a hundred Danish throats—again it rings, again!
Rank weeds had overgrown the moat, now drained by summer's heat,
And bristling crops of thistles pierced the raiders' naked feet!

That cry, like wail of pibroch, stirred the sentry's kindling soul,
And, shouting "Arms! to arms!" he sped the Castle bell to toll.
But ere its echoes died away upon the ear of night,
Each clansman started from his couch, and armed him for the fight;
The draw-bridge falls,—and, side by side, the banded heroes fly
To grapple with the pirate-horde and conquer them or die!

As eagles on avenging wings, from proud Ben Lomond's crest
Swoop fiercely down and dash to earth the spoilers of their nest;
As lions bound upon their prey or, as the burning tide
Sweeps onward with resistless might from some volcano's side;
So rushed that gallant band of Scots, the garrison of Slaines,
Upon the Tigers of the Sea, the carnage-loving Danes.
The lurid glare of torches served to light them to their foes,
They hewed those felons, hip and thigh, with stern, relentless blows,
Claymore, and battle-axe, and spear were steeped in slaughter's flood,
While every thistle in the moat was splashed with crimson blood;
And when the light of morning broke, the legions of the Danes
Lay stiff and stark, in ghastly heaps, around the Fort of Slaines!

Nine hundred years have been engulfed within the
grave of Time, Since those grim Vikings of the North by death atoned their
crime.
In memory of that awful night, the thistle's hardy grace
Was chosen as the emblem meet of Albin's dauntless race;
And never since, in battle's storm, on land or on the sea,
Hath Scotland's honour tarnished been—God grant it ne'er may be!





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