The Vision of Don Roderick, by Walter Scott



Lives there a strain, whose sounds of mounting fire

May rise distinguished o’er the din of war;

Or died it with yon Master of the Lyre

Who sung beleaguered Ilion’s evil star?

Such, WELLINGTON, might reach thee from afar,

Wafting its descant wide o’er Ocean’s range;

Nor shouts, nor clashing arms, its mood could mar,

All, as it swelled ‘twixt each loud trumpet-change,

That clangs to Britain victory, to Portugal revenge!


Yes! such a strain, with all o’er-pouring measure,

Might melodise with each tumultuous sound

Each voice of fear or triumph, woe or pleasure,

That rings Mondego’s ravaged shores around;

The thundering cry of hosts with conquest crowned,

The female shriek, the ruined peasant’s moan,

The shout of captives from their chains unbound,

The foiled oppressor’s deep and sullen groan,

A Nation’s choral hymn, for tyranny o’erthrown.


But we, weak minstrels of a laggard day

Skilled but to imitate an elder page,

Timid and raptureless, can we repay

The debt thou claim’st in this exhausted age?

Thou givest our lyres a theme, that might engage

Those that could send thy name o’er sea and land,

While sea and land shall last; for Homer’s rage

A theme; a theme for Milton’s mighty hand —

How much unmeet for us, a faint degenerate band!


Ye mountains stern! within whose rugged breast

The friends of Scottish freedom found repose;

Ye torrents! whose hoarse sounds have soothed their rest,

Returning from the field of vanquished foes;

Say, have ye lost each wild majestic close

That erst the choir of Bards or Druids flung,

What time their hymn of victory arose,

And Cattraeth’s glens with voice of triumph rung,

And mystic Merlin harped, and grey-haired Llywarch sung?


Oh! if your wilds such minstrelsy retain,

As sure your changeful gales seem oft to say,

When sweeping wild and sinking soft again,

Like trumpet-jubilee, or harp’s wild sway;

If ye can echo such triumphant lay,

Then lend the note to him has loved you long!

Who pious gathered each tradition grey

That floats your solitary wastes along,

And with affection vain gave them new voice in song.


For not till now, how oft soe’er the task

Of truant verse hath lightened graver care,

From Muse or Sylvan was he wont to ask,

In phrase poetic, inspiration fair;

Careless he gave his numbers to the air,

They came unsought for, if applauses came:

Nor for himself prefers he now the prayer;

Let but his verse befit a hero’s fame,

Immortal be the verse! — forgot the poet’s name!


Hark, from yon misty cairn their answer tost:

“Minstrel! the fame of whose romantic lyre,

Capricious-swelling now, may soon be lost,

Like the light flickering of a cottage fire;

If to such task presumptuous thou aspire,

Seek not from us the meed to warrior due:

Age after age has gathered son to sire

Since our grey cliffs the din of conflict knew,

Or, pealing through our vales, victorious bugles blew.


“Decayed our old traditionary lore,

Save where the lingering fays renew their ring,

By milkmaid seen beneath the hawthorn hoar,

Or round the marge of Minchmore’s haunted spring;

Save where their legends grey-haired shepherds sing,

That now scarce win a listening ear but thine,

Of feuds obscure, and Border ravaging,

And rugged deeds recount in rugged line,

Of moonlight foray made on Teviot, Tweed, or Tyne.


“No! search romantic lands, where the near Sun

Gives with unstinted boon ethereal flame,

Where the rude villager, his labour done,

In verse spontaneous chants some favoured name,

Whether Olalia’s charms his tribute claim,

Her eye of diamond, and her locks of jet;

Or whether, kindling at the deeds of Graeme,

He sing, to wild Morisco measure set,

Old Albin’s red claymore, green Erin’s bayonet!


“Explore those regions, where the flinty crest

Of wild Nevada ever gleams with snows,

Where in the proud Alhambra’s ruined breast

Barbaric monuments of pomp repose;

Or where the banners of more ruthless foes

Than the fierce Moor, float o’er Toledo’s fane,

From whose tall towers even now the patriot throws

An anxious glance, to spy upon the plain

The blended ranks of England, Portugal, and Spain.


“There, of Numantian fire a swarthy spark

Still lightens in the sunburnt native’s eye;

The stately port, slow step, and visage dark,

Still mark enduring pride and constancy.

And, if the glow of feudal chivalry

Beam not, as once, thy nobles’ dearest pride,

Iberia! oft thy crestless peasantry

Have seen the plumed Hidalgo quit their side,

Have seen, yet dauntless stood —‘gainst fortune fought and died.


“And cherished still by that unchanging race,

Are themes for minstrelsy more high than thine;

Of strange tradition many a mystic trace,

Legend and vision, prophecy and sign;

Where wonders wild of Arabesque combine

With Gothic imagery of darker shade,

Forming a model meet for minstrel line.

Go, seek such theme!”— the Mountain Spirit said.

With filial awe I heard — I heard, and I obeyed.

Last updated Sunday, March 27, 2016 at 12:00