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The Lady of the Lake: Canto II. - The Island

I.
At morn the black-cock trims his jetty wing,
'T is morning prompts the linnet's blithest lay,
All Nature's children feel the matin spring
Of life reviving, with reviving day;
And while yon little bark glides down the bay,
Wafting the stranger on his way again,
Morn's genial influence roused a minstrel gray,
And sweetly o'er the lake was heard thy strain,
Mixed with the sounding harp, O white-haired Allan-bane!

II.
Song.

'Not faster yonder rowers' might
Flings from their oars the spray,
Not faster yonder rippling bright,
That tracks the shallop's course in light,
Melts in the lake away,
Than men from memory erase

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poem by Sir Walter Scott
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The Lady of the Lake: Canto IV. - The Prophecy

I.
The rose is fairest when 't is budding new,
And hope is brightest when it dawns from fears;
The rose is sweetest washed with morning dew
And love is loveliest when embalmed in tears.
O wilding rose, whom fancy thus endears,
I bid your blossoms in my bonnet wave,
Emblem of hope and love through future years!'
Thus spoke young Norman, heir of Armandave,
What time the sun arose on Vennachar's broad wave.

II.
Such fond conceit, half said, half sung,
Love prompted to the bridegroom's tongue.
All while he stripped the wild-rose spray,
His axe and bow beside him lay,
For on a pass 'twixt lake and wood
A wakeful sentinel he stood.
Hark!-on the rock a footstep rung,
And instant to his arms he sprung.

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poem by Sir Walter Scott
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The Sacrifice storypoem

She wore a robe so white and thin
that it enhanced her nakedness.
Made of the silk which spiders spin
Epitome of gracefulness

Her hair as black as ebony,
contrasting with her rose gold skin.
Which unrestrained was flowing free
She glowed as though she had within,

her slender form of flesh and blood.
A light that would illuminate
the darkness of the world and would
without a doubt propitiate.

The Gods demanding sacrifice.
According to the High Priests rede,
only a virgin would suffice.
To satisfy his dark Gods need.

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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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The Lord of the Isles: Canto V.

I.
On fair Loch-Ranza stream'd the early day,
Thin wreaths of cottage-smoke are upward curl'd
From the lone hamlet, which her inland bay
And circling mountains sever from the world.
And there the fisherman his sail unfurl'd,
The goat-herd drove his kids to steep Ben-Ghoil,
Before the hut the dame her spindle twirl'd,
Courting the sunbeam as she plied her toil, -
For, wake where'er he may, Man wakes to care and coil.

But other duties call'd each convent maid,
Roused by the summons of the moss-grown bell;
Sung were the matins, and the mass was said,
And every sister sought her separate cell,
Such was the rule, her rosary to tell.
And Isabel has knelt in lonely prayer;
The sunbeam, through the narrow lattice, fell
Upon the snowy neck and long dark hair,
As stoop'd her gentle head in meek devotion there.

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poem by Sir Walter Scott
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A vampire's beauty

THE SUN SETS AS THE MOON RISES THE MEMBERS OF MY CLAN RISE FROM THE SHADOWS WE CLMB TO THE ROOFS OF OUR HOUSE AND HOWL AT THE MOON THEN THE NIGHTMARE BEGINS AGAIN FOR THESE MORTALS AS WE DESTROY THEM ONE BY ONE EATING THEIR INSIDES THEIR BLOOD DRIPS FROM MY FANGS I'VE BECOME THE ONE THING I WAS SUPPOSE TO DESTROY.WE RUN AND RUN FOR MILES IN SEACH OF FOOD OR VAMPIRES THE BLOOD OF A VAMPIRE DEALY TO MAN BUT DELIOUS TO US BUT AS WE FIND A VAMPIRE AWAY FROM HER CLAN I CONER HER BUT WHEN I SEE HER FACE I STARE INTO HER BEAUTIFUL BROWN EYES ASWELL AS HER NATURAL BEAUTY I GO FOR THE KILL BUT WHEN I DO SHE STARE RIGHT BACK INTO MY EYES I HEAR THE HOWL TO LEAVE FOR THE SUN IS RISEING AND WE CANT BE SEEN IN ARE WOLF FORM WE HEAD BACK TO OUR HOUSES AS ANGERY TEENAGERS BUT THE ONLY THING I WAS THINKING OF WAS THAT VAMPIRE AND HOW CAN WE KILL SOMETHING SO BEAUTIFUL BUT YET I REALIZED THAT VAMPIRE WAS THE ONE WHO KILL OUR LEADER THE WHITE WOLF MY ANGER IS BEENING UNLEASH BUT THE CLAN STOPS ME FROM TRANSFORMING AGAIN.
THE FOLLOWING NIGHT THE CLAN REGROUPS AT THE SAME LOCATION WERE A SAW HER WE TRANSFORM BACK INTO HUMANS BUT WE STAY HIDDEN HOURS GO BY SHE CAUGHT OUR SCENT SHE FALLS RIGHT FOR OUR TRAP WE FOLLOW HER AND WHEN WE CONERED HER I TRANSFORM BACK INTO A WOLF BUT WHEN I GO FOR THE KILL HER CLAN APPERS OUT OF NO WHERE WE WERE EACH IN A BATTLE BUT WHEN SHE STRIKES I STOPED HER AND BEAT HER BADLY IF ONLY I WOULD HAD CLAWED HER SHE WOULD HAD BEEN DEAD BY KNOW BUT I KEEP HER AS A PERSONER AND LET HER WATCH US DEVARE HER CLANS BY THE TIME WE'RE DONE THE SUN IS ALREADY RISEING WE DESCIED TO TAKE HER TO OUR UNDER GROND LAIR AND KEEP HER THERE UNTIL I DESCIED WHEN TO KILL HER AND SHE OPENS HER EYES AS WE BEGIN TO CHANGE BACK INTO HUMANS I CARRY HER TO THE LAIR THE ONLY THING I TOLD HER HERE JUST DRINK I CUT MY WRIST AND SHE BEGINS TO DRINK BUT AFTER SHE FINSH SHE PASSES OUT AND BEGAN TO COUGH OUT BLOOD. FOUR DAYS GO BY AND SHE WAKES UP A HUMAN NO LONGER A VAMPIRE BECAME WEAKER AND WEAKER BUT YET NO MORE DANGER WELL COME NEAR HER AGAIN FOR WHEN THE FULL MOON RISES AGAIN SHE'LL TURN INTO A WOLF THE EVERYSAME THING THAT HAPPENED TO HER HAPPENED TO ME AS THIS STORY ENDS I TAKE HER WITH ME OUTSIDE AND WE HOWL TO THE MOON AND TRANSFORM INTO WOLVES ONCE MORE AND THE HUNT BEGINS AGAIN.

poem by Micheal Diaz
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The Lay of the Last Minstrel: Canto V.

I
Call it not vain;-they do not err,
Who say, that when the Poet dies,
Mute Nature mourns her worshipper,
And celebrates his obsequies:
Who say, tall cliff and cavern lone
For the departed Bard make moan;
That mountains weep in crystal rill;
That flowers in tears of balm distill;
Through his lov'd groves that breezes sigh,
And oaks, in deeper groan, reply;
And rivers teach their rushing wave
To murmur dirges round his grave

II
Not that, in sooth, o'er mortal urn
Those things inanimate can mourn;
But that the stream, the wood, the gale
Is vocal with the plaintive wail
Of those, who, else forgotten long,

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poem by Sir Walter Scott
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Beowulf

LO, praise of the prowess of people-kings
of spear-armed Danes, in days long sped,
we have heard, and what honor the athelings won!
Oft Scyld the Scefing from squadroned foes,
from many a tribe, the mead-bench tore,
awing the earls. Since erst he lay
friendless, a foundling, fate repaid him:
for he waxed under welkin, in wealth he throve,
till before him the folk, both far and near,
who house by the whale-path, heard his mandate,
gave him gifts: a good king he!
To him an heir was afterward born,
a son in his halls, whom heaven sent
to favor the folk, feeling their woe
that erst they had lacked an earl for leader
so long a while; the Lord endowed him,
the Wielder of Wonder, with world's renown.
Famed was this Beowulf: far flew the boast of him,
son of Scyld, in the Scandian lands.
So becomes it a youth to quit him well

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poem by Charles Baudelaire
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Visitor to 'Da Hood

He said he was 'representin'
The peeps,
Who digged life with breath fresh!
And eyes so cleared...
They sat on plateaus to beem.
And down upon them wisdom comes!
And down upon them with wit and grace,
Happiness appears to glow on their faces.
And connected to the divine,
They are!
By invisible vines...
Linked to sunkissed angels.
And said I was ready to join his clan!

'A 'clan' of what I thought?
A clan to change the man I am?
What clan is this?
And I dismissed anything evil.
And I'm sure my raised eye brow was witnessed?

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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Burial of Sir John Mackenzie

(1901)

They played him home to the House of Stones
   All the way, all the way,
To his grave in the sound of the winter sea:
   The sky was dour, the sky was gray.
They played him home with the chieftain's dirge,
Till the wail was wed to the rolling surge,
They played him home with a sorrowful will
To his grave at the foot of the Holy Hill
   And the pipes went mourning all the way.

Strong hands that had struck for right
   All the day, all the day,
Folded now in the dark of earth,
   Veiled dawn of the upper way!
Strong hands that struck with his
From days that were to the day that is
Carry him now from the house of woe
To ride the way the Chief must go:

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poem by Jessie Mackay
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The Lay of the Last Minstrel: Canto IV.

I
Sweet Teviot! on thy silver tide
The glaring bale-fires blaze no more;
No longer steel-clad warrior ride
Along thy wild and willow'd shore
Where'er thou wind'st, by dale or hill
All, all is peaceful, all is still,
As if thy waves, since Time was born
Since first they roll'd upon the Tweed,
Had only heard the shepherd's reed,
Nor started at the bugle-horn.

II
Unlike the tide of human time,
Which, though it change in ceaseless flow
Retains each grief, retains each crime
Its earliest course was doom'd to know;
And, darker as it downward bears,
Is stain'd with past and present tears
Low as that tide has ebb'd with me,

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poem by Sir Walter Scott
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