The poetical works of Sir Walter Scott ... Notes & life of the author.

490 ROtKE1Y. AmNTO VT.
The otter hears him tread the shore,
And dives, and is beheld no more;
And by the cliff of pale grey stone
The midnight wand'rer stands alone.
Methinks, that by the moon we trace
A well-remember'd form and face!
That stripling shape, that cheek so pale,
Combine to tell a rueful tale,
Of pow'rs misus'd, of passion's force,
Of guilt, of grief, and of remorse!'Tis Edmund's eye, at ev'ry sound
That flings that guilty glance around;'Tis Edmund's trembling haste divides
The brushwood that the cavern hides;
And, when its narrow porch lies bare,'Tis Edmund's form that enters there.
IV.
His flint and steel have sparkl'd bright,
A lamp hath lent the cavern light.
Fearful and quick his eye surveys
Each angle of the gloomy maze.
Since last he left that stern abode,
It seem'd as none its floor had trod;
Untouch'd appear'd the various spoil,
The purchase of his comrades' toil;
Masks and disguises grim'd with mud,
Arms broken and defil'd with blood,
And all the nameless tools that aid
Night-felons in their lawless trade,
Upon the gloomy walls were hung,
Or lay in nooks obscurely flung.
Still on the sordid board appear
The relies of the noontide cheer:
Flagons and empty flasks were there,
And bench o'erthrown, and shatter'd cha{k
And all around the semblance show'd
As when the final revel glow'd,
When the red sun was setting fast,
And parting pledge Guy Denzil past.
"To Rokeby treasure-vaults!" they quaff'd,
And shouted loud and wildly laugh'd,
Pour'd madd'ning from the rocky door,
And parted-to return no more!
They found in Rokeby vaults their doom,A bloody death, a burning tombl
V.
There his own peasant dress he spies,
Doi'd to assume that quaint disguise;