The Bard's Incantation Poem Rhyme Scheme and Analysis


The Forest of Glenmore is drearA
It is all of black pine and the dark oak treeA
And the midnight wind to the mountain deerA
Is whistling the forest lullabyB
The moon looks through the drifting stormC
But the troubled lake reflects not her formC
For the waves roll whitening to the landD
And dash against the shelvy strandD
There is a voice among the treesE
That mingles with the groaning oakF
That mingles with the stormy breezeE
And the lake waves dashing against the rockG
There is a voice within the woodH
The voice of the Bard in fitful moodI
His song was louder than the blastJ
As the Bard of Glenmore through the forest pastJ
Wake ye from your sleep of deathK
Minstrels and bards of other daysL
For the midnight wind is on the heathM
And the midnight meteors dimly blazeL
The Spectre with the Bloody HandD
Is wandering through the wild woodlandD
The owl and the raven are mute for dreadN
And the time is meet to awake the deadN
Souls of the mighty wake and sayO
To what high strain your harps were strungP
When Lochlin plough'd her billowy wayO
And on your shores her Norsemen flungP
Her Norsemen train'd to spoil and bloodQ
Skill'd to prepare the Raven's foodI
All by your harpings doom'd to dieB
On bloody Largs and LoncartyB
Mute are ye all No murmurs strangeR
Upon the midnight breeze sail byB
Nor through the pines with whistling changeR
Mimic the harp's wild harmonyA
Mute are ye now Ye ne'er were muteB
When Murder with his bloody footB
And Rapine with his iron handB
Were hovering near yon mountain strandB
O yet awake the strain to tellS
By every deed in song enroll'dB
By every chief who fought or fellS
For Albion's weal in battle boldB
From Coilgach first who rolled his carA
Through the deep ranks of Roman warA
To him of veteran memory dearA
Who victor died on AboukirA
By all their swords by all their scarsT
By all their names a mighty spellS
By all their wounds by all their warsU
Arise the mighty strain to tellS
For fiercer than fierce Hengist's strainV
More impious than the heathen DaneV
More grasping than all grasping RomeW
Gaul's ravening legions hither comeX
The wind is hush'd and still the lakeY
Strange murmurs fill my tinkling earsZ
Bristles my hair my sinews quakeY
At the dread voice of other yearsZ
When targets clash'd and bugles rungP
And blades round warriors' heads were flungP
The foremost of the band were weA
And hymned the joys of libertyA

Walter Scott (sir)


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