428. To a Lock of Hair

Sir Walter Scott (1771—1832)

  THY hue, dear pledge, is pure and bright

  As in that well-remember’d night

  When first thy mystic braid was wove,

  And first my Agnes whisper’d love.

  Since then how often hast thou prest

  The torrid zone of this wild breast,

  Whose wrath and hate have sworn to dwell

  With the first sin that peopled hell;

  A breast whose blood’s a troubled ocean,

  Each throb the earthquake’s wild commotion!

  O if such clime thou canst endure

  Yet keep thy hue unstain’d and pure,

  What conquest o’er each erring thought

  Of that fierce realm had Agnes wrought!

  I had not wander’d far and wide

  With such an angel for my guide;

  Nor heaven nor earth could then reprove me

  If she had lived and lived to love me.

  Not then this world’s wild joys had been

  To me one savage hunting scene,

  My sole delight the headlong race

  And frantic hurry of the chase;

  To start, pursue, and bring to bay,

  Rush in, drag down, and rend my prey,

  Then—from the carcass turn away!

  Mine ireful mood had sweetness tamed,

  And soothed each wound which pride inflamed:—

  Yes, God and man might now approve me

  If thou hadst lived and lived to love me!