XXIII.

Song.

The heath this night must be my bed, The bracken curtain for my head, My lullaby the warder's tread, Far, far, from love and thee, Mary; To-morrow eve, more stilly laid, My couch may be my bloody plaid, My vesper song thy wail, sweet maid! It will not waken me, Mary!

I may not, dare not, fancy now The grief that clouds thy lovely brow, I dare not think upon thy vow, And all it promised me, Mary. No fond regret must Norman know; When bursts Clan-Alpine on the foe, His heart must be like bended bow, His foot like arrow free, Mary.

A time will come with feeling fraught, For, if I fall in battle fought, Thy hapless lover's dying thought Shall be a thought on thee, Mary. And if returned from conquered foes, How blithely will the evening close, How sweet the linnet sing repose, To my young bride and me, Mary!

XXIV.

Not faster o'er thy heathery braes Balquidder, speeds the midnight blaze, Rushing in conflagration strong Thy deep ravines and dells along, Wrapping thy cliffs in purple glow, And reddening the dark lakes below; Nor faster speeds it, nor so far, As o'er thy heaths the voice of war. The signal roused to martial coil The sullen margin of Loch Voil, Waked still Loch Doine, and to the source Alarmed, Balvaig, thy swampy course; Thence southward turned its rapid road Adown Strath-Gartney's valley broad Till rose in arms each man might claim A portion in Clan-Alpine's name, From the gray sire, whose trembling hand Could hardly buckle on his brand, To the raw boy, whose shaft and bow Were yet scarce terror to the crow. Each valley, each sequestered glen, Mustered its little horde of men That met as torrents from the height In Highland dales their streams unite Still gathering, as they pour along, A voice more loud, a tide more strong, Till at the rendezvous they stood By hundreds prompt for blows and blood, Each trained to arms since life began, Owning no tie but to his clan, No oath but by his chieftain's hand, No law but Roderick Dhu's command.

XXV.

That summer morn had Roderick Dhu Surveyed the skirts of Benvenue, And sent his scouts o'er hill and heath, To view the frontiers of Menteith. All backward came with news of truce; Still lay each martial Graeme and Bruce, In Rednock courts no horsemen wait, No banner waved on Cardross gate, On Duchray's towers no beacon shone, Nor scared the herons from Loch Con; All seemed at peace.—Now wot ye wily The Chieftain with such anxious eye, Ere to the muster he repair, This western frontier scanned with care?— In Benvenue's most darksome cleft, A fair though cruel pledge was left; For Douglas, to his promise true, That morning from the isle withdrew, And in a deep sequestered dell Had sought a low and lonely cell. By many a bard in Celtic tongue Has Coir-nan-Uriskin been sung A softer name the Saxons gave, And called the grot the Goblin Cave.

XXVI.

It was a wild and strange retreat, As e'er was trod by outlaw's feet. The dell, upon the mountain's crest, Yawned like a gash on warrior's breast; Its trench had stayed full many a rock, Hurled by primeval earthquake shock From Benvenue's gray summit wild, And here, in random ruin piled, They frowned incumbent o'er the spot And formed the rugged sylvan "rot. The oak and birch with mingled shade At noontide there a twilight made, Unless when short and sudden shone Some straggling beam on cliff or stone, With such a glimpse as prophet's eye Gains on thy depth, Futurity. No murmur waked the solemn still, Save tinkling of a fountain rill; But when the wind chafed with the lake, A sullen sound would upward break, With dashing hollow voice, that spoke The incessant war of wave and rock. Suspended cliffs with hideous sway Seemed nodding o'er the cavern gray. From such a den the wolf had sprung, In such the wild-cat leaves her young; Yet Douglas and his daughter fair Sought for a space their safety there. Gray Superstition's whisper dread Debarred the spot to vulgar tread; For there, she said, did fays resort, And satyrs hold their sylvan court, By moonlight tread their mystic maze, And blast the rash beholder's gaze.

XXVII.

Now eve, with western shadows long, Floated on Katrine bright and strong, When Roderick with a chosen few Repassed the heights of Benvenue. Above the Goblin Cave they go, Through the wild pass of Beal-nam-bo; The prompt retainers speed before, To launch the shallop from the shore, For 'cross Loch Katrine lies his way To view the passes of Achray, And place his clansmen in array. Yet lags the Chief in musing mind, Unwonted sight, his men behind. A single page, to bear his sword, Alone attended on his lord; The rest their way through thickets break, And soon await him by the lake. It was a fair and gallant sight To view them from the neighboring height, By the low-levelled sunbeam's light! For strength and stature, from the clan Each warrior was a chosen man, As even afar might well be seen, By their proud step and martial mien. heir feathers dance, their tartars float, Their targets gleam, as by the boat A wild and warlike group they stand, That well became such mountain-strand.

XXVI

Their Chief with step reluctant still Was lingering on the craggy hill, Hard by where turned apart the road To Douglas's obscure abode. It was but with that dawning morn That Roderick Dhu had proudly sworn To drown his love in war's wild roar, Nor think of Ellen Douglas more; But he who stems a stream with sand, And fetters flame with flaxen band, Has yet a harder task to prove,— By firm resolve to conquer love! Eve finds the Chief, like restless ghost, Still hovering near his treasure lost; For though his haughty heart deny A parting meeting to his eye Still fondly strains his anxious ear The accents of her voice to hear, And inly did he curse the breeze That waked to sound the rustling trees. But hark! what mingles in the strain? It is the harp of Allan-bane, That wakes its measure slow and high, Attuned to sacred minstrelsy. What melting voice attends the strings? 'Tis Ellen, or an angel, sings.

XXIX.

Hymn to the Virgin.

Ave. Maria! maiden mild! Listen to a maiden's prayer! Thou canst hear though from the wild, Thou canst save amid despair. Safe may we sleep beneath thy care, Though banished, outcast, and reviled— Maiden! hear a maiden's prayer; Mother, hear a suppliant child! Ave Maria!

Ave Maria! undefiled! The flinty couch we now must share Shall seem with down of eider piled, If thy protection hover there. The murky cavern's heavy air Shall breathe of balm if thou hast smiled; Then, Maiden! hear a maiden's prayer, Mother, list a suppliant child! Ave Maria!

Ave. Maria! stainless styled! Foul demons of the earth and air, From this their wonted haunt exiled, Shall flee before thy presence fair. We bow us to our lot of care, Beneath thy guidance reconciled: Hear for a maid a maiden's prayer, And for a father hear a child! Ave Maria!

XXX.

Died on the harp the closing hymn,— Unmoved in attitude and limb, As listening still, Clan-Alpine's lord Stood leaning on his heavy sword, Until the page with humble sign Twice pointed to the sun's decline. Then while his plaid he round him cast, 'It is the last time—'tis the last,' He muttered thrice,—'the last time e'er That angel-voice shall Roderick hear'' It was a goading thought,—his stride Hied hastier down the mountain-side; Sullen he flung him in the boat An instant 'cross the lake it shot. They landed in that silvery bay, And eastward held their hasty way Till, with the latest beams of light, The band arrived on Lanrick height' Where mustered in the vale below Clan-Alpine's men in martial show.

XXXI.

A various scene the clansmen made: Some sat, some stood, some slowly strayed: But most, with mantles folded round, Were couched to rest upon the ground, Scarce to be known by curious eye From the deep heather where they lie, So well was matched the tartan screen With heath-bell dark and brackens green; Unless where, here and there, a blade Or lance's point a glimmer made, Like glow-worm twinkling through the shade. But when, advancing through the gloom, They saw the Chieftain's eagle plume, Their shout of welcome, shrill and wide, Shook the steep mountain's steady side. Thrice it arose, and lake and fell Three times returned the martial yell; It died upon Bochastle's plain, And Silence claimed her evening reign.



CANTO FOURTH.

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. 'Stand, or thou diest!—What, Malise?—soon Art thou returned from Braes of Doune. By thy keen step and glance I know, Thou bring'st us tidings of the foe.'— For while the Fiery Cross tried on, On distant scout had Malise gone.— 'Where sleeps the Chief?' the henchman said. 'Apart, in yonder misty glade; To his lone couch I'll be your guide.'— Then called a slumberer by his side, And stirred him with his slackened bow,— 'Up, up, Glentarkin! rouse thee, ho! We seek the Chieftain; on the track Keep eagle watch till I come back.'

III.

Together up the pass they sped: 'What of the foeman?' Norman said.— 'Varying reports from near and far; This certain,—that a band of war Has for two days been ready boune, At prompt command to march from Doune; King James the while, with princely powers, Holds revelry in Stirling towers. Soon will this dark and gathering cloud Speak on our glens in thunder loud. Inured to bide such bitter bout, The warrior's plaid may bear it out; But, Norman, how wilt thou provide A shelter for thy bonny bride?''— 'What! know ye not that Roderick's care To the lone isle hath caused repair Each maid and matron of the clan, And every child and aged man Unfit for arms; and given his charge, Nor skiff nor shallop, boat nor barge, Upon these lakes shall float at large, But all beside the islet moor, That such dear pledge may rest secure?'—

IV.

''T is well advised,—the Chieftain's plan Bespeaks the father of his clan. But wherefore sleeps Sir Roderick Dhu Apart from all his followers true?' 'It is because last evening-tide Brian an augury hath tried, Of that dread kind which must not be Unless in dread extremity, The Taghairm called; by which, afar, Our sires foresaw the events of war. Duncraggan's milk-white bull they slew,'—

Malise.

'Ah! well the gallant brute I knew! The choicest of the prey we had When swept our merrymen Gallangad. His hide was snow, his horns were dark, His red eye glowed like fiery spark; So fierce, so tameless, and so fleet, Sore did he cumber our retreat, And kept our stoutest kerns in awe, Even at the pass of Beal 'maha. But steep and flinty was the road, And sharp the hurrying pikeman's goad, And when we came to Dennan's Row A child might scathless stroke his brow.'

V.

Norman.

'That bull was slain; his reeking hide They stretched the cataract beside, Whose waters their wild tumult toss Adown the black and craggy boss Of that huge cliff whose ample verge Tradition calls the Hero's Targe. Couched on a shelf beneath its brink, Close where the thundering torrents sink, Rocking beneath their headlong sway, And drizzled by the ceaseless spray, Midst groan of rock and roar of stream, The wizard waits prophetic dream. Nor distant rests the Chief;—but hush! See, gliding slow through mist and bush, The hermit gains yon rock, and stands To gaze upon our slumbering bands. Seems he not, Malise, dike a ghost, That hovers o'er a slaughtered host? Or raven on the blasted oak, That, watching while the deer is broke, His morsel claims with sullen croak?'

Malise.

'Peace! peace! to other than to me Thy words were evil augury; But still I hold Sir Roderick's blade Clan-Alpine's omen and her aid, Not aught that, gleaned from heaven or hell, Yon fiend-begotten Monk can tell. The Chieftain joins him, see—and now Together they descend the brow.'

VI.

And, as they came, with Alpine's Lord The Hermit Monk held solemn word:—. 'Roderick! it is a fearful strife, For man endowed with mortal life Whose shroud of sentient clay can still Feel feverish pang and fainting chill, Whose eye can stare in stony trance Whose hair can rouse like warrior's lance, 'Tis hard for such to view, unfurled, The curtain of the future world. Yet, witness every quaking limb, My sunken pulse, mine eyeballs dim, My soul with harrowing anguish torn, This for my Chieftain have I borne!— The shapes that sought my fearful couch A human tongue may ne'er avouch; No mortal man—save he, who, bred Between the living and the dead, Is gifted beyond nature's law Had e'er survived to say he saw. At length the fateful answer came In characters of living flame! Not spoke in word, nor blazed in scroll, But borne and branded on my soul:— WHICH SPILLS THE FOREMOST FOEMAN'S LIFE, THAT PARTY CONQUERS IN THE STRIFE.'

VII.

'Thanks, Brian, for thy zeal and care! Good is thine augury, and fair. Clan-Alpine ne'er in battle stood But first our broadswords tasted blood. A surer victim still I know, Self-offered to the auspicious blow: A spy has sought my land this morn,— No eve shall witness his return! My followers guard each pass's mouth, To east, to westward, and to south; Red Murdoch, bribed to be his guide, Has charge to lead his steps aside, Till in deep path or dingle brown He light on those shall bring him clown. But see, who comes his news to show! Malise! what tidings of the foe?'

VIII.

'At Doune, o'er many a spear and glaive Two Barons proud their banners wave. I saw the Moray's silver star, And marked the sable pale of Mar.' 'By Alpine's soul, high tidings those! I love to hear of worthy foes. When move they on?' 'To-morrow's noon Will see them here for battle boune.' 'Then shall it see a meeting stern! But, for the place,—say, couldst thou learn Nought of the friendly clans of Earn? Strengthened by them, we well might bide The battle on Benledi's side. Thou couldst not?—well! Clan-Alpine's men Shall man the Trosachs' shaggy glen; Within Loch Katrine's gorge we'll fight, All in our maids' and matrons' sight, Each for his hearth and household fire, Father for child, and son for sire Lover for maid beloved!—But why Is it the breeze affects mine eye? Or dost thou come, ill-omened tear! A messenger of doubt or fear? No! sooner may the Saxon lance Unfix Benledi from his stance, Than doubt or terror can pierce through The unyielding heart of Roderick Dhu! 'tis stubborn as his trusty targe. Each to his post!—all know their charge.' The pibroch sounds, the bands advance, The broadswords gleam, the banners dance' Obedient to the Chieftain's glance.— I turn me from the martial roar And seek Coir-Uriskin once more.

IX.

Where is the Douglas?—he is gone; And Ellen sits on the gray stone Fast by the cave, and makes her moan, While vainly Allan's words of cheer Are poured on her unheeding ear. 'He will return—dear lady, trust!— With joy return;—he will—he must. Well was it time to seek afar Some refuge from impending war, When e'en Clan-Alpine's rugged swarm Are cowed by the approaching storm. I saw their boats with many a light, Floating the livelong yesternight, Shifting like flashes darted forth By the red streamers of the north; I marked at morn how close they ride, Thick moored by the lone islet's side, Like wild ducks couching in the fen When stoops the hawk upon the glen. Since this rude race dare not abide The peril on the mainland side, Shall not thy noble father's care Some safe retreat for thee prepare?'

X.

Ellen.

'No, Allan, no' Pretext so kind My wakeful terrors could not blind. When in such tender tone, yet grave, Douglas a parting blessing gave, The tear that glistened in his eye Drowned not his purpose fixed and high. My soul, though feminine and weak, Can image his; e'en as the lake, Itself disturbed by slightest stroke. Reflects the invulnerable rock. He hears report of battle rife, He deems himself the cause of strife. I saw him redden when the theme Turned, Allan, on thine idle dream Of Malcolm Graeme in fetters bound, Which I, thou saidst, about him wound. Think'st thou he bowed thine omen aught? O no' 't was apprehensive thought For the kind youth,—for Roderick too— Let me be just—that friend so true; In danger both, and in our cause! Minstrel, the Douglas dare not pause. Why else that solemn warning given, 'If not on earth, we meet in heaven!' Why else, to Cambus-kenneth's fane, If eve return him not again, Am I to hie and make me known? Alas! he goes to Scotland's throne, Buys his friends' safety with his own; He goes to do—what I had done, Had Douglas' daughter been his son!'

XI.

'Nay, lovely Ellen!—dearest, nay! If aught should his return delay, He only named yon holy fane As fitting place to meet again. Be sure he's safe; and for the Graeme,— Heaven's blessing on his gallant name!— My visioned sight may yet prove true, Nor bode of ill to him or you. When did my gifted dream beguile? Think of the stranger at the isle, And think upon the harpings slow That presaged this approaching woe! Sooth was my prophecy of fear; Believe it when it augurs cheer. Would we had left this dismal spot! Ill luck still haunts a fairy spot! Of such a wondrous tale I know— Dear lady, change that look of woe, My harp was wont thy grief to cheer.'

Ellen.

'Well, be it as thou wilt; I hear, But cannot stop the bursting tear.' The Minstrel tried his simple art, Rut distant far was Ellen's heart.

XII.

Ballad.

Alice Brand.

Merry it is in the good greenwood, When the mavis and merle are singing, When the deer sweeps by, and the hounds are in cry, And the hunter's horn is ringing.

'O Alice Brand, my native land Is lost for love of you; And we must hold by wood and word, As outlaws wont to do.

'O Alice, 't was all for thy locks so bright, And 't was all for thine eyes so blue, That on the night of our luckless flight Thy brother bold I slew.

'Now must I teach to hew the beech The hand that held the glaive, For leaves to spread our lowly bed, And stakes to fence our cave.

'And for vest of pall, thy fingers small, That wont on harp to stray, A cloak must shear from the slaughtered deer, To keep the cold away.'

'O Richard! if my brother died, 'T was but a fatal chance; For darkling was the battle tried, And fortune sped the lance.

'If pall and vair no more I wear, Nor thou the crimson sheen As warm, we'll say, is the russet gray, As gay the forest-green.

'And, Richard, if our lot be hard, And lost thy native land, Still Alice has her own Richard, And he his Alice Brand.'

XIII.

Ballad Continued.

'tis merry, 'tis merry, in good greenwood; So blithe Lady Alice is singing; On the beech's pride, and oak's brown side, Lord Richard's axe is ringing.

Up spoke the moody Elfin King, Who woned within the hill,— Like wind in the porch of a ruined church, His voice was ghostly shrill.

'Why sounds yon stroke on beech and oak, Our moonlight circle's screen? Or who comes here to chase the deer, Beloved of our Elfin Queen? Or who may dare on wold to wear The fairies' fatal green?

'Up, Urgan, up! to yon mortal hie, For thou wert christened man; For cross or sign thou wilt not fly, For muttered word or ban.

'Lay on him the curse of the withered heart, The curse of the sleepless eye; Till he wish and pray that his life would part, Nor yet find leave to die.'

XIV.

Ballad Continued.

'Tis merry, 'tis merry, in good greenwood, Though the birds have stilled their singing; The evening blaze cloth Alice raise, And Richard is fagots bringing.

Up Urgan starts, that hideous dwarf, Before Lord Richard stands, And, as he crossed and blessed himself, 'I fear not sign,' quoth the grisly elf, 'That is made with bloody hands.'

But out then spoke she, Alice Brand, That woman void of fear,— 'And if there 's blood upon his hand, 'Tis but the blood of deer.'

'Now loud thou liest, thou bold of mood! It cleaves unto his hand, The stain of thine own kindly blood, The blood of Ethert Brand.'

Then forward stepped she, Alice Brand, And made the holy sign,— 'And if there's blood on Richard's hand, A spotless hand is mine.

'And I conjure thee, demon elf, By Him whom demons fear, To show us whence thou art thyself, And what thine errand here?'

XV.

Ballad Continued.

"Tis merry, 'tis merry, in Fairy-land, When fairy birds are singing, When the court cloth ride by their monarch's side, With bit and bridle ringing:

'And gayly shines the Fairy-land— But all is glistening show, Like the idle gleam that December's beam Can dart on ice and snow.

'And fading, like that varied gleam, Is our inconstant shape, Who now like knight and lady seem, And now like dwarf and ape.

'It was between the night and day, When the Fairy King has power, That I sunk down in a sinful fray, And 'twixt life and death was snatched away To the joyless Elfin bower.

'But wist I of a woman bold, Who thrice my brow durst sign, I might regain my mortal mould, As fair a form as thine.'

She crossed him once—she crossed him twice— That lady was so brave; The fouler grew his goblin hue, The darker grew the cave.

She crossed him thrice, that lady bold; He rose beneath her hand The fairest knight on Scottish mould, Her brother, Ethert Brand!

Merry it is in good greenwood, When the mavis and merle are singing, But merrier were they in Dunfermline gray, When all the bells were ringing.

XVI.

Just as the minstrel sounds were stayed, A stranger climbed the steepy glade; His martial step, his stately mien, His hunting-suit of Lincoln green, His eagle glance, remembrance claims— 'Tis Snowdoun's Knight, 'tis James Fitz-James. Ellen beheld as in a dream, Then, starting, scarce suppressed a scream: 'O stranger! in such hour of fear What evil hap has brought thee here?' 'An evil hap how can it be That bids me look again on thee? By promise bound, my former guide Met me betimes this morning-tide, And marshalled over bank and bourne The happy path of my return.' 'The happy path!—what! said he naught Of war, of battle to be fought, Of guarded pass?' 'No, by my faith! Nor saw I aught could augur scathe.' 'O haste thee, Allan, to the kern: Yonder his tartars I discern; Learn thou his purpose, and conjure That he will guide the stranger sure!— What prompted thee, unhappy man? The meanest serf in Roderick's clan Had not been bribed, by love or fear, Unknown to him to guide thee here.'

XVII.

'Sweet Ellen, dear my life must be, Since it is worthy care from thee; et life I hold but idle breath When love or honor's weighed with death. Then let me profit by my chance, And speak my purpose bold at once. I come to bear thee from a wild Where ne'er before such blossom smiled, By this soft hand to lead thee far From frantic scenes of feud and war. Near Bochastle my horses wait; They bear us soon to Stirling gate. I'll place thee in a lovely bower, I'll guard thee like a tender flower—' 'O hush, Sir Knight! 't were female art, To say I do not read thy heart; Too much, before, my selfish ear Was idly soothed my praise to hear. That fatal bait hath lured thee back, In deathful hour, o'er dangerous track; And how, O how, can I atone The wreck my vanity brought on!— One way remains—I'll tell him all— Yes! struggling bosom, forth it shall! Thou, whose light folly bears the blame, Buy thine own pardon with thy shame! But first—my father is a man Outlawed and exiled, under ban; The price of blood is on his head, With me 't were infamy to wed. Still wouldst thou speak?—then hear the truth! Fitz-James, there is a noble youth— If yet he is!—exposed for me And mine to dread extremity— Thou hast the secret of my bears; Forgive, be generous, and depart!'

XVIII.

Fitz-James knew every wily train A lady's fickle heart to gain, But here he knew and felt them vain. There shot no glance from Ellen's eye, To give her steadfast speech the lie; In maiden confidence she stood, Though mantled in her cheek the blood And told her love with such a sigh Of deep and hopeless agony, As death had sealed her Malcolm's doom And she sat sorrowing on his tomb. Hope vanished from Fitz-James's eye, But not with hope fled sympathy. He proffered to attend her side, As brother would a sister guide. 'O little know'st thou Roderick's heart! Safer for both we go apart. O haste thee, and from Allan learn If thou mayst trust yon wily kern.' With hand upon his forehead laid, The conflict of his mind to shade, A parting step or two he made; Then, as some thought had crossed his brain He paused, and turned, and came again.

XIX.

'Hear, lady, yet a parting word!— It chanced in fight that my poor sword Preserved the life of Scotland's lord. This ring the grateful Monarch gave, And bade, when I had boon to crave, To bring it back, and boldly claim The recompense that I would name. Ellen, I am no courtly lord, But one who lives by lance and sword, Whose castle is his helm and shield, His lordship the embattled field. What from a prince can I demand, Who neither reck of state nor land? Ellen, thy hand—the ring is thine; Each guard and usher knows the sign. Seek thou the King without delay; This signet shall secure thy way: And claim thy suit, whate'er it be, As ransom of his pledge to me.' He placed the golden circlet on, Paused—kissed her hand—and then was gone. The aged Minstrel stood aghast, So hastily Fitz-James shot past. He joined his guide, and wending down The ridges of the mountain brown, Across the stream they took their way That joins Loch Katrine to Achray.

XX

All in the Trosachs' glen was still, Noontide was sleeping on the hill: Sudden his guide whooped loud and high— 'Murdoch! was that a signal cry?'— He stammered forth, 'I shout to scare Yon raven from his dainty fare.' He looked—he knew the raven's prey, His own brave steed: 'Ah! gallant gray! For thee—for me, perchance—'t were well We ne'er had seen the Trosachs' dell.— Murdoch, move first—-but silently; Whistle or whoop, and thou shalt die!' Jealous and sullen on they fared, Each silent, each upon his guard.

XXI.

Now wound the path its dizzy ledge Around a precipice's edge, When lo! a wasted female form, Blighted by wrath of sun and storm, In tattered weeds and wild array, Stood on a cliff beside the way, And glancing round her restless eye, Upon the wood, the rock, the sky, Seemed naught to mark, yet all to spy. Her brow was wreathed with gaudy broom; With gesture wild she waved a plume Of feathers, which the eagles fling To crag and cliff from dusky wing; Such spoils her desperate step had sought, Where scarce was footing for the goat. The tartan plaid she first descried, And shrieked till all the rocks replied; As loud she laughed when near they drew, For then the Lowland garb she knew; And then her hands she wildly wrung, And then she wept, and then she sung— She sung!—the voice, in better time, Perchance to harp or lute might chime; And now, though strained and roughened, still Rung wildly sweet to dale and hill.

XXII.

Song.

They bid me sleep, they bid me pray, They say my brain is warped and wrung— I cannot sleep on Highland brae, I cannot pray in Highland tongue. But were I now where Allan glides, Or heard my native Devan's tides, So sweetly would I rest, and pray That Heaven would close my wintry day!

'Twas thus my hair they bade me braid, They made me to the church repair; It was my bridal morn they said, And my true love would meet me there. But woe betide the cruel guile That drowned in blood the morning smile! And woe betide the fairy dream! I only waked to sob and scream.

XXIII.

'Who is this maid? what means her lay? She hovers o'er the hollow way, And flutters wide her mantle gray, As the lone heron spreads his wing, By twilight, o'er a haunted spring.' ''Tis Blanche of Devan,' Murdoch said, 'A crazed and captive Lowland maid, Ta'en on the morn she was a bride, When Roderick forayed Devan-side. The gay bridegroom resistance made, And felt our Chief's unconquered blade. I marvel she is now at large, But oft she 'scapes from Maudlin's charge.— Hence, brain-sick fool!'—He raised his bow:— 'Now, if thou strik'st her but one blow, I'll pitch thee from the cliff as far As ever peasant pitched a bar!' 'Thanks, champion, thanks' the Maniac cried, And pressed her to Fitz-James's side. 'See the gray pennons I prepare, To seek my true love through the air! I will not lend that savage groom, To break his fall, one downy plume! No!—deep amid disjointed stones, The wolves shall batten on his bones, And then shall his detested plaid, By bush and brier in mid-air stayed, Wave forth a banner fail and free, Meet signal for their revelry.'

XXIV

'Hush thee, poor maiden, and be still!' 'O! thou look'st kindly, and I will. Mine eye has dried and wasted been, But still it loves the Lincoln green; And, though mine ear is all unstrung, Still, still it loves the Lowland tongue.

'For O my sweet William was forester true, He stole poor Blanche's heart away! His coat it was all of the greenwood hue, And so blithely he trilled the Lowland lay!

'It was not that I meant to tell... But thou art wise and guessest well.' Then, in a low and broken tone, And hurried note, the song went on. Still on the Clansman fearfully She fixed her apprehensive eye, Then turned it on the Knight, and then Her look glanced wildly o'er the glen.

XXV.

'The toils are pitched, and the stakes are set,— Ever sing merrily, merrily; The bows they bend, and the knives they whet, Hunters live so cheerily.

It was a stag, a stag of ten, Bearing its branches sturdily; He came stately down the glen,— Ever sing hardily, hardily.

'It was there he met with a wounded doe, She was bleeding deathfully; She warned him of the toils below, O. so faithfully, faithfully!

'He had an eye, and he could heed,— Ever sing warily, warily; He had a foot, and he could speed,— Hunters watch so narrowly.'

XXVI.

Fitz-James's mind was passion-tossed, When Ellen's hints and fears were lost; But Murdoch's shout suspicion wrought, And Blanche's song conviction brought. Not like a stag that spies the snare, But lion of the hunt aware, He waved at once his blade on high, 'Disclose thy treachery, or die!' Forth at hell speed the Clansman flew, But in his race his bow he drew. The shaft just grazed Fitz-James's crest, And thrilled in Blanche's faded breast.— Murdoch of Alpine! prove thy speed, For ne'er had Alpine's son such need; With heart of fire, and foot of wind, The fierce avenger is behind! Fate judges of the rapid strife— The forfeit death—the prize is life; Thy kindred ambush lies before, Close couched upon the heathery moor; Them couldst thou reach!—it may not be Thine ambushed kin thou ne'er shalt see, The fiery Saxon gains on thee!— Resistless speeds the deadly thrust, As lightning strikes the pine to dust; With foot and hand Fitz-James must strain Ere he can win his blade again. Bent o'er the fallen with falcon eye, He grimly smiled to see him die, Then slower wended back his way, Where the poor maiden bleeding lay.

XXVII.

She sat beneath the birchen tree, Her elbow resting on her knee; She had withdrawn the fatal shaft, And gazed on it, and feebly laughed; Her wreath of broom and feathers gray, Daggled with blood, beside her lay. The Knight to stanch the life-stream tried,— 'Stranger, it is in vain!' she cried. 'This hour of death has given me more Of reason's power than years before; For, as these ebbing veins decay, My frenzied visions fade away. A helpless injured wretch I die, And something tells me in thine eye That thou wert mine avenger born. Seest thou this tress?—O. still I 've worn This little tress of yellow hair, Through danger, frenzy, and despair! It once was bright and clear as thine, But blood and tears have dimmed its shine. I will not tell thee when 't was shred, Nor from what guiltless victim's head,— My brain would turn!—but it shall wave Like plumage on thy helmet brave, Till sun and wind shall bleach the stain, And thou wilt bring it me again. I waver still.—O God! more bright Let reason beam her parting light!— O. by thy knighthood's honored sign, And for thy life preserved by mine, When thou shalt see a darksome man, Who boasts him Chief of Alpine's Clan, With tartars broad and shadowy plume, And hand of blood, and brow of gloom Be thy heart bold, thy weapon strong, And wreak poor Blanche of Devan's wrong!— They watch for thee by pass and fell... Avoid the path... O God!... farewell.'

XXVIII.

A kindly heart had brave Fitz-James; Fast poured his eyes at pity's claims; And now, with mingled grief and ire, He saw the murdered maid expire. 'God, in my need, be my relief, As I wreak this on yonder Chief!' A lock from Blanche's tresses fair He blended with her bridegroom's hair; The mingled braid in blood he dyed, And placed it on his bonnet-side: 'By Him whose word is truth, I swear, No other favour will I wear, Till this sad token I imbrue In the best blood of Roderick Dhu!— But hark! what means yon faint halloo? The chase is up,—but they shall know, The stag at bay 's a dangerous foe.' Barred from the known but guarded way, Through copse and cliffs Fitz-James must stray, And oft must change his desperate track, By stream and precipice turned back. Heartless, fatigued, and faint, at length, From lack of food and loss of strength He couched him in a thicket hoar And thought his toils and perils o'er:— 'Of all my rash adventures past, This frantic feat must prove the last! Who e'er so mad but might have guessed That all this Highland hornet's nest Would muster up in swarms so soon As e'er they heard of bands at Doune?— Like bloodhounds now they search me out,— Hark, to the whistle and the shout!— If farther through the wilds I go, I only fall upon the foe: I'll couch me here till evening gray, Then darkling try my dangerous way.'

XXIX.

The shades of eve come slowly down, The woods are wrapt in deeper brown, The owl awakens from her dell, The fox is heard upon the fell; Enough remains of glimmering light To guide the wanderer's steps aright, Yet not enough from far to show His figure to the watchful foe. With cautious step and ear awake, He climbs the crag and threads the brake; And not the summer solstice there Tempered the midnight mountain air, But every breeze that swept the wold Benumbed his drenched limbs with cold. In dread, in danger, and alone, Famished and chilled, through ways unknown, Tangled and steep, he journeyed on; Till, as a rock's huge point he turned, A watch-fire close before him burned.

XXX.

Beside its embers red and clear Basked in his plaid a mountaineer; And up he sprung with sword in hand,— 'Thy name and purpose! Saxon, stand!' 'A stranger.' 'What cost thou require?' 'Rest and a guide, and food and fire My life's beset, my path is lost, The gale has chilled my limbs with frost.' 'Art thou a friend to Roderick?' 'No.' 'Thou dar'st not call thyself a foe?' 'I dare! to him and all the band He brings to aid his murderous hand.' 'Bold words!—but, though the beast of game The privilege of chase may claim, Though space and law the stag we lend Ere hound we slip or bow we bend Who ever recked, where, how, or when, The prowling fox was trapped or slain? Thus treacherous scouts,—yet sure they lie Who say thou cam'st a secret spy!'— 'They do, by heaven!—come Roderick Dhu And of his clan the boldest two And let me but till morning rest, I write the falsehood on their crest.' If by the blaze I mark aright Thou bear'st the belt and spur of Knight.' 'Then by these tokens mayst thou know Each proud oppressor's mortal foe.' 'Enough, enough; sit down and share A soldier's couch, a soldier's fare.'

XXXI..

He gave him of his Highland cheer, The hardened flesh of mountain deer; Dry fuel on the fire he laid, And bade the Saxon share his plaid. He tended him like welcome guest, Then thus his further speech addressed:— 'Stranger, I am to Roderick Dhu A clansman born, a kinsman true; Each word against his honour spoke Demands of me avenging stroke; Yet more,—upon thy fate, 'tis said, A mighty augury is laid. It rests with me to wind my horn,— Thou art with numbers overborne; It rests with me, here, brand to brand, Worn as thou art, to bid thee stand: But, not for clan, nor kindred's cause, Will I depart from honour's laws; To assail a wearied man were shame, And stranger is a holy name; Guidance and rest, and food and fire, In vain he never must require. Then rest thee here till dawn of day; Myself will guide thee on the way, O'er stock and stone, through watch and ward, Till past Clan-Alpine's outmost guard, As far as Coilantogle's ford; From thence thy warrant is thy sword.' 'I take thy courtesy, by heaven, As freely as 'tis nobly given!' Well, rest thee; for the bittern's cry Sings us the lake's wild lullaby.' With that he shook the gathered heath, And spread his plaid upon the wreath; And the brave foemen, side by side, Lay peaceful down like brothers tried, And slept until the dawning beam Purpled the mountain and the stream.



CANTO FIFTH.

The Combat.



I.

Fair as the earliest beam of eastern light, When first, by the bewildered pilgrim spied, It smiles upon the dreary brow of night And silvers o'er the torrent's foaming tide And lights the fearful path on mountain-side,— Fair as that beam, although the fairest far, Giving to horror grace, to danger pride, Shine martial Faith, and Courtesy's bright star Through all the wreckful storms that cloud the brow of War.

II.

That early beam, so fair and sheen, Was twinkling through the hazel screen When, rousing at its glimmer red, The warriors left their lowly bed, Looked out upon the dappled sky, Muttered their soldier matins try, And then awaked their fire, to steal, As short and rude, their soldier meal. That o'er, the Gael around him threw His graceful plaid of varied hue, And, true to promise, led the way, By thicket green and mountain gray. A wildering path!—they winded now Along the precipice's brow, Commanding the rich scenes beneath, The windings of the Forth and Teith, And all the vales between that lie. Till Stirling's turrets melt in sky; Then, sunk in copse, their farthest glance Gained not the length of horseman's lance. 'Twas oft so steep, the foot was as fain Assistance from the hand to gain; So tangled oft that, bursting through, Each hawthorn shed her showers of dew,— That diamond dew, so pure and clear, It rivals all but Beauty's tear!

III.

At length they came where, stern and steep, The hill sinks down upon the deep. Here Vennachar in silver flows, There, ridge on ridge, Benledi rose; Ever the hollow path twined on, Beneath steep hank and threatening stone; A hundred men might hold the post With hardihood against a host. The rugged mountain's scanty cloak Was dwarfish shrubs of birch and oak With shingles bare, and cliffs between And patches bright of bracken green, And heather black, that waved so high, It held the copse in rivalry. But where the lake slept deep and still Dank osiers fringed the swamp and hill; And oft both path and hill were torn Where wintry torrent down had borne And heaped upon the cumbered land Its wreck of gravel, rocks, and sand. So toilsome was the road to trace The guide, abating of his pace, Led slowly through the pass's jaws And asked Fitz-James by what strange cause He sought these wilds, traversed by few Without a pass from Roderick Dhu.

IV.

'Brave Gael, my pass, in danger tried Hangs in my belt and by my side Yet, sooth to tell,' the Saxon said, 'I dreamt not now to claim its aid. When here, but three days since, I came Bewildered in pursuit of game, All seemed as peaceful and as still As the mist slumbering on yon hill; Thy dangerous Chief was then afar, Nor soon expected back from war. Thus said, at least, my mountain-guide, Though deep perchance the villain lied.' 'Yet why a second venture try?' 'A warrior thou, and ask me why!— Moves our free course by such fixed cause As gives the poor mechanic laws? Enough, I sought to drive away The lazy hours of peaceful day; Slight cause will then suffice to guide A Knight's free footsteps far and wide,— A falcon flown, a greyhound strayed, The merry glance of mountain maid; Or, if a path be dangerous known, The danger's self is lure alone.'

V.

'Thy secret keep, I urge thee not;— Yet, ere again ye sought this spot, Say, heard ye naught of Lowland war, Against Clan-Alpine, raised by Mar?' 'No, by my word;—of bands prepared To guard King James's sports I heard; Nor doubt I aught, but, when they hear This muster of the mountaineer, Their pennons will abroad be flung, Which else in Doune had peaceful hung.' 'Free be they flung! for we were loath Their silken folds should feast the moth. Free be they flung!—as free shall wave Clan-Alpine's pine in banner brave. But, stranger, peaceful since you came, Bewildered in the mountain-game, Whence the bold boast by which you show Vich-Alpine's vowed and mortal foe?' 'Warrior, but yester-morn I knew Naught of thy Chieftain, Roderick Dhu, Save as an outlawed desperate man, The chief of a rebellious clan, Who, in the Regent's court and sight, With ruffian dagger stabbed a knight; Yet this alone might from his part Sever each true and loyal heart.'

VI.

Wrathful at such arraignment foul, Dark lowered the clansman's sable scowl. A space he paused, then sternly said, 'And heardst thou why he drew his blade? Heardst thou that shameful word and blow Brought Roderick's vengeance on his foe? What recked the Chieftain if he stood On Highland heath or Holy-Rood? He rights such wrong where it is given, If it were in the court of heaven.' 'Still was it outrage;—yet, 'tis true, Not then claimed sovereignty his due; While Albany with feeble hand Held borrowed truncheon of command, The young King, mewed in Stirling tower, Was stranger to respect and power. But then, thy Chieftain's robber life!— Winning mean prey by causeless strife, Wrenching from ruined Lowland swain His herds and harvest reared in vain,— Methinks a soul like thine should scorn The spoils from such foul foray borne.'

VII.

The Gael beheld him grim the while, And answered with disdainful smile: 'Saxon, from yonder mountain high, I marked thee send delighted eye Far to the south and east, where lay, Extended in succession gay, Deep waving fields and pastures green, With gentle slopes and groves between:— These fertile plains, that softened vale, Were once the birthright of the Gael; The stranger came with iron hand, And from our fathers reft the land. Where dwell we now? See, rudely swell Crag over crag, and fell o'er fell. Ask we this savage hill we tread For fattened steer or household bread, Ask we for flocks these shingles dry, And well the mountain might reply,— "To you, as to your sires of yore, Belong the target and claymore! I give you shelter in my breast, Your own good blades must win the rest." Pent in this fortress of the North, Think'st thou we will not sally forth, To spoil the spoiler as we may, And from the robber rend the prey? Ay, by my soul!—While on yon plain The Saxon rears one shock of grain, While of ten thousand herds there strays But one along yon river's maze,— The Gael, of plain and river heir, Shall with strong hand redeem his share. Where live the mountain Chiefs who hold That plundering Lowland field and fold Is aught but retribution true? Seek other cause 'gainst Roderick Dhu.'

VIII.

Answered Fitz-James: 'And, if I sought, Think'st thou no other could be brought? What deem ye of my path waylaid? My life given o'er to ambuscade?' 'As of a meed to rashness due: Hadst thou sent warning fair and true,— I seek my hound or falcon strayed, I seek, good faith, a Highland maid,— Free hadst thou been to come and go; But secret path marks secret foe. Nor yet for this, even as a spy, Hadst thou, unheard, been doomed to die, Save to fulfil an augury.' 'Well, let it pass; nor will I now Fresh cause of enmity avow To chafe thy mood and cloud thy brow. Enough, I am by promise tied To match me with this man of pride: Twice have I sought Clan-Alpine's glen In peace; but when I come again, I come with banner, brand, and bow, As leader seeks his mortal foe. For love-lore swain in lady's bower Ne'er panted for the appointed hour As I, until before me stand This rebel Chieftain and his band!'

IX.

'Have then thy wish!'—He whistled shrill And he was answered from the hill; Wild as the scream of the curlew, From crag to crag the signal flew. Instant, through copse and heath, arose Bonnets and spears and bended bows On right, on left, above, below, Sprung up at once the lurking foe; From shingles gray their lances start, The bracken bush sends forth the dart, The rushes and the willow-wand Are bristling into axe and brand, And every tuft of broom gives life 'To plaided warrior armed for strife. That whistle garrisoned the glen At once with full five hundred men, As if the yawning hill to heaven A subterranean host had given. Watching their leader's beck and will, All silent there they stood and still. Like the loose crags whose threatening mass Lay tottering o'er the hollow pass, As if an infant's touch could urge Their headlong passage down the verge, With step and weapon forward flung, Upon the mountain-side they hung. The Mountaineer cast glance of pride Along Benledi's living side, Then fixed his eye and sable brow Full on Fitz-James: 'How say'st thou now? These are Clan-Alpine's warriors true; And, Saxon,—I am Roderick Dhu!'

X.

Fitz-James was brave:—though to his heart The life-blood thrilled with sudden start, He manned himself with dauntless air, Returned the Chief his haughty stare, His back against a rock he bore, And firmly placed his foot before:— 'Come one, come all! this rock shall fly From its firm base as soon as I.' Sir Roderick marked,—and in his eyes Respect was mingled with surprise, And the stern joy which warriors feel In foeman worthy of their steel. Short space he stood—then waved his hand: Down sunk the disappearing band; Each warrior vanished where he stood, In broom or bracken, heath or wood; Sunk brand and spear and bended bow, In osiers pale and copses low; It seemed as if their mother Earth Had swallowed up her warlike birth. The wind's last breath had tossed in air Pennon and plaid and plumage fair,— The next but swept a lone hill-side Where heath and fern were waving wide: The sun's last glance was glinted back From spear and glaive, from targe and jack,— The next, all unreflected, shone On bracken green and cold gray stone.

XI.

Fitz-James looked round,—yet scarce believed The witness that his sight received; Such apparition well might seem Delusion of a dreadful dream. Sir Roderick in suspense he eyed, And to his look the Chief replied: 'Fear naught—nay, that I need not say But—doubt not aught from mine array. Thou art my guest;—I pledged my word As far as Coilantogle ford: Nor would I call a clansman's brand For aid against one valiant hand, Though on our strife lay every vale Rent by the Saxon from the Gael. So move we on;—I only meant To show the reed on which you leant, Deeming this path you might pursue Without a pass from Roderick Dhu.' They moved;—I said Fitz-James was brave As ever knight that belted glaive, Yet dare not say that now his blood Kept on its wont and tempered flood, As, following Roderick's stride, he drew That seeming lonesome pathway through, Which yet by fearful proof was rife With lances, that, to take his life, Waited but signal from a guide, So late dishonored and defied. Ever, by stealth, his eye sought round The vanished guardians of the ground, And stir'd from copse and heather deep Fancy saw spear and broadsword peep, And in the plover's shrilly strain The signal whistle heard again. Nor breathed he free till far behind The pass was left; for then they wind Along a wide and level green, Where neither tree nor tuft was seen, Nor rush nor bush of broom was near, To hide a bonnet or a spear.

XII.

The Chief in silence strode before, And reached that torrent's sounding shore, Which, daughter of three mighty lakes, From Vennachar in silver breaks, Sweeps through the plain, and ceaseless mines On Bochastle the mouldering lines, Where Rome, the Empress of the world, Of yore her eagle wings unfurled. And here his course the Chieftain stayed, Threw down his target and his plaid, And to the Lowland warrior said: 'Bold Saxon! to his promise just, Vich-Alpine has discharged his trust. This murderous Chief, this ruthless man, This head of a rebellious clan, Hath led thee safe, through watch and ward, Far past Clan-Alpine's outmost guard. Now, man to man, and steel to steel, A Chieftain's vengeance thou shalt feel. See, here all vantageless I stand, Armed like thyself with single brand; For this is Coilantogle ford, And thou must keep thee with thy sword.'

XIII.

The Saxon paused: 'I ne'er delayed, When foeman bade me draw my blade; Nay more, brave Chief, I vowed thy death; Yet sure thy fair and generous faith, And my deep debt for life preserved, A better meed have well deserved: Can naught but blood our feud atone? Are there no means?'—' No, stranger, none! And hear,—to fire thy flagging zeal,— The Saxon cause rests on thy steel; For thus spoke Fate by prophet bred Between the living and the dead:" Who spills the foremost foeman's life, His party conquers in the strife."' 'Then, by my word,' the Saxon said, "The riddle is already read. Seek yonder brake beneath the cliff,— There lies Red Murdoch, stark and stiff. Thus Fate hath solved her prophecy; Then yield to Fate, and not to me. To James at Stirling let us go, When, if thou wilt be still his foe, Or if the King shall not agree To grant thee grace and favor free, I plight mine honor, oath, and word That, to thy native strengths restored, With each advantage shalt thou stand That aids thee now to guard thy land.'

XIV.

Dark lightning flashed from Roderick's eye: 'Soars thy presumption, then, so high, Because a wretched kern ye slew, Homage to name to Roderick Dhu? He yields not, he, to man nor Fate! Thou add'st but fuel to my hate;— My clansman's blood demands revenge. Not yet prepared?—By heaven, I change My thought, and hold thy valor light As that of some vain carpet knight, Who ill deserved my courteous care, And whose best boast is but to wear A braid of his fair lady's hair.' 'I thank thee, Roderick, for the word! It nerves my heart, it steels my sword; For I have sworn this braid to stain In the best blood that warms thy vein. Now, truce, farewell! and, rush, begone!— Yet think not that by thee alone, Proud Chief! can courtesy be shown; Though not from copse, or heath, or cairn, Start at my whistle clansmen stern, Of this small horn one feeble blast Would fearful odds against thee cast. But fear not—doubt not—which thou wilt— We try this quarrel hilt to hilt.' Then each at once his falchion drew, Each on the ground his scabbard threw Each looked to sun and stream and plain As what they ne'er might see again; Then foot and point and eye opposed, In dubious strife they darkly closed.

XV.

Ill fared it then with Roderick Dhu, That on the field his targe he threw, Whose brazen studs and tough bull-hide Had death so often dashed aside; For, trained abroad his arms to wield Fitz-James's blade was sword and shield. He practised every pass and ward, To thrust, to strike, to feint, to guard; While less expert, though stronger far, The Gael maintained unequal war. Three times in closing strife they stood And thrice the Saxon blade drank blood; No stinted draught, no scanty tide, The gushing flood the tartars dyed. Fierce Roderick felt the fatal drain, And showered his blows like wintry rain; And, as firm rock or castle-roof Against the winter shower is proof, The foe, invulnerable still, Foiled his wild rage by steady skill; Till, at advantage ta'en, his brand Forced Roderick's weapon from his hand, And backward borne upon the lea, Brought the proud Chieftain to his knee.

XVI.

Now yield thee, or by Him who made The world, thy heart's blood dyes my blade!; 'Thy threats, thy mercy, I defy! Let recreant yield, who fears to die.' Like adder darting from his coil, Like wolf that dashes through the toil, Like mountain-cat who guards her young, Full at Fitz-James's throat he sprung; Received, but recked not of a wound, And locked his arms his foeman round. Now, gallant Saxon, hold thine own! No maiden's hand is round thee thrown! That desperate grasp thy frame might feel Through bars of brass and triple steel! They tug, they strain! down, down they go, The Gael above, Fitz-James below. The Chieftain's gripe his throat compressed, His knee was planted on his breast; His clotted locks he backward threw, Across his brow his hand he drew, From blood and mist to clear his sight, Then gleamed aloft his dagger bright! But hate and fury ill supplied The stream of life's exhausted tide, And all too late the advantage came, To turn the odds of deadly game; For, while the dagger gleamed on high, Reeled soul and sense, reeled brain and eye. Down came the blow! but in the heath The erring blade found bloodless sheath. The struggling foe may now unclasp The fainting Chief's relaxing grasp; Unwounded from the dreadful close, But breathless all, Fitz-James arose.

XVII.

He faltered thanks to Heaven for life, Redeemed, unhoped, from desperate strife; Next on his foe his look he cast, Whose every gasp appeared his last In Roderick's gore he dipped the braid,— 'Poor Blanche! thy wrongs are dearly paid; Yet with thy foe must die, or live, The praise that faith and valor give.' With that he blew a bugle note, Undid the collar from his throat, Unbonneted, and by the wave Sat down his brow and hands to rave. Then faint afar are heard the feet Of rushing steeds in gallop fleet; The sounds increase, and now are seen Four mounted squires in Lincoln green; Two who bear lance, and two who lead By loosened rein a saddled steed; Each onward held his headlong course, And by Fitz-James reined up his horse,— With wonder viewed the bloody spot,— 'Exclaim not, gallants' question not.— You, Herbert and Luffness, alight And bind the wounds of yonder knight; Let the gray palfrey bear his weight, We destined for a fairer freight, And bring him on to Stirling straight; I will before at better speed, To seek fresh horse and fitting weed. The sun rides high;—I must be boune To see the archer-game at noon; But lightly Bayard clears the lea.— De Vaux and Herries, follow me.

XVIII.

'Stand, Bayard, stand!'—the steed obeyed, With arching neck and bended head, And glancing eye and quivering ear, As if he loved his lord to hear. No foot Fitz-James in stirrup stayed, No grasp upon the saddle laid, But wreathed his left hand in the mane, And lightly bounded from the plain, Turned on the horse his armed heel, And stirred his courage with the steel. Bounded the fiery steed in air, The rider sat erect and fair, Then like a bolt from steel crossbow Forth launched, along the plain they go. They dashed that rapid torrent through, And up Carhonie's hill they flew; Still at the gallop pricked the Knight, His merrymen followed as they might. Along thy banks, swift Teith! they ride, And in the race they mock thy tide; Torry and Lendrick now are past, And Deanstown lies behind them cast; They rise, the bannered towers of Doune, They sink in distant woodland soon; Blair-Drummond sees the hoofs strike fire, They sweep like breeze through Ochtertyre; They mark just glance and disappear The lofty brow of ancient Kier; They bathe their coursers' sweltering sides Dark Forth! amid thy sluggish tides, And on the opposing shore take ground With plash, with scramble, and with bound. Right-hand they leave thy cliffs, Craig-Forth! And soon the bulwark of the North, Gray Stirling, with her towers and town, Upon their fleet career looked clown.

XIX.

As up the flinty path they strained, Sudden his steed the leader reined; A signal to his squire he flung, Who instant to his stirrup sprung:— 'Seest thou, De Vaux, yon woodsman gray, Who townward holds the rocky way, Of stature tall and poor array? Mark'st thou the firm, yet active stride, With which he scales the mountain-side? Know'st thou from whence he comes, or whom?' 'No, by my word;—a burly groom He seems, who in the field or chase A baron's train would nobly grace—' 'Out, out, De Vaux! can fear supply, And jealousy, no sharper eye? Afar, ere to the hill he drew, That stately form and step I knew; Like form in Scotland is not seen, Treads not such step on Scottish green. 'Tis James of Douglas, by Saint Serle! The uncle of the banished Earl. Away, away, to court, to show The near approach of dreaded foe: The King must stand upon his guard; Douglas and he must meet prepared.' Then right-hand wheeled their steeds, and straight They won the Castle's postern gate.

XX.

The Douglas, who had bent his way From Cambus-kenneth's abbey gray, Now, as he climbed the rocky shelf, Held sad communion with himself:— 'Yes! all is true my fears could frame; A prisoner lies the noble Graeme, And fiery Roderick soon will feel The vengeance of the royal steel. I, only I, can ward their fate,— God grant the ransom come not late! The Abbess hath her promise given, My child shall be the bride of Heaven;— Be pardoned one repining tear! For He who gave her knows how dear, How excellent!—but that is by, And now my business is—to die.— Ye towers! within whose circuit dread A Douglas by his sovereign bled; And thou, O sad and fatal mound! That oft hast heard the death-axe sound. As on the noblest of the land Fell the stern headsmen's bloody hand,— The dungeon, block, and nameless tomb Prepare—for Douglas seeks his doom! But hark! what blithe and jolly peal Makes the Franciscan steeple reel? And see! upon the crowded street, In motley groups what masquers meet! Banner and pageant, pipe and drum, And merry morrice-dancers come. I guess, by all this quaint array, The burghers hold their sports to-day. James will be there; he loves such show, Where the good yeoman bends his bow, And the tough wrestler foils his foe, As well as where, in proud career, The high-born filter shivers spear. I'll follow to the Castle-park, And play my prize;—King James shall mark If age has tamed these sinews stark, Whose force so oft in happier days His boyish wonder loved to praise.'

XXI.

The Castle gates were open flung, The quivering drawbridge rocked and rung, And echoed loud the flinty street Beneath the coursers' clattering feet, As slowly down the steep descent Fair Scotland's King and nobles went, While all along the crowded way Was jubilee and loud huzza. And ever James was bending low To his white jennet's saddle-bow, Doffing his cap to city dame, Who smiled and blushed for pride and shame. And well the simperer might be vain,— He chose the fairest of the train. Gravely he greets each city sire, Commends each pageant's quaint attire, Gives to the dancers thanks aloud, And smiles and nods upon the crowd, Who rend the heavens with their acclaims,— 'Long live the Commons' King, King James!' Behind the King thronged peer and knight, And noble dame and damsel bright, Whose fiery steeds ill brooked the stay Of the steep street and crowded way. But in the train you might discern Dark lowering brow and visage stern; There nobles mourned their pride restrained, And the mean burgher's joys disdained; And chiefs, who, hostage for their clan, Were each from home a banished man, There thought upon their own gray tower, Their waving woods, their feudal power, And deemed themselves a shameful part Of pageant which they cursed in heart.

XXII.

Now, in the Castle-park, drew out Their checkered bands the joyous rout. There morricers, with bell at heel And blade in hand, their mazes wheel; But chief, beside the butts, there stand Bold Robin Hood and all his band,— Friar Tuck with quarterstaff and cowl, Old Scathelocke with his surly scowl, Maid Marian, fair as ivory bone, Scarlet, and Mutch, and Little John; Their bugles challenge all that will, In archery to prove their skill. The Douglas bent a bow of might,— His first shaft centred in the white, And when in turn he shot again, His second split the first in twain. From the King's hand must Douglas take A silver dart, the archers' stake; Fondly he watched, with watery eye, Some answering glance of sympathy,— No kind emotion made reply! Indifferent as to archer wight, The monarch gave the arrow bright.

XXIII.

Now, clear the ring! for, hand to hand, The manly wrestlers take their stand. Two o'er the rest superior rose, And proud demanded mightier foes,— Nor called in vain, for Douglas came.— For life is Hugh of Larbert lame; Scarce better John of Alloa's fare, Whom senseless home his comrades bare. Prize of the wrestling match, the King To Douglas gave a golden ring, While coldly glanced his eye of blue, As frozen drop of wintry dew. Douglas would speak, but in his breast His struggling soul his words suppressed; Indignant then he turned him where Their arms the brawny yeomen bare, To hurl the massive bar in air. When each his utmost strength had shown, The Douglas rent an earth-fast stone From its deep bed, then heaved it high, And sent the fragment through the sky A rood beyond the farthest mark; And still in Stirling's royal park, The gray-haired sires, who know the past, To strangers point the Douglas cast, And moralize on the decay Of Scottish strength in modern day.

XXIV.

The vale with loud applauses rang, The Ladies' Rock sent back the clang. The King, with look unmoved, bestowed A purse well filled with pieces broad. Indignant smiled the Douglas proud, And threw the gold among the crowd, Who now with anxious wonder scan, And sharper glance, the dark gray man; Till whispers rose among the throng, That heart so free, and hand so strong, Must to the Douglas blood belong. The old men marked and shook the head, To see his hair with silver spread, And winked aside, and told each son Of feats upon the English done, Ere Douglas of the stalwart hand Was exiled from his native land. The women praised his stately form, Though wrecked by many a winter's storm; The youth with awe and wonder saw His strength surpassing Nature's law. Thus judged, as is their wont, the crowd Till murmurs rose to clamours loud. But not a glance from that proud ring Of peers who circled round the King With Douglas held communion kind, Or called the banished man to mind; No, not from those who at the chase Once held his side the honoured place, Begirt his board, and in the field Found safety underneath his shield; For he whom royal eyes disown, When was his form to courtiers known!

XXV.

The Monarch saw the gambols flag And bade let loose a gallant stag, Whose pride, the holiday to crown, Two favorite greyhounds should pull down, That venison free and Bourdeaux wine Might serve the archery to dine. But Lufra,—whom from Douglas' side Nor bribe nor threat could e'er divide, The fleetest hound in all the North,— Brave Lufra saw, and darted forth. She left the royal hounds midway, And dashing on the antlered prey, Sunk her sharp muzzle in his flank, And deep the flowing life-blood drank. The King's stout huntsman saw the sport By strange intruder broken short, Came up, and with his leash unbound In anger struck the noble hound. The Douglas had endured, that morn, The King's cold look, the nobles' scorn, And last, and worst to spirit proud, Had borne the pity of the crowd; But Lufra had been fondly bred, To share his board, to watch his bed, And oft would Ellen Lufra's neck In maiden glee with garlands deck; They were such playmates that with name Of Lufra Ellen's image came. His stifled wrath is brimming high, In darkened brow and flashing eye; As waves before the bark divide, The crowd gave way before his stride; Needs but a buffet and no more, The groom lies senseless in his gore. Such blow no other hand could deal, Though gauntleted in glove of steel.

XXVI.

Then clamored loud the royal train, And brandished swords and staves amain, But stern the Baron's warning: 'Back! Back, on your lives, ye menial pack! Beware the Douglas.—Yes! behold, King James! The Douglas, doomed of old, And vainly sought for near and far, A victim to atone the war, A willing victim, now attends, Nor craves thy grace but for his friends.—' 'Thus is my clemency repaid? Presumptuous Lord!' the Monarch said: 'Of thy misproud ambitious clan, Thou, James of Bothwell, wert the man, The only man, in whom a foe My woman-mercy would not know; But shall a Monarch's presence brook Injurious blow and haughty look?— What ho! the Captain of our Guard! Give the offender fitting ward.— Break off the sports!'—for tumult rose, And yeomen 'gan to bend their bows, 'Break off the sports!' he said and frowned, 'And bid our horsemen clear the ground.'

XXVII.

Then uproar wild and misarray Marred the fair form of festal day. The horsemen pricked among the crowd, Repelled by threats and insult loud; To earth are borne the old and weak, The timorous fly, the women shriek; With flint, with shaft, with staff, with bar, The hardier urge tumultuous war. At once round Douglas darkly sweep The royal spears in circle deep, And slowly scale the pathway steep, While on the rear in thunder pour The rabble with disordered roar With grief the noble Douglas saw The Commons rise against the law, And to the leading soldier said: 'Sir John of Hyndford, 'twas my blade That knighthood on thy shoulder laid; For that good deed permit me then A word with these misguided men.—

XXVIII,

'Hear, gentle friends, ere yet for me Ye break the bands of fealty. My life, my honour, and my cause, I tender free to Scotland's laws. Are these so weak as must require 'Fine aid of your misguided ire? Or if I suffer causeless wrong, Is then my selfish rage so strong, My sense of public weal so low, That, for mean vengeance on a foe, Those cords of love I should unbind Which knit my country and my kind? O no! Believe, in yonder tower It will not soothe my captive hour, To know those spears our foes should dread For me in kindred gore are red: 'To know, in fruitless brawl begun, For me that mother wails her son, For me that widow's mate expires, For me that orphans weep their sires, That patriots mourn insulted laws, And curse the Douglas for the cause. O let your patience ward such ill, And keep your right to love me still I'

XXIX.

The crowd's wild fury sunk again In tears, as tempests melt in rain. With lifted hands and eyes, they prayed For blessings on his generous head Who for his country felt alone, And prized her blood beyond his own. Old men upon the verge of life Blessed him who stayed the civil strife; And mothers held their babes on high, The self-devoted Chief to spy, Triumphant over wrongs and ire, To whom the prattlers owed a sire. Even the rough soldier's heart was moved; As if behind some bier beloved, With trailing arms and drooping head, The Douglas up the hill he led, And at the Castle's battled verge, With sighs resigned his honoured charge.

XXX.

The offended Monarch rode apart, With bitter thought and swelling heart, And would not now vouchsafe again Through Stirling streets to lead his train. 'O Lennox, who would wish to rule This changeling crowd, this common fool? Hear'st thou,' he said, 'the loud acclaim With which they shout the Douglas name? With like acclaim the vulgar throat Strained for King James their morning note; With like acclaim they hailed the day When first I broke the Douglas sway; And like acclaim would Douglas greet If he could hurl me from my seat. Who o'er the herd would wish to reign, Fantastic, fickle, fierce, and vain? Vain as the leaf upon the stream, And fickle as a changeful dream; Fantastic as a woman's mood, And fierce as Frenzy's fevered blood. Thou many-headed monster-thing, O who would wish to be thy king?—

XXXI..

'But soft! what messenger of speed Spurs hitherward his panting steed? I guess his cognizance afar— What from our cousin, John of Mar?' 'He prays, my liege, your sports keep bound Within the safe and guarded ground; For some foul purpose yet unknown,— Most sure for evil to the throne,— The outlawed Chieftain, Roderick Dhu, Has summoned his rebellious crew; 'Tis said, in James of Bothwell's aid These loose banditti stand arrayed. The Earl of Mar this morn from Doune To break their muster marched, and soon Your Grace will hear of battle fought; But earnestly the Earl besought, Till for such danger he provide, With scanty train you will not ride.'

XXXII.

'Thou warn'st me I have done amiss,— I should have earlier looked to this; I lost it in this bustling day.— Retrace with speed thy former way; Spare not for spoiling of thy steed, The best of mine shall be thy meed. Say to our faithful Lord of Mar, We do forbid the intended war; Roderick this morn in single fight Was made our prisoner by a knight, And Douglas hath himself and cause Submitted to our kingdom's laws. The tidings of their leaders lost Will soon dissolve the mountain host, Nor would we that the vulgar feel, For their Chief's crimes, avenging steel. Bear Mar our message, Braco, fly!' He turned his steed,—'My liege, I hie, Yet ere I cross this lily lawn I fear the broadswords will be drawn.' The turf the flying courser spurned, And to his towers the King returned.

XXXIII.

Ill with King James's mood that day Suited gay feast and minstrel lay; Soon were dismissed the courtly throng, And soon cut short the festal song. Nor less upon the saddened town The evening sunk in sorrow down. The burghers spoke of civil jar, Of rumoured feuds and mountain war, Of Moray, Mar, and Roderick Dhu, All up in arms;—the Douglas too, They mourned him pent within the hold, 'Where stout Earl William was of old.'— And there his word the speaker stayed, And finger on his lip he laid, Or pointed to his dagger blade. But jaded horsemen from the west At evening to the Castle pressed, And busy talkers said they bore Tidings of fight on Katrine's shore; At noon the deadly fray begun, And lasted till the set of sun. Thus giddy rumor shook the town, Till closed the Night her pennons brown.



CANTO SIXTH.

The Guard-room.



I.

The sun, awakening, through the smoky air Of the dark city casts a sullen glance, Rousing each caitiff to his task of care, Of sinful man the sad inheritance; Summoning revellers from the lagging dance, Scaring the prowling robber to his den; Gilding on battled tower the warder's lance, And warning student pale to leave his pen, And yield his drowsy eyes to the kind nurse of men.

What various scenes, and O, what scenes of woe, Are witnessed by that red and struggling beam! The fevered patient, from his pallet low, Through crowded hospital beholds it stream; The ruined maiden trembles at its gleam, The debtor wakes to thought of gyve and jail, 'The love-lore wretch starts from tormenting dream: The wakeful mother, by the glimmering pale, Trims her sick infant's couch, and soothes his feeble wail.

II.

At dawn the towers of Stirling rang With soldier-step and weapon-clang, While drums with rolling note foretell Relief to weary sentinel. Through narrow loop and casement barred, The sunbeams sought the Court of Guard, And, struggling with the smoky air, Deadened the torches' yellow glare. In comfortless alliance shone The lights through arch of blackened stone, And showed wild shapes in garb of war, Faces deformed with beard and scar, All haggard from the midnight watch, And fevered with the stern debauch; For the oak table's massive board, Flooded with wine, with fragments stored, And beakers drained, and cups o'erthrown, Showed in what sport the night had flown. Some, weary, snored on floor and bench; Some labored still their thirst to quench; Some, chilled with watching, spread their hands O'er the huge chimney's dying brands, While round them, or beside them flung, At every step their harness rung.

III.

These drew not for their fields the sword, Like tenants of a feudal lord, Nor owned the patriarchal claim Of Chieftain in their leader's name; Adventurers they, from far who roved, To live by battle which they loved. There the Italian's clouded face, The swarthy Spaniard's there you trace; The mountain-loving Switzer there More freely breathed in mountain-air; The Fleming there despised the soil That paid so ill the labourer's toil; Their rolls showed French and German name; And merry England's exiles came, To share, with ill-concealed disdain, Of Scotland's pay the scanty gain. All brave in arms, well trained to wield The heavy halberd, brand, and shield; In camps licentious, wild, and bold; In pillage fierce and uncontrolled; And now, by holytide and feast, From rules of discipline released.

IV.

'They held debate of bloody fray, Fought 'twixt Loch Katrine and Achray. Fierce was their speech, and mid their words 'Their hands oft grappled to their swords; Nor sunk their tone to spare the ear Of wounded comrades groaning near, Whose mangled limbs and bodies gored Bore token of the mountain sword, Though, neighbouring to the Court of Guard, Their prayers and feverish wails were heard,— Sad burden to the ruffian joke, And savage oath by fury spoke!— At length up started John of Brent, A yeoman from the banks of Trent; A stranger to respect or fear, In peace a chaser of the deer, In host a hardy mutineer, But still the boldest of the crew When deed of danger was to do. He grieved that day their games cut short, And marred the dicer's brawling sport, And shouted loud, 'Renew the bowl! And, while a merry catch I troll, Let each the buxom chorus bear, Like brethren of the brand and spear.'

V.

Soldier's Song.

Our vicar still preaches that Peter and Poule Laid a swinging long curse on the bonny brown bowl, That there 's wrath and despair in the jolly black-jack, And the seven deadly sins in a flagon of sack; Yet whoop, Barnaby! off with thy liquor, Drink upsees out, and a fig for the vicar!

Our vicar he calls it damnation to sip The ripe ruddy dew of a woman's dear lip, Says that Beelzebub lurks in her kerchief so sly, And Apollyon shoots darts from her merry black eye; Yet whoop, Jack! kiss Gillian the quicker, Till she bloom like a rose, and a fig for the vicar!

Our vicar thus preaches,—and why should he not? For the dues of his cure are the placket and pot; And 'tis right of his office poor laymen to lurch Who infringe the domains of our good Mother Church. Yet whoop, bully-boys! off with your liquor, Sweet Marjorie 's the word and a fig for the vicar!

VI.

The warder's challenge, heard without, Stayed in mid-roar the merry shout. A soldier to the portal went,— 'Here is old Bertram, sirs, of Ghent; And—beat for jubilee the drum!— A maid and minstrel with him come.' Bertram, a Fleming, gray and scarred, Was entering now the Court of Guard, A harper with him, and, in plaid All muffled close, a mountain maid, Who backward shrunk to 'scape the view Of the loose scene and boisterous crew. 'What news?' they roared:—' I only know, From noon till eve we fought with foe, As wild and as untamable As the rude mountains where they dwell; On both sides store of blood is lost, Nor much success can either boast.'— 'But whence thy captives, friend? such spoil As theirs must needs reward thy toil. Old cost thou wax, and wars grow sharp; Thou now hast glee-maiden and harp! Get thee an ape, and trudge the land, The leader of a juggler band.'

VII.

'No, comrade;—no such fortune mine. After the fight these sought our line, That aged harper and the girl, And, having audience of the Earl, Mar bade I should purvey them steed, And bring them hitherward with speed. Forbear your mirth and rude alarm, For none shall do them shame or harm.— 'Hear ye his boast?' cried John of Brent, Ever to strife and jangling bent; 'Shall he strike doe beside our lodge, And yet the jealous niggard grudge To pay the forester his fee? I'll have my share howe'er it be, Despite of Moray, Mar, or thee.' Bertram his forward step withstood; And, burning in his vengeful mood, Old Allan, though unfit for strife, Laid hand upon his dagger-knife; But Ellen boldly stepped between, And dropped at once the tartan screen:— So, from his morning cloud, appears The sun of May through summer tears. The savage soldiery, amazed, As on descended angel gazed; Even hardy Brent, abashed and tamed, Stood half admiring, half ashamed.

VIII.

Boldly she spoke: 'Soldiers, attend! My father was the soldier's friend, Cheered him in camps, in marches led, And with him in the battle bled. Not from the valiant or the strong Should exile's daughter suffer wrong.' Answered De Brent, most forward still In every feat or good or ill: 'I shame me of the part I played; And thou an outlaw's child, poor maid! An outlaw I by forest laws, And merry Needwood knows the cause. Poor Rose,—if Rose be living now,'— He wiped his iron eye and brow,— 'Must bear such age, I think, as thou.— Hear ye, my mates! I go to call The Captain of our watch to hall: There lies my halberd on the floor; And he that steps my halberd o'er, To do the maid injurious part, My shaft shall quiver in his heart! Beware loose speech, or jesting rough; Ye all know John de Brent. Enough.'

IX.

Their Captain came, a gallant young,— Of Tullibardine's house he sprung,— Nor wore he yet the spurs of knight; Gay was his mien, his humor light And, though by courtesy controlled, Forward his speech, his bearing bold. The high-born maiden ill could brook The scanning of his curious look And dauntless eye:—and yet, in sooth Young Lewis was a generous youth; But Ellen's lovely face and mien Ill suited to the garb and scene, Might lightly bear construction strange, And give loose fancy scope to range. 'Welcome to Stirling towers, fair maid! Come ye to seek a champion's aid, On palfrey white, with harper hoar, Like errant damosel of yore? Does thy high quest a knight require, Or may the venture suit a squire?' Her dark eye flashed;—she paused and sighed:— 'O what have I to do with pride!— Through scenes of sorrow, shame, and strife, A suppliant for a father's life, I crave an audience of the King. Behold, to back my suit, a ring, The royal pledge of grateful claims, Given by the Monarch to Fitz-James.'

X.

The signet-ring young Lewis took With deep respect and altered look, And said: 'This ring our duties own; And pardon, if to worth unknown, In semblance mean obscurely veiled, Lady, in aught my folly failed. Soon as the day flings wide his gates, The King shall know what suitor waits. Please you meanwhile in fitting bower Repose you till his waking hour. Female attendance shall obey Your hest, for service or array. Permit I marshal you the way.' But, ere she followed, with the grace And open bounty of her race, She bade her slender purse be shared Among the soldiers of the guard. The rest with thanks their guerdon took, But Brent, with shy and awkward look, On the reluctant maiden's hold Forced bluntly back the proffered gold:— 'Forgive a haughty English heart, And O, forget its ruder part!

The vacant purse shall be my share, Which in my barrel-cap I'll bear, Perchance, in jeopardy of war, Where gayer crests may keep afar.' With thanks—'twas all she could—the maid His rugged courtesy repaid.

XI.

When Ellen forth with Lewis went, Allan made suit to John of Brent:— 'My lady safe, O let your grace Give me to see my master's face! His minstrel I,—to share his doom Bound from the cradle to the tomb. Tenth in descent, since first my sires Waked for his noble house their Iyres, Nor one of all the race was known But prized its weal above their own. With the Chief's birth begins our care; Our harp must soothe the infant heir, Teach the youth tales of fight, and grace His earliest feat of field or chase; In peace, in war, our rank we keep, We cheer his board, we soothe his sleep, Nor leave him till we pour our verse— A doleful tribute!—o'er his hearse. Then let me share his captive lot; It is my right,—deny it not!' 'Little we reck,' said John of Brent, 'We Southern men, of long descent; Nor wot we how a name—a word— Makes clansmen vassals to a lord: Yet kind my noble landlord's part,— God bless the house of Beaudesert! And, but I loved to drive the deer More than to guide the labouring steer, I had not dwelt an outcast here. Come, good old Minstrel, follow me; Thy Lord and Chieftain shalt thou see.'

XII.

Then, from a rusted iron hook, A bunch of ponderous keys he took, Lighted a torch, and Allan led Through grated arch and passage dread. Portals they passed, where, deep within, Spoke prisoner's moan and fetters' din; Through rugged vaults, where, loosely stored, Lay wheel, and axe, and headsmen's sword, And many a hideous engine grim, For wrenching joint and crushing limb, By artists formed who deemed it shame And sin to give their work a name. They halted at a Iow-browed porch, And Brent to Allan gave the torch, While bolt and chain he backward rolled, And made the bar unhasp its hold. They entered:—'twas a prison-room Of stern security and gloom, Yet not a dungeon; for the day Through lofty gratings found its way, And rude and antique garniture Decked the sad walls and oaken floor, Such as the rugged days of old Deemed fit for captive noble's hold. 'Here,' said De Brent, 'thou mayst remain Till the Leech visit him again. Strict is his charge, the warders tell, To tend the noble prisoner well.' Retiring then the bolt he drew, And the lock's murmurs growled anew. Roused at the sound, from lowly bed A captive feebly raised his head. The wondering Minstrel looked, and knew— Not his dear lord, but Roderick Dhu! For, come from where Clan-Alpine fought, They, erring, deemed the Chief he sought.

XIII.

As the tall ship, whose lofty prore Shall never stem the billows more, Deserted by her gallant band, Amid the breakers lies astrand,— So on his couch lay Roderick Dhu! And oft his fevered limbs he threw In toss abrupt, as when her sides Lie rocking in the advancing tides, That shake her frame with ceaseless beat, Yet cannot heave her from her seat;— O, how unlike her course at sea! Or his free step on hill and lea!— Soon as the Minstrel he could scan,— 'What of thy lady?—of my clan?— My mother?—Douglas?—tell me all! Have they been ruined in my fall? Ah, yes! or wherefore art thou here? Yet speak,—speak boldly,—do not fear.'— For Allan, who his mood well knew, Was choked with grief and terror too.— 'Who fought?—who fled?—Old man, be brief;— Some might,—for they had lost their Chief. Who basely live?—who bravely died?' 'O, calm thee, Chief!' the Minstrel cried, 'Ellen is safe!' 'For that thank Heaven!' 'And hopes are for the Douglas given;— The Lady Margaret, too, is well; And, for thy clan,—on field or fell, Has never harp of minstrel told Of combat fought so true and bold. Thy stately Pine is yet unbent, Though many a goodly bough is rent.'

XIV.

The Chieftain reared his form on high, And fever's fire was in his eye; But ghastly, pale, and livid streaks Checkered his swarthy brow and cheeks. 'Hark, Minstrel! I have heard thee play, With measure bold on festal day, In yon lone isle,—again where ne'er Shall harper play or warrior hear!— That stirring air that peals on high, O'er Dermid's race our victory.— Strike it!—and then,—for well thou canst,— Free from thy minstrel-spirit glanced, Fling me the picture of the fight, When met my clan the Saxon might. I'll listen, till my fancy hears The clang of swords' the crash of spears! These grates, these walls, shall vanish then For the fair field of fighting men, And my free spirit burst away, As if it soared from battle fray.' The trembling Bard with awe obeyed,— Slow on the harp his hand he laid; But soon remembrance of the sight He witnessed from the mountain's height, With what old Bertram told at night, Awakened the full power of song, And bore him in career along;— As shallop launched on river's tide, 'That slow and fearful leaves the side, But, when it feels the middle stream, Drives downward swift as lightning's beam.

XV.

Battle of Beal' An Duine.

'The Minstrel came once more to view The eastern ridge of Benvenue, For ere he parted he would say Farewell to lovely loch Achray Where shall he find, in foreign land, So lone a lake, so sweet a strand!— There is no breeze upon the fern, No ripple on the lake, Upon her eyry nods the erne, The deer has sought the brake; The small birds will not sing aloud, The springing trout lies still, So darkly glooms yon thunder-cloud, That swathes, as with a purple shroud, Benledi's distant hill. Is it the thunder's solemn sound That mutters deep and dread, Or echoes from the groaning ground The warrior's measured tread? Is it the lightning's quivering glance That on the thicket streams, Or do they flash on spear and lance The sun's retiring beams?— I see the dagger-crest of Mar, I see the Moray's silver star, Wave o'er the cloud of Saxon war, That up the lake comes winding far!

To hero boune for battle-strife, Or bard of martial lay, 'Twere worth ten years of peaceful life, One glance at their array!

XVI.

'Their light-armed archers far and near Surveyed the tangled ground, Their centre ranks, with pike and spear, A twilight forest frowned, Their barded horsemen in the rear The stern battalia crowned. No cymbal clashed, no clarion rang, Still were the pipe and drum; Save heavy tread, and armor's clang, The sullen march was dumb. There breathed no wind their crests to shake, Or wave their flags abroad; Scarce the frail aspen seemed to quake That shadowed o'er their road. Their vaward scouts no tidings bring, Can rouse no lurking foe, Nor spy a trace of living thing, Save when they stirred the roe; The host moves like a deep-sea wave, Where rise no rocks its pride to brave High-swelling, dark, and slow. The lake is passed, and now they gain A narrow and a broken plain, Before the Trosachs' rugged jaws; And here the horse and spearmen pause While, to explore the dangerous glen Dive through the pass the archer-men.

XVII.

'At once there rose so wild a yell Within that dark and narrow dell, As all the fiends from heaven that fell Had pealed the banner-cry of hell! Forth from the pass in tumult driven, Like chaff before the wind of heaven, The archery appear: For life! for life! their flight they ply— And shriek, and shout, and battle-cry, And plaids and bonnets waving high, And broadswords flashing to the sky, Are maddening in the rear. Onward they drive in dreadful race, Pursuers and pursued; Before that tide of flight and chase, How shall it keep its rooted place, The spearmen's twilight wood?—" "Down, down," cried Mar, "your lances down' Bear back both friend and foe! "— Like reeds before the tempest's frown, That serried grove of lances brown At once lay levelled low; And closely shouldering side to side, The bristling ranks the onset bide.—" "We'll quell the savage mountaineer, As their Tinchel cows the game! They come as fleet as forest deer, We'll drive them back as tame."

XVIII.

'Bearing before them in their course The relics of the archer force, Like wave with crest of sparkling foam, Right onward did Clan-Alpine come. Above the tide, each broadsword bright Was brandishing like beam of light, Each targe was dark below; And with the ocean's mighty swing, When heaving to the tempest's wing, They hurled them on the foe. I heard the lance's shivering crash, As when the whirlwind rends the ash; I heard the broadsword's deadly clang, As if a hundred anvils rang! But Moray wheeled his rearward rank Of horsemen on Clan-Alpine's flank,— "My banner-man, advance! I see," he cried, "their column shake. Now, gallants! for your ladies' sake, Upon them with the lance!"— The horsemen dashed among the rout, As deer break through the broom;