XIII.

Then Roderick, with impatient look,From Brian’s hand the symbol took:“Speed, Malise, speed!” he said, and gaveThe crosslet to his henchman brave.“The muster-place be Lanrick mead[190]—Instant the time—speed, Malise, speed!”Like heath bird, when the hawks pursue,A barge across Loch Katrine flew;High stood the henchman on the prow;So rapidly the barge-men row,The bubbles, where they launch’d the boat,Were all unbroken and afloat,Dancing in foam and ripple still,When it had near’d the mainland hill;And from the silver beach’s sideStill was the prow three fathom wide,When lightly bounded to the landThe messenger of blood and brand.

Then Roderick, with impatient look,

From Brian’s hand the symbol took:

“Speed, Malise, speed!” he said, and gave

The crosslet to his henchman brave.

“The muster-place be Lanrick mead[190]—

Instant the time—speed, Malise, speed!”

Like heath bird, when the hawks pursue,

A barge across Loch Katrine flew;

High stood the henchman on the prow;

So rapidly the barge-men row,

The bubbles, where they launch’d the boat,

Were all unbroken and afloat,

Dancing in foam and ripple still,

When it had near’d the mainland hill;

And from the silver beach’s side

Still was the prow three fathom wide,

When lightly bounded to the land

The messenger of blood and brand.

Speed, Malise, speed! the dun deer’s hide[191]On fleeter foot was never tied.Speed, Malise, speed! such cause of hasteThine active sinews never braced.Bend ’gainst the steepy hill thy breast,Burst down like torrent from its crest;With short and springing footstep passThe trembling bog and false morass;Across the brook like roebuck bound,And thread the brake like questing[192]hound;The crag is high, the scaur is deep,Yet shrink not from the desperate leap:Parch’d are thy burning lips and brow,Yet by the fountain pause not now;Herald of battle, fate, and fear,Stretch onward in thy fleet career!The wounded hind thou track’st not now,Pursuest not maid through greenwood bough,Nor pliest thou now thy flying paceWith rivals in the mountain race;But danger, death, and warrior deedAre in thy course—speed, Malise, speed!

Speed, Malise, speed! the dun deer’s hide[191]

On fleeter foot was never tied.

Speed, Malise, speed! such cause of haste

Thine active sinews never braced.

Bend ’gainst the steepy hill thy breast,

Burst down like torrent from its crest;

With short and springing footstep pass

The trembling bog and false morass;

Across the brook like roebuck bound,

And thread the brake like questing[192]hound;

The crag is high, the scaur is deep,

Yet shrink not from the desperate leap:

Parch’d are thy burning lips and brow,

Yet by the fountain pause not now;

Herald of battle, fate, and fear,

Stretch onward in thy fleet career!

The wounded hind thou track’st not now,

Pursuest not maid through greenwood bough,

Nor pliest thou now thy flying pace

With rivals in the mountain race;

But danger, death, and warrior deed

Are in thy course—speed, Malise, speed!

Fast as the fatal symbol flies,In arms the huts and hamlets rise;From winding glen, from upland brown,They pour’d each hardy tenant down.Nor slack’d the messenger his pace;He show’d the sign, he named the place,And, pressing forward like the wind,Left clamor and surprise behind.The fisherman forsook the strand,The swarthy smith took dirk and brand;With changed cheer,[193]the mower blitheLeft in the half-cut swath the scythe;The herds without a keeper stray’d,The plow was in mid-furrow stayed,The falc’ner toss’d his hawk away,The hunter left the stag at bay;Prompt at the signal of alarms,Each son of Alpine rush’d to arms;So swept the tumult and affrayAlong the margin of Achray.Alas, thou lovely lake! that e’erThy banks should echo sounds of fear!The rocks, the bosky[194]thickets, sleepSo stilly on thy bosom deep,The lark’s blithe carol, from the cloud,Seems for the scene too gayly loud.

Fast as the fatal symbol flies,

In arms the huts and hamlets rise;

From winding glen, from upland brown,

They pour’d each hardy tenant down.

Nor slack’d the messenger his pace;

He show’d the sign, he named the place,

And, pressing forward like the wind,

Left clamor and surprise behind.

The fisherman forsook the strand,

The swarthy smith took dirk and brand;

With changed cheer,[193]the mower blithe

Left in the half-cut swath the scythe;

The herds without a keeper stray’d,

The plow was in mid-furrow stayed,

The falc’ner toss’d his hawk away,

The hunter left the stag at bay;

Prompt at the signal of alarms,

Each son of Alpine rush’d to arms;

So swept the tumult and affray

Along the margin of Achray.

Alas, thou lovely lake! that e’er

Thy banks should echo sounds of fear!

The rocks, the bosky[194]thickets, sleep

So stilly on thy bosom deep,

The lark’s blithe carol, from the cloud,

Seems for the scene too gayly loud.

Speed, Malise, speed! The lake is past,Duncraggan’s[195]huts appear at last,And peep, like moss-grown rocks, half seen,Half hidden in the copse so green;There mayst thou rest, thy labor done,Their lord shall speed the signal on.—As stoops the hawk upon his prey,The henchman shot him down the way.—What woeful accents load the gale?The funeral yell, the female wail!A gallant hunter’s sport is o’er,A valiant warrior fights no more.Who, in the battle or the chase,At Roderick’s side shall fill his place!—Within the hall, where torch’s raySupplies the excluded beams of day,Lies Duncan on his lowly bier,And o’er him streams his widow’s tear.His stripling son stands mournful by,His youngest weeps, but knows not why;The village maids and matrons roundThe dismal coronach[196]resound.

Speed, Malise, speed! The lake is past,

Duncraggan’s[195]huts appear at last,

And peep, like moss-grown rocks, half seen,

Half hidden in the copse so green;

There mayst thou rest, thy labor done,

Their lord shall speed the signal on.—

As stoops the hawk upon his prey,

The henchman shot him down the way.

—What woeful accents load the gale?

The funeral yell, the female wail!

A gallant hunter’s sport is o’er,

A valiant warrior fights no more.

Who, in the battle or the chase,

At Roderick’s side shall fill his place!—

Within the hall, where torch’s ray

Supplies the excluded beams of day,

Lies Duncan on his lowly bier,

And o’er him streams his widow’s tear.

His stripling son stands mournful by,

His youngest weeps, but knows not why;

The village maids and matrons round

The dismal coronach[196]resound.

CORONACH.He is gone on the mountain,He is lost to the forest,Like a summer-dried fountain,When our need was the sorest.The font, reappearing,From the raindrops shall borrow,But to us comes no cheering,To Duncan no morrow!The hand of the reaperTakes the ears that are hoary,But the voice of the weeperWails manhood in glory.The autumn winds rushingWaft the leaves that are searest,But our flower was in flushing,[197]When blighting was nearest.Fleet foot on the correi,[198]Sage counsel in cumber,[199]Red hand in the foray,How sound is thy slumber!Like the dew on the mountain,Like the foam on the river,Like the bubble on the fountain,Thou art gone, and forever!

CORONACH.

He is gone on the mountain,

He is lost to the forest,

Like a summer-dried fountain,

When our need was the sorest.

The font, reappearing,

From the raindrops shall borrow,

But to us comes no cheering,

To Duncan no morrow!

The hand of the reaperTakes the ears that are hoary,But the voice of the weeperWails manhood in glory.The autumn winds rushingWaft the leaves that are searest,But our flower was in flushing,[197]When blighting was nearest.

The hand of the reaper

Takes the ears that are hoary,

But the voice of the weeper

Wails manhood in glory.

The autumn winds rushing

Waft the leaves that are searest,

But our flower was in flushing,[197]

When blighting was nearest.

Fleet foot on the correi,[198]Sage counsel in cumber,[199]Red hand in the foray,How sound is thy slumber!Like the dew on the mountain,Like the foam on the river,Like the bubble on the fountain,Thou art gone, and forever!

Fleet foot on the correi,[198]

Sage counsel in cumber,[199]

Red hand in the foray,

How sound is thy slumber!

Like the dew on the mountain,

Like the foam on the river,

Like the bubble on the fountain,

Thou art gone, and forever!

See Stumah,[200]who, the bier beside,His master’s corpse with wonder eyed,Poor Stumah! whom his least hallooCould send like lightning o’er the dew,Bristles his crest, and points his ears,As if some stranger step he hears.’Tis not a mourner’s muffled tread,Who comes to sorrow o’er the dead,But headlong haste, or deadly fear,Urge the precipitate career.All stand aghast:—unheeding all,The henchman bursts into the hall;Before the dead man’s bier he stood;Held forth the Cross besmear’d with blood:“The muster-place is Lanrick mead;Speed forth the signal! clansmen, speed!”

See Stumah,[200]who, the bier beside,

His master’s corpse with wonder eyed,

Poor Stumah! whom his least halloo

Could send like lightning o’er the dew,

Bristles his crest, and points his ears,

As if some stranger step he hears.

’Tis not a mourner’s muffled tread,

Who comes to sorrow o’er the dead,

But headlong haste, or deadly fear,

Urge the precipitate career.

All stand aghast:—unheeding all,

The henchman bursts into the hall;

Before the dead man’s bier he stood;

Held forth the Cross besmear’d with blood:

“The muster-place is Lanrick mead;

Speed forth the signal! clansmen, speed!”

Angus, the heir of Duncan’s line,Sprung forth and seized the fatal sign.In haste the stripling to his sideHis father’s dirk and broadsword tied;But when he saw his mother’s eyeWatch him in speechless agony,Back to her open’d arms he flew,Press’d on her lips a fond adieu—“Alas!” she sobb’d,—“and yet, begone,And speed thee forth, like Duncan’s son!”One look he cast upon the bier,Dash’d from his eye the gathering tear,Breathed deep to clear his laboring breast,And toss’d aloft his bonnet crest,Then, like the high-bred colt, when, freed,First he essays his fire and speed,He vanish’d, and o’er moor and mossSped forward with the Fiery Cross.Suspended was the widow’s tear,While yet his footsteps she could hear;And when she mark’d the henchman’s eyeWet with unwonted sympathy,“Kinsman,” she said, “his race is run,That should have sped thine errand on;The oak has fall’n,—the sapling boughIs all Duncraggan’s shelter now.Yet trust I well, his duty done,The orphan’s God will guard my son.—And you, in many a danger true,At Duncan’s hest[201]your blades that drew,To arms, and guard that orphan’s head!Let babes and women wail the dead.”Then weapon clang, and martial call,Resounded through the funeral hall,While from the walls the attendant bandSnatch’d sword and targe, with hurried hand;And short and flitting energyGlanced from the mourner’s sunken eye,As if the sounds to warrior dearMight rouse her Duncan from his bier.But faded soon that borrow’d force;Grief claim’d his right, and tears their course.

Angus, the heir of Duncan’s line,

Sprung forth and seized the fatal sign.

In haste the stripling to his side

His father’s dirk and broadsword tied;

But when he saw his mother’s eye

Watch him in speechless agony,

Back to her open’d arms he flew,

Press’d on her lips a fond adieu—

“Alas!” she sobb’d,—“and yet, begone,

And speed thee forth, like Duncan’s son!”

One look he cast upon the bier,

Dash’d from his eye the gathering tear,

Breathed deep to clear his laboring breast,

And toss’d aloft his bonnet crest,

Then, like the high-bred colt, when, freed,

First he essays his fire and speed,

He vanish’d, and o’er moor and moss

Sped forward with the Fiery Cross.

Suspended was the widow’s tear,

While yet his footsteps she could hear;

And when she mark’d the henchman’s eye

Wet with unwonted sympathy,

“Kinsman,” she said, “his race is run,

That should have sped thine errand on;

The oak has fall’n,—the sapling bough

Is all Duncraggan’s shelter now.

Yet trust I well, his duty done,

The orphan’s God will guard my son.—

And you, in many a danger true,

At Duncan’s hest[201]your blades that drew,

To arms, and guard that orphan’s head!

Let babes and women wail the dead.”

Then weapon clang, and martial call,

Resounded through the funeral hall,

While from the walls the attendant band

Snatch’d sword and targe, with hurried hand;

And short and flitting energy

Glanced from the mourner’s sunken eye,

As if the sounds to warrior dear

Might rouse her Duncan from his bier.

But faded soon that borrow’d force;

Grief claim’d his right, and tears their course.

Benledi saw the Cross of Fire,It glanced like lightning up Strath-Ire.[202]O’er dale and hill the summons flew,Nor rest nor pause young Angus knew;The tear that gather’d in his eyeHe left the mountain breeze to dry;Until, where Teith’s young waters roll,Betwixt him and a wooded knoll,That graced the sable strath with green,The chapel of St. Bride was seen.Swoln was the stream, remote the bridge,But Angus paused not on the edge;Though the dark waves danced dizzily,Though reel’d his sympathetic eye,He dash’d amid the torrent’s roar:His right hand high the crosslet bore,His left the poleax grasp’d, to guideAnd stay his footing in the tide.He stumbled twice—the foam splash’d high,With hoarser swell the stream raced by;And had he fall’n,—forever there,Farewell Duncraggan’s orphan heir!But still, as if in parting life,Firmer he grasp’d the Cross of strife,Until the opposing bank he gain’d,And up the chapel pathway strain’d.

Benledi saw the Cross of Fire,

It glanced like lightning up Strath-Ire.[202]

O’er dale and hill the summons flew,

Nor rest nor pause young Angus knew;

The tear that gather’d in his eye

He left the mountain breeze to dry;

Until, where Teith’s young waters roll,

Betwixt him and a wooded knoll,

That graced the sable strath with green,

The chapel of St. Bride was seen.

Swoln was the stream, remote the bridge,

But Angus paused not on the edge;

Though the dark waves danced dizzily,

Though reel’d his sympathetic eye,

He dash’d amid the torrent’s roar:

His right hand high the crosslet bore,

His left the poleax grasp’d, to guide

And stay his footing in the tide.

He stumbled twice—the foam splash’d high,

With hoarser swell the stream raced by;

And had he fall’n,—forever there,

Farewell Duncraggan’s orphan heir!

But still, as if in parting life,

Firmer he grasp’d the Cross of strife,

Until the opposing bank he gain’d,

And up the chapel pathway strain’d.

A blithesome rout, that morning tide,[203]Had sought the chapel of St. Bride.Her troth Tombea’s[204]Mary gaveTo Norman, heir of Armandave,[205]And, issuing from the Gothic arch,The bridal[206]now resumed their march.In rude, but glad procession, cameBonneted sire and coif-clad dame;And plaided youth, with jest and jeer,Which snooded maiden would not hear;And children, that, unwitting[207]why,Lent the gay shout their shrilly cry;And minstrels, that in measures viedBefore the young and bonny bride,Whose downcast eye and cheek discloseThe tear and blush of morning rose.With virgin step, and bashful hand,She held the kerchief’s snowy band;The gallant bridegroom, by her side,Beheld his prize with victor’s pride,And the glad mother in her earWas closely whispering word of cheer.

A blithesome rout, that morning tide,[203]

Had sought the chapel of St. Bride.

Her troth Tombea’s[204]Mary gave

To Norman, heir of Armandave,[205]

And, issuing from the Gothic arch,

The bridal[206]now resumed their march.

In rude, but glad procession, came

Bonneted sire and coif-clad dame;

And plaided youth, with jest and jeer,

Which snooded maiden would not hear;

And children, that, unwitting[207]why,

Lent the gay shout their shrilly cry;

And minstrels, that in measures vied

Before the young and bonny bride,

Whose downcast eye and cheek disclose

The tear and blush of morning rose.

With virgin step, and bashful hand,

She held the kerchief’s snowy band;

The gallant bridegroom, by her side,

Beheld his prize with victor’s pride,

And the glad mother in her ear

Was closely whispering word of cheer.

Who meets them at the churchyard gate?The messenger of fear and fate!Haste in his hurried accent lies,And grief is swimming in his eyes.All dripping from the recent flood,Panting and travel-soil’d he stood,The fatal sign of fire and swordHeld forth, and spoke the appointed word:“The muster-place is Lanrick mead—Speed forth the signal! Norman, speed!”And must he change so soon the hand,Just link’d to his by holy band,For the fell Cross of blood and brand?And must the day, so blithe that rose,And promised rapture in the close,Before its setting hour, divideThe bridegroom from the plighted bride?O fatal doom!—it must! it must!Clan-Alpine’s cause, her Chieftain’s trust,Her summons dread, brook no delay;Stretch to the race—away! away!

Who meets them at the churchyard gate?

The messenger of fear and fate!

Haste in his hurried accent lies,

And grief is swimming in his eyes.

All dripping from the recent flood,

Panting and travel-soil’d he stood,

The fatal sign of fire and sword

Held forth, and spoke the appointed word:

“The muster-place is Lanrick mead—

Speed forth the signal! Norman, speed!”

And must he change so soon the hand,

Just link’d to his by holy band,

For the fell Cross of blood and brand?

And must the day, so blithe that rose,

And promised rapture in the close,

Before its setting hour, divide

The bridegroom from the plighted bride?

O fatal doom!—it must! it must!

Clan-Alpine’s cause, her Chieftain’s trust,

Her summons dread, brook no delay;

Stretch to the race—away! away!

Yet slow he laid his plaid aside,And, lingering, eyed his lovely bride,Until he saw the starting tearSpeak woe he might not stop to cheer;Then, trusting not a second look,In haste he sped him up the brook,Nor backward glanced, till on the heathWhere Lubnaig’s lake supplies the Teith.—What in the racer’s bosom stirr’d?The sickening pang of hope deferr’d,And memory, with a torturing trainOf all his morning visions vain.Mingled with love’s impatience, cameThe manly thirst for martial fame;The stormy joy of mountaineers,Ere yet they rush upon the spears;And zeal for Clan and Chieftain burning,And hope, from well-fought field returning,With war’s red honors on his crest,To clasp his Mary to his breast.Stung by such thoughts, o’er bank and brae,Like fire from flint he glanced away,While high resolve, and feeling strong,Burst into voluntary song.

Yet slow he laid his plaid aside,

And, lingering, eyed his lovely bride,

Until he saw the starting tear

Speak woe he might not stop to cheer;

Then, trusting not a second look,

In haste he sped him up the brook,

Nor backward glanced, till on the heath

Where Lubnaig’s lake supplies the Teith.

—What in the racer’s bosom stirr’d?

The sickening pang of hope deferr’d,

And memory, with a torturing train

Of all his morning visions vain.

Mingled with love’s impatience, came

The manly thirst for martial fame;

The stormy joy of mountaineers,

Ere yet they rush upon the spears;

And zeal for Clan and Chieftain burning,

And hope, from well-fought field returning,

With war’s red honors on his crest,

To clasp his Mary to his breast.

Stung by such thoughts, o’er bank and brae,

Like fire from flint he glanced away,

While high resolve, and feeling strong,

Burst into voluntary song.

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 nowThe 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 thoughtShall be a thought of thee, Mary.And if return’d from conquer’d foes,How blithely will the evening close,How sweet the linnet sing repose,To my young bride and me, Mary!

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 nowThe 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.

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 thoughtShall be a thought of thee, Mary.And if return’d from conquer’d foes,How blithely will the evening close,How sweet the linnet sing repose,To my young bride and me, 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 of thee, Mary.

And if return’d from conquer’d foes,

How blithely will the evening close,

How sweet the linnet sing repose,

To my young bride and me, Mary!

Not faster o’er thy heathery braes,Balquhidder, speeds the midnight blaze,[208]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[209]The sullen margin of Loch Voil,Waked still Loch Doine, and to the sourceAlarm’d, Balvaig, thy swampy course;Thence southward turn’d its rapid roadAdown Strath-Gartney’s valley broad,Till rose in arms each man might claimA portion in Clan-Alpine’s name,From the gray sire, whose trembling handCould hardly buckle on his brand,To the raw boy, whose shaft and bowWere yet scarce terror to the crow.Each valley, each sequester’d glen,Muster’d its little horde of men,That met as torrents from the heightIn Highland dales their streams unite,Still gathering, as they pour along,A voice more loud, a tide more strong,Till at the rendezvous they stoodBy hundreds prompt for blows and blood;Each train’d 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.

Not faster o’er thy heathery braes,

Balquhidder, speeds the midnight blaze,[208]

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[209]

The sullen margin of Loch Voil,

Waked still Loch Doine, and to the source

Alarm’d, Balvaig, thy swampy course;

Thence southward turn’d 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 sequester’d glen,

Muster’d 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 train’d 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.

That summer morn had Roderick DhuSurvey’d 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 Græme[210]and Bruce,[211]In Rednock[212]courts no horsemen wait,No banner waved on Cardross[213]gate,On Duchray’s[214]towers no beacon shone,Nor scared the herons from Loch Con;All seemed at peace.—Now wot ye whyThe Chieftain, with such anxious eye,Ere to the muster he repair,This western frontier scann’d 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 sequester’d dellHad sought a low and lonely cell.By many a bard, in Celtic tongue,Has Coir-nan-Uriskin[215]been sung;A softer name the Saxons gave,And called the grot the Goblin-cave.

That summer morn had Roderick Dhu

Survey’d 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 Græme[210]and Bruce,[211]

In Rednock[212]courts no horsemen wait,

No banner waved on Cardross[213]gate,

On Duchray’s[214]towers no beacon shone,

Nor scared the herons from Loch Con;

All seemed at peace.—Now wot ye why

The Chieftain, with such anxious eye,

Ere to the muster he repair,

This western frontier scann’d 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 sequester’d dell

Had sought a low and lonely cell.

By many a bard, in Celtic tongue,

Has Coir-nan-Uriskin[215]been sung;

A softer name the Saxons gave,

And called the grot the Goblin-cave.

It was a wild and strange retreat,As e’er was trod by outlaw’s feet.The dell, upon the mountain’s crest,Yawn’d like a gash on warrior’s breast;Its trench had stayed full many a rock,Hurl’d by primeval earthquake shockFrom Benvenue’s gray summit wild,And here, in random ruin piled,They frown’d incumbent o’er the spot,And form’d the rugged silvan grot.The oak and birch, with mingled shade,At noontide there a twilight made,Unless when short and sudden shoneSome straggling beam on cliff or stone,With such a glimpse as prophet’s eyeGains on thy depth, Futurity.No murmur waked the solemn still,[216]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 spokeThe incessant war of wave and rock.Suspended cliffs, with hideous sway,Seem’d 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 fairSought for a space their safety there.Gray Superstition’s whisper dreadDebarr’d the spot to vulgar tread;For there, she said, did fays resort,And satyrs[217]hold their silvan court,By moonlight tread their mystic maze,And blast the rash beholder’s gaze.

It was a wild and strange retreat,

As e’er was trod by outlaw’s feet.

The dell, upon the mountain’s crest,

Yawn’d like a gash on warrior’s breast;

Its trench had stayed full many a rock,

Hurl’d by primeval earthquake shock

From Benvenue’s gray summit wild,

And here, in random ruin piled,

They frown’d incumbent o’er the spot,

And form’d the rugged silvan grot.

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,[216]

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,

Seem’d 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

Debarr’d the spot to vulgar tread;

For there, she said, did fays resort,

And satyrs[217]hold their silvan court,

By moonlight tread their mystic maze,

And blast the rash beholder’s gaze.

Now eve, with western shadows long,Floated on Katrine bright and strong,When Roderick, with a chosen few,Repass’d 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 wayTo 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-level’d sunbeam’s light!For strength and stature, from the clanEach warrior was a chosen man,As even afar might well be seen,By their proud step and martial mien.Their feathers dance, their tartans float,Their targets gleam, as by the boatA wild and warlike group they stand,That well became such mountain strand.

Now eve, with western shadows long,

Floated on Katrine bright and strong,

When Roderick, with a chosen few,

Repass’d 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-level’d 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.

Their feathers dance, their tartans float,

Their targets gleam, as by the boat

A wild and warlike group they stand,

That well became such mountain strand.

Their Chief, with step reluctant, stillWas lingering on the craggy hill,Hard by where turn’d apart the roadTo Douglas’s obscure abode.It was but with that dawning morn,That Roderick Dhu had proudly swornTo drown his love in war’s wild roar,Nor think of Ellen Douglas more;But he who stems[218]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 denyA parting meeting to his eye,Still fondly strains his anxious ear,The accents of her voice to hear,And inly did he curse the breezeThat 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.

Their Chief, with step reluctant, still

Was lingering on the craggy hill,

Hard by where turn’d 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[218]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.

HYMN TO THE VIRGIN.Ave Maria![219]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 banish’d, 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 shareShall seem with down of eider[220]piled,If thy protection hover there.The murky cavern’s heavy airShall 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!

HYMN TO THE VIRGIN.

Ave Maria![219]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 banish’d, 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 shareShall seem with down of eider[220]piled,If thy protection hover there.The murky cavern’s heavy airShall breathe of balm if thou hast smiled;Then, Maiden! hear a maiden’s prayer!Mother, list a suppliant child!Ave Maria!

Ave Maria!undefiled!

The flinty couch we now must share

Shall seem with down of eider[220]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!

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!

Died on the harp the closing hymn.—Unmoved in attitude and limb,As list’ning still, Clan-Alpine’s lordStood 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 mutter’d thrice,—“the last time e’erThat angel voice shall Roderick hear!”It was a goading thought—his strideHied hastier down the mountain side;Sullen he flung him in the boat,And 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 muster’d, in the vale below,Clan-Alpine’s men in martial show.

Died on the harp the closing hymn.—

Unmoved in attitude and limb,

As list’ning 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 mutter’d 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,

And 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 muster’d, in the vale below,

Clan-Alpine’s men in martial show.

A various scene the clansmen made;Some sate, some stood, some slowly stray’d;But most, with mantles folded round,Were couch’d to rest upon the ground,Scarce to be known by curious eye,From the deep heather where they lie,So well was match’d the tartan screenWith heath bell dark and brackens green;Unless where, here and there, a blade,Or lance’s point, a glimmer made,Like glowworm 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 fellThree times return’d the martial yell;It died upon Bochastle’s plain,And Silence claim’d her evening reign.

A various scene the clansmen made;

Some sate, some stood, some slowly stray’d;

But most, with mantles folded round,

Were couch’d to rest upon the ground,

Scarce to be known by curious eye,

From the deep heather where they lie,

So well was match’d 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 glowworm 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 return’d the martial yell;

It died upon Bochastle’s plain,

And Silence claim’d her evening reign.

THE PROPHECY.

“The rose is fairest when ’tis budding new,And hope is brightest when it dawns from fears;The rose is sweetest wash’d with morning dew,And love is loveliest when embalm’d in tears.O wilding[221]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.

“The rose is fairest when ’tis budding new,

And hope is brightest when it dawns from fears;

The rose is sweetest wash’d with morning dew,

And love is loveliest when embalm’d in tears.

O wilding[221]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.

Such fond conceit, half said, half sung,Love prompted to the bridegroom’s tongue,All while he stripp’d the wild-rose spray.His ax 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?—soonArt thou return’d 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 hied 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 call’d a slumberer by his side,And stirr’d him with his slacken’d bow—“Up, up, Glentarkin! rouse thee, ho!We seek the Chieftain; on the track,Keep eagle watch till I come back.”

Such fond conceit, half said, half sung,

Love prompted to the bridegroom’s tongue,

All while he stripp’d the wild-rose spray.

His ax 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 return’d 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 hied 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 call’d a slumberer by his side,

And stirr’d him with his slacken’d bow—

“Up, up, Glentarkin! rouse thee, ho!

We seek the Chieftain; on the track,

Keep eagle watch till I come back.”

Together up the pass they sped:“What of the foemen?” Norman said.—“Varying reports from near and far;This certain,—that a band of warHas for two days been ready boune,[222]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 cloudSpeak on our glens in thunder loud.Inured to bide such bitter bout,The warrior’s plaid may bear it out;[223]But, Norman, how wilt thou provideA shelter for thy bonny bride?”—“What! know ye not that Roderick’s careTo the lone isle hath caused repairEach maid and matron of the clan,And every child and aged manUnfit for arms; and given his charge,[224]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?”—

Together up the pass they sped:

“What of the foemen?” Norman said.—

“Varying reports from near and far;

This certain,—that a band of war

Has for two days been ready boune,[222]

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;[223]

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,[224]

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?”—

“’Tis well advised—the Chieftain’s planBespeaks the father of his clan.But wherefore sleeps Sir Roderick DhuApart from all his followers true?”—“It is, because last evening-tideBrian an augury hath tried,Of that dread kind which must not beUnless in dread extremity;The Taghairm[225]call’d; 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 merry men Gallangad.[226]His hide was snow, his horns were dark,His red eye glow’d like fiery spark;So fierce, so tameless, and so fleet,Sore did he cumber our retreat,And kept our stoutest kernes[227]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[228]stroke his brow.”

“’Tis 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[225]call’d; 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 merry men Gallangad.[226]His hide was snow, his horns were dark,His red eye glow’d like fiery spark;So fierce, so tameless, and so fleet,Sore did he cumber our retreat,And kept our stoutest kernes[227]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[228]stroke his brow.”

MALISE.

“Ah! well the gallant brute I knew!

The choicest of the prey we had,

When swept our merry men Gallangad.[226]

His hide was snow, his horns were dark,

His red eye glow’d like fiery spark;

So fierce, so tameless, and so fleet,

Sore did he cumber our retreat,

And kept our stoutest kernes[227]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[228]stroke his brow.”

NORMAN.“That bull was slain: his reeking hideThey stretch’d the cataract beside,Whose waters their wild tumult tossAdown the black and craggy bossOf that huge cliff, whose ample vergeTradition calls the Hero’s Targe.Couch’d on a shelve 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 standsTo gaze upon our slumbering bands.Seems he not, Malise, like a ghost,That hovers o’er a slaughter’d host?Or raven on the blasted oak,That, watching while the deer is broke,[229]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 bladeClan-Alpine’s omen and her aid,Not aught that, glean’d from heaven or hell,Yon fiend-begotten monk can tell.The Chieftain joins him, see—and now,Together they descend the brow.”

NORMAN.

“That bull was slain: his reeking hide

They stretch’d 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.

Couch’d on a shelve 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, like a ghost,

That hovers o’er a slaughter’d host?

Or raven on the blasted oak,

That, watching while the deer is broke,[229]

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 bladeClan-Alpine’s omen and her aid,Not aught that, glean’d from heaven or hell,Yon fiend-begotten monk can tell.The Chieftain joins him, see—and now,Together they descend the brow.”

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, glean’d from heaven or hell,

Yon fiend-begotten monk can tell.

The Chieftain joins him, see—and now,

Together they descend the brow.”

And, as they came, with Alpine’s lordThe Hermit Monk held solemn word:—“Roderick! it is a fearful strife,For man endowed with mortal life,Whose shroud of sentient clay can stillFeel 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, unfurl’d,The curtain of the future world.Yet, witness every quaking limb,My sunken pulse, my 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, bredBetween 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[230]in scroll,But borne and branded on my soul;—Which spills the foremost foeman’s life,That party conquers in the strife.”—

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, unfurl’d,

The curtain of the future world.

Yet, witness every quaking limb,

My sunken pulse, my 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[230]in scroll,

But borne and branded on my soul;—

Which spills the foremost foeman’s life,

That party conquers in the strife.”—

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