As the tall ship, whose lofty prore[345]Shall never stem the billows more,Deserted by her gallant band,Amid the breakers lies astrand,[346]So, on his couch, lay Roderick Dhu!And oft his fever’d limbs he threwIn toss abrupt, as when her sidesLie rocking in the advancing tides,That shake her frame with ceaseless beat,Yet cannot heave her from the seat;—Oh, how unlike her course on 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 ruin’d 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?"—“Oh, 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 toldOf combat fought so true and bold.Thy stately Pine is yet unbent,Though many a goodly bough is rent.”
As the tall ship, whose lofty prore[345]Shall never stem the billows more,Deserted by her gallant band,Amid the breakers lies astrand,[346]So, on his couch, lay Roderick Dhu!And oft his fever’d limbs he threwIn toss abrupt, as when her sidesLie rocking in the advancing tides,That shake her frame with ceaseless beat,Yet cannot heave her from the seat;—Oh, how unlike her course on 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 ruin’d 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?"—“Oh, 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 toldOf combat fought so true and bold.Thy stately Pine is yet unbent,Though many a goodly bough is rent.”
As the tall ship, whose lofty prore[345]
Shall never stem the billows more,
Deserted by her gallant band,
Amid the breakers lies astrand,[346]
So, on his couch, lay Roderick Dhu!
And oft his fever’d 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 the seat;—
Oh, how unlike her course on 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 ruin’d 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?"—
“Oh, 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.”
The Chieftain rear’d his form on high,And fever’s fire was in his eye;But ghastly, pale, and livid streaksChecker’d 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’erShall harper play, or warrior hear!That stirring air that peals on high,O’er Dermid’s[347]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 hearsThe 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 soar’d from battle fray.”The trembling Bard with awe obey’d,—Slow on the harp his hand he laid;But soon remembrance of the sightHe witness’d from the mountain’s height,With what old Bertram told at night,Awaken’d the full power of song,And bore him in career along;—As shallop launch’d 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.
The Chieftain rear’d his form on high,And fever’s fire was in his eye;But ghastly, pale, and livid streaksChecker’d 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’erShall harper play, or warrior hear!That stirring air that peals on high,O’er Dermid’s[347]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 hearsThe 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 soar’d from battle fray.”The trembling Bard with awe obey’d,—Slow on the harp his hand he laid;But soon remembrance of the sightHe witness’d from the mountain’s height,With what old Bertram told at night,Awaken’d the full power of song,And bore him in career along;—As shallop launch’d 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.
The Chieftain rear’d his form on high,
And fever’s fire was in his eye;
But ghastly, pale, and livid streaks
Checker’d 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[347]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 soar’d from battle fray.”
The trembling Bard with awe obey’d,—
Slow on the harp his hand he laid;
But soon remembrance of the sight
He witness’d from the mountain’s height,
With what old Bertram told at night,
Awaken’d the full power of song,
And bore him in career along;—
As shallop launch’d 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.
BATTLE OF BEAL’ AN DUINE.“The Minstrel came once more to viewThe eastern ridge of Benvenue,For ere he parted, he would sayFarewell 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,Nor ripple on the lake,Upon her eyry nods the erne,[348]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 soundThat mutters deep and dread,Or echoes from the groaning groundThe warrior’s measured tread?Is it the lightning’s quivering glanceThat on the thicket streams,Or do they flash on spear and lanceThe 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 bound for battle strife,Or bard of martial lay,’Twere worth ten years of peaceful life,One glance at their array!”
BATTLE OF BEAL’ AN DUINE.“The Minstrel came once more to viewThe eastern ridge of Benvenue,For ere he parted, he would sayFarewell 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,Nor ripple on the lake,Upon her eyry nods the erne,[348]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 soundThat mutters deep and dread,Or echoes from the groaning groundThe warrior’s measured tread?Is it the lightning’s quivering glanceThat on the thicket streams,Or do they flash on spear and lanceThe 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 bound for battle strife,Or bard of martial lay,’Twere worth ten years of peaceful life,One glance at their array!”
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,
Nor ripple on the lake,
Upon her eyry nods the erne,[348]
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 bound for battle strife,
Or bard of martial lay,
’Twere worth ten years of peaceful life,
One glance at their array!”
“Their light arm’d archers far and nearSurvey’d the tangled ground;Their center ranks, with pike and spear,A twilight forest frown’d;Their barbed[349]horsemen, in the rear,The stern battalia[350]crown’d.No cymbal clash’d, 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 seem’d to quake,That shadow’d o’er their road.Their vaward[351]scouts no tidings bring,Can rouse no lurking foe,Nor spy a trace of living thing,Save when they stirr’d 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 pass’d, and now they gainA 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.”
“Their light arm’d archers far and nearSurvey’d the tangled ground;Their center ranks, with pike and spear,A twilight forest frown’d;Their barbed[349]horsemen, in the rear,The stern battalia[350]crown’d.No cymbal clash’d, 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 seem’d to quake,That shadow’d o’er their road.Their vaward[351]scouts no tidings bring,Can rouse no lurking foe,Nor spy a trace of living thing,Save when they stirr’d 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 pass’d, and now they gainA 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.”
“Their light arm’d archers far and near
Survey’d the tangled ground;
Their center ranks, with pike and spear,
A twilight forest frown’d;
Their barbed[349]horsemen, in the rear,
The stern battalia[350]crown’d.
No cymbal clash’d, 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 seem’d to quake,
That shadow’d o’er their road.
Their vaward[351]scouts no tidings bring,
Can rouse no lurking foe,
Nor spy a trace of living thing,
Save when they stirr’d 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 pass’d, 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.”
“At once there rose so wild a yellWithin that dark and narrow dell,As all the fiends, from heaven that fell,Had peal’d 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 plight 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 brownAt once lay level’d low;And closely shouldering side to side,The bristling ranks the onset bide.—‘We’ll quell the savage mountaineer,As their Tinchel[352]cows the game!They come as fleet as forest deer,We’ll drive them back as tame.’ ”—
“At once there rose so wild a yellWithin that dark and narrow dell,As all the fiends, from heaven that fell,Had peal’d 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 plight 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 brownAt once lay level’d low;And closely shouldering side to side,The bristling ranks the onset bide.—‘We’ll quell the savage mountaineer,As their Tinchel[352]cows the game!They come as fleet as forest deer,We’ll drive them back as tame.’ ”—
“At once there rose so wild a yell
Within that dark and narrow dell,
As all the fiends, from heaven that fell,
Had peal’d 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 plight 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 level’d low;
And closely shouldering side to side,
The bristling ranks the onset bide.—
‘We’ll quell the savage mountaineer,
As their Tinchel[352]cows the game!
They come as fleet as forest deer,
We’ll drive them back as tame.’ ”—
“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 brightWas 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 hurl’d 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 an hundred anvils rang!But Moray wheel’d his rearward rankOf 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 dash’d among the rout,As deer break through the broom;Their steeds are stout, their swords are out,They soon make lightsome room.Clan-Alpine’s best are backward borne—Where, where was Roderick then?One blast upon his bugle hornWere worth a thousand men.And refluent[353]through the pass of fearThe battle’s tide was pour’d;Vanish’d the Saxon’s struggling spear,Vanish’d the mountain sword.As Bracklinn’s chasm, so black and steep,Receives her roaring linn,As the dark caverns of the deepSuck the dark whirlpool in,So did the deep and darksome passDevour the battle’s mingled mass:None linger now upon the plain,Save those who ne’er shall fight again.”
“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 brightWas 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 hurl’d 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 an hundred anvils rang!But Moray wheel’d his rearward rankOf 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 dash’d among the rout,As deer break through the broom;Their steeds are stout, their swords are out,They soon make lightsome room.Clan-Alpine’s best are backward borne—Where, where was Roderick then?One blast upon his bugle hornWere worth a thousand men.And refluent[353]through the pass of fearThe battle’s tide was pour’d;Vanish’d the Saxon’s struggling spear,Vanish’d the mountain sword.As Bracklinn’s chasm, so black and steep,Receives her roaring linn,As the dark caverns of the deepSuck the dark whirlpool in,So did the deep and darksome passDevour the battle’s mingled mass:None linger now upon the plain,Save those who ne’er shall fight again.”
“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 hurl’d 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 an hundred anvils rang!
But Moray wheel’d 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 dash’d among the rout,
As deer break through the broom;
Their steeds are stout, their swords are out,
They soon make lightsome room.
Clan-Alpine’s best are backward borne—
Where, where was Roderick then?
One blast upon his bugle horn
Were worth a thousand men.
And refluent[353]through the pass of fear
The battle’s tide was pour’d;
Vanish’d the Saxon’s struggling spear,
Vanish’d the mountain sword.
As Bracklinn’s chasm, so black and steep,
Receives her roaring linn,
As the dark caverns of the deep
Suck the dark whirlpool in,
So did the deep and darksome pass
Devour the battle’s mingled mass:
None linger now upon the plain,
Save those who ne’er shall fight again.”
“Now westward rolls the battle’s din,That deep and doubling pass within.—Minstrel, away! the work of fateIs bearing on: its issue wait,Where the rude Trosachs’ dread defileOpens on Katrine’s lake and isle.Gray Benvenue I soon repass’d,Loch Katrine lay beneath me cast.The sun is set;—the clouds are met,The lowering scowl of heavenAn inky hue of livid blueTo the deep lake has given;Strange gusts of wind from mountain glenSwept o’er the lake, then sunk agen.I heeded not the eddying surge,Mine eye but saw the Trosachs’ gorge,Mine ear but heard that sullen sound,Which like an earthquake shook the ground,And spoke the stern and desperate strifeThat parts not but with parting life,Seeming, to minstrel ear, to tollThe dirge of many a passing soul.Nearer it comes—the dim-wood glenThe martial flood disgorged agen,But not in mingled tide;The plaided warriors of the NorthHigh on the mountain thunder forthAnd overhang its side;While by the lake below appearsThe dark’ning cloud of Saxon spears.At weary bay each shatter’d band,Eying their foemen, sternly stand;Their banners stream like tatter’d sail,That flings its fragments to the gale,And broken arms and disarrayMark’d the fell havoc of the day.”
“Now westward rolls the battle’s din,That deep and doubling pass within.—Minstrel, away! the work of fateIs bearing on: its issue wait,Where the rude Trosachs’ dread defileOpens on Katrine’s lake and isle.Gray Benvenue I soon repass’d,Loch Katrine lay beneath me cast.The sun is set;—the clouds are met,The lowering scowl of heavenAn inky hue of livid blueTo the deep lake has given;Strange gusts of wind from mountain glenSwept o’er the lake, then sunk agen.I heeded not the eddying surge,Mine eye but saw the Trosachs’ gorge,Mine ear but heard that sullen sound,Which like an earthquake shook the ground,And spoke the stern and desperate strifeThat parts not but with parting life,Seeming, to minstrel ear, to tollThe dirge of many a passing soul.Nearer it comes—the dim-wood glenThe martial flood disgorged agen,But not in mingled tide;The plaided warriors of the NorthHigh on the mountain thunder forthAnd overhang its side;While by the lake below appearsThe dark’ning cloud of Saxon spears.At weary bay each shatter’d band,Eying their foemen, sternly stand;Their banners stream like tatter’d sail,That flings its fragments to the gale,And broken arms and disarrayMark’d the fell havoc of the day.”
“Now westward rolls the battle’s din,
That deep and doubling pass within.
—Minstrel, away! the work of fate
Is bearing on: its issue wait,
Where the rude Trosachs’ dread defile
Opens on Katrine’s lake and isle.
Gray Benvenue I soon repass’d,
Loch Katrine lay beneath me cast.
The sun is set;—the clouds are met,
The lowering scowl of heaven
An inky hue of livid blue
To the deep lake has given;
Strange gusts of wind from mountain glen
Swept o’er the lake, then sunk agen.
I heeded not the eddying surge,
Mine eye but saw the Trosachs’ gorge,
Mine ear but heard that sullen sound,
Which like an earthquake shook the ground,
And spoke the stern and desperate strife
That parts not but with parting life,
Seeming, to minstrel ear, to toll
The dirge of many a passing soul.
Nearer it comes—the dim-wood glen
The martial flood disgorged agen,
But not in mingled tide;
The plaided warriors of the North
High on the mountain thunder forth
And overhang its side;
While by the lake below appears
The dark’ning cloud of Saxon spears.
At weary bay each shatter’d band,
Eying their foemen, sternly stand;
Their banners stream like tatter’d sail,
That flings its fragments to the gale,
And broken arms and disarray
Mark’d the fell havoc of the day.”
“Viewing the mountain’s ridge askance,The Saxon stood in sullen trance,Till Moray pointed with his lance,And cried—‘Behold yon isle!—See! none are left to guard its strand,But women weak, that wring the hand:’Tis there of yore the robber bandTheir booty wont to pile;—My purse, with bonnet pieces[354]store,To him will swim a bowshot o’er,And loose a shallop from the shore.Lightly we’ll tame the war wolf then,Lords of his mate, and brood, and den.’—Forth from the ranks a spearman sprung,On earth his casque and corselet rung,He plunged him in the wave:—All saw the deed—the purpose knew,And to their clamors BenvenueA mingled echo gave;The Saxons shout, their mate to cheer,The helpless females scream for fear,And yells for rage the mountaineer.’Twas then, as by the outcry riven,Pour’d down at once the lowering heaven;A whirlwind swept Loch Katrine’s breast,Her billows rear’d their snowy crest.Well for the swimmer swell’d they high,To mar the Highland marksman’s eye;For round him shower’d, ’mid rain and hail,The vengeful arrows of the Gael.—In vain—He nears the isle—and lo!His hand is on a shallop’s bow.—Just then a flash of lightning came,It tinged the waves and strand with flame;—I mark’d Duncraggan’s widow’d dame—Behind an oak I saw her stand,A naked dirk gleam’d in her hand:It darken’d,—but, amid the moanOf waves, I heard a dying groan;Another flash!—the spearman floatsA weltering corse beside the boats,And the stern matron o’er him stood,Her hand and dagger streaming blood.”
“Viewing the mountain’s ridge askance,The Saxon stood in sullen trance,Till Moray pointed with his lance,And cried—‘Behold yon isle!—See! none are left to guard its strand,But women weak, that wring the hand:’Tis there of yore the robber bandTheir booty wont to pile;—My purse, with bonnet pieces[354]store,To him will swim a bowshot o’er,And loose a shallop from the shore.Lightly we’ll tame the war wolf then,Lords of his mate, and brood, and den.’—Forth from the ranks a spearman sprung,On earth his casque and corselet rung,He plunged him in the wave:—All saw the deed—the purpose knew,And to their clamors BenvenueA mingled echo gave;The Saxons shout, their mate to cheer,The helpless females scream for fear,And yells for rage the mountaineer.’Twas then, as by the outcry riven,Pour’d down at once the lowering heaven;A whirlwind swept Loch Katrine’s breast,Her billows rear’d their snowy crest.Well for the swimmer swell’d they high,To mar the Highland marksman’s eye;For round him shower’d, ’mid rain and hail,The vengeful arrows of the Gael.—In vain—He nears the isle—and lo!His hand is on a shallop’s bow.—Just then a flash of lightning came,It tinged the waves and strand with flame;—I mark’d Duncraggan’s widow’d dame—Behind an oak I saw her stand,A naked dirk gleam’d in her hand:It darken’d,—but, amid the moanOf waves, I heard a dying groan;Another flash!—the spearman floatsA weltering corse beside the boats,And the stern matron o’er him stood,Her hand and dagger streaming blood.”
“Viewing the mountain’s ridge askance,
The Saxon stood in sullen trance,
Till Moray pointed with his lance,
And cried—‘Behold yon isle!—
See! none are left to guard its strand,
But women weak, that wring the hand:
’Tis there of yore the robber band
Their booty wont to pile;—
My purse, with bonnet pieces[354]store,
To him will swim a bowshot o’er,
And loose a shallop from the shore.
Lightly we’ll tame the war wolf then,
Lords of his mate, and brood, and den.’—
Forth from the ranks a spearman sprung,
On earth his casque and corselet rung,
He plunged him in the wave:—
All saw the deed—the purpose knew,
And to their clamors Benvenue
A mingled echo gave;
The Saxons shout, their mate to cheer,
The helpless females scream for fear,
And yells for rage the mountaineer.
’Twas then, as by the outcry riven,
Pour’d down at once the lowering heaven;
A whirlwind swept Loch Katrine’s breast,
Her billows rear’d their snowy crest.
Well for the swimmer swell’d they high,
To mar the Highland marksman’s eye;
For round him shower’d, ’mid rain and hail,
The vengeful arrows of the Gael.—
In vain—He nears the isle—and lo!
His hand is on a shallop’s bow.
—Just then a flash of lightning came,
It tinged the waves and strand with flame;—
I mark’d Duncraggan’s widow’d dame—
Behind an oak I saw her stand,
A naked dirk gleam’d in her hand:
It darken’d,—but, amid the moan
Of waves, I heard a dying groan;
Another flash!—the spearman floats
A weltering corse beside the boats,
And the stern matron o’er him stood,
Her hand and dagger streaming blood.”
“‘Revenge! revenge!’ the Saxons cried—The Gael’s exulting shout replied.Despite the elemental rage,Again they hurried to engage;But, ere they closed in desperate fight,Bloody with spurring came a knight,Sprung from his horse, and, from a crag,Waved ’twixt the hosts a milk-white flag.Clarion and trumpet by his sideRung forth a truce note high and wide,While, in the Monarch’s name, afarAn herald’s voice forbade the war,For Bothwell’s lord, and Roderick bold,Were both, he said, in captive hold.”—But here the lay made sudden stand,The harp escaped the Minstrel’s hand!—Oft had he stolen a glance, to spyHow Roderick brook’d his minstrelsy:At first, the Chieftain, to the chime,With lifted hand, kept feeble time;That motion ceased,—yet feeling strongVaried his look as changed the song;At length, no more his deafen’d earThe minstrel melody can hear;His face grows sharp,—his hands are clench’d,As if some pang his heartstrings wrench’d;Set are his teeth, his fading eyeIs sternly fix’d on vacancy;Thus, motionless, and moanless, drewHis parting breath, stout Roderick Dhu!—Old Allan-Bane look’d on aghast,While grim and still his spirit pass’d:But when he saw that life was fled,He pour’d his wailing o’er the dead.
“‘Revenge! revenge!’ the Saxons cried—The Gael’s exulting shout replied.Despite the elemental rage,Again they hurried to engage;But, ere they closed in desperate fight,Bloody with spurring came a knight,Sprung from his horse, and, from a crag,Waved ’twixt the hosts a milk-white flag.Clarion and trumpet by his sideRung forth a truce note high and wide,While, in the Monarch’s name, afarAn herald’s voice forbade the war,For Bothwell’s lord, and Roderick bold,Were both, he said, in captive hold.”—But here the lay made sudden stand,The harp escaped the Minstrel’s hand!—Oft had he stolen a glance, to spyHow Roderick brook’d his minstrelsy:At first, the Chieftain, to the chime,With lifted hand, kept feeble time;That motion ceased,—yet feeling strongVaried his look as changed the song;At length, no more his deafen’d earThe minstrel melody can hear;His face grows sharp,—his hands are clench’d,As if some pang his heartstrings wrench’d;Set are his teeth, his fading eyeIs sternly fix’d on vacancy;Thus, motionless, and moanless, drewHis parting breath, stout Roderick Dhu!—Old Allan-Bane look’d on aghast,While grim and still his spirit pass’d:But when he saw that life was fled,He pour’d his wailing o’er the dead.
“‘Revenge! revenge!’ the Saxons cried—
The Gael’s exulting shout replied.
Despite the elemental rage,
Again they hurried to engage;
But, ere they closed in desperate fight,
Bloody with spurring came a knight,
Sprung from his horse, and, from a crag,
Waved ’twixt the hosts a milk-white flag.
Clarion and trumpet by his side
Rung forth a truce note high and wide,
While, in the Monarch’s name, afar
An herald’s voice forbade the war,
For Bothwell’s lord, and Roderick bold,
Were both, he said, in captive hold.”
—But here the lay made sudden stand,
The harp escaped the Minstrel’s hand!—
Oft had he stolen a glance, to spy
How Roderick brook’d his minstrelsy:
At first, the Chieftain, to the chime,
With lifted hand, kept feeble time;
That motion ceased,—yet feeling strong
Varied his look as changed the song;
At length, no more his deafen’d ear
The minstrel melody can hear;
His face grows sharp,—his hands are clench’d,
As if some pang his heartstrings wrench’d;
Set are his teeth, his fading eye
Is sternly fix’d on vacancy;
Thus, motionless, and moanless, drew
His parting breath, stout Roderick Dhu!—
Old Allan-Bane look’d on aghast,
While grim and still his spirit pass’d:
But when he saw that life was fled,
He pour’d his wailing o’er the dead.
LAMENT.“And art them cold and lowly laid,Thy foeman’s dread, thy people’s aid,Breadalbane’s[355]boast, Clan-Alpine’s shade!For thee shall none a requiem say?—For thee,—who loved the Minstrel’s lay,For thee, of Bothwell’s house the stay,The shelter of her exiled line?E’en in this prison house of thine,I’ll wail for Alpine’s honor’d Pine!“What groans shall yonder valleys fill!What shrieks of grief shall rend yon hill!What tears of burning rage shall thrill,When mourns thy tribe thy battles done,Thy fall before the race was won,Thy sword ungirt ere set of sun!There breathes not clansman of thy line,But would have given his life for thine.—Oh, woe for Alpine’s honor’d Pine!“Sad was thy lot on mortal stage!—The captive thrush may brook the cage,The prison’d eagle dies for rage.Brave spirit, do not scorn my strain!And, when its notes awake again,Even she, so long beloved in vain,Shall with my harp her voice combine,And mix her woe and tears with mine,To wail Clan-Alpine’s honor’d Pine.”—
LAMENT.“And art them cold and lowly laid,Thy foeman’s dread, thy people’s aid,Breadalbane’s[355]boast, Clan-Alpine’s shade!For thee shall none a requiem say?—For thee,—who loved the Minstrel’s lay,For thee, of Bothwell’s house the stay,The shelter of her exiled line?E’en in this prison house of thine,I’ll wail for Alpine’s honor’d Pine!
LAMENT.
“And art them cold and lowly laid,
Thy foeman’s dread, thy people’s aid,
Breadalbane’s[355]boast, Clan-Alpine’s shade!
For thee shall none a requiem say?—
For thee,—who loved the Minstrel’s lay,
For thee, of Bothwell’s house the stay,
The shelter of her exiled line?
E’en in this prison house of thine,
I’ll wail for Alpine’s honor’d Pine!
“What groans shall yonder valleys fill!What shrieks of grief shall rend yon hill!What tears of burning rage shall thrill,When mourns thy tribe thy battles done,Thy fall before the race was won,Thy sword ungirt ere set of sun!There breathes not clansman of thy line,But would have given his life for thine.—Oh, woe for Alpine’s honor’d Pine!
“What groans shall yonder valleys fill!
What shrieks of grief shall rend yon hill!
What tears of burning rage shall thrill,
When mourns thy tribe thy battles done,
Thy fall before the race was won,
Thy sword ungirt ere set of sun!
There breathes not clansman of thy line,
But would have given his life for thine.—
Oh, woe for Alpine’s honor’d Pine!
“Sad was thy lot on mortal stage!—The captive thrush may brook the cage,The prison’d eagle dies for rage.Brave spirit, do not scorn my strain!And, when its notes awake again,Even she, so long beloved in vain,Shall with my harp her voice combine,And mix her woe and tears with mine,To wail Clan-Alpine’s honor’d Pine.”—
“Sad was thy lot on mortal stage!—
The captive thrush may brook the cage,
The prison’d eagle dies for rage.
Brave spirit, do not scorn my strain!
And, when its notes awake again,
Even she, so long beloved in vain,
Shall with my harp her voice combine,
And mix her woe and tears with mine,
To wail Clan-Alpine’s honor’d Pine.”—
Ellen, the while, with bursting heart,Remain’d in lordly bower apart,Where play’d, with many-colored gleams,Through storied[356]pane the rising beams.In vain on gilded roof they fall,And lighten’d up a tapestried wall,And for her use a menial trainA rich collation spread in vain.The banquet proud, the chamber gay,Scarce drew one curious glance astray;Or if she look’d, ’twas but to say,With better omen dawn’d the dayIn that lone isle, where waved on highThe dun deer’s hide for canopy;Where oft her noble father sharedThe simple meal her care prepared,While Lufra, crouching by her side,Her station claim’d with jealous pride,And Douglas, bent on woodland game,Spoke of the chase to Malcolm Græme,Whose answer, oft at random made,The wandering of his thoughts betray’d.—Those who such simple joys have known,Are taught to prize them when they’re gone.But sudden, see, she lifts her head!The window seeks with cautious tread.What distant music has the powerTo win her in this woeful hour!’Twas from a turret that o’erhungHer latticed bower, the strain was sung.
Ellen, the while, with bursting heart,Remain’d in lordly bower apart,Where play’d, with many-colored gleams,Through storied[356]pane the rising beams.In vain on gilded roof they fall,And lighten’d up a tapestried wall,And for her use a menial trainA rich collation spread in vain.The banquet proud, the chamber gay,Scarce drew one curious glance astray;Or if she look’d, ’twas but to say,With better omen dawn’d the dayIn that lone isle, where waved on highThe dun deer’s hide for canopy;Where oft her noble father sharedThe simple meal her care prepared,While Lufra, crouching by her side,Her station claim’d with jealous pride,And Douglas, bent on woodland game,Spoke of the chase to Malcolm Græme,Whose answer, oft at random made,The wandering of his thoughts betray’d.—Those who such simple joys have known,Are taught to prize them when they’re gone.But sudden, see, she lifts her head!The window seeks with cautious tread.What distant music has the powerTo win her in this woeful hour!’Twas from a turret that o’erhungHer latticed bower, the strain was sung.
Ellen, the while, with bursting heart,
Remain’d in lordly bower apart,
Where play’d, with many-colored gleams,
Through storied[356]pane the rising beams.
In vain on gilded roof they fall,
And lighten’d up a tapestried wall,
And for her use a menial train
A rich collation spread in vain.
The banquet proud, the chamber gay,
Scarce drew one curious glance astray;
Or if she look’d, ’twas but to say,
With better omen dawn’d the day
In that lone isle, where waved on high
The dun deer’s hide for canopy;
Where oft her noble father shared
The simple meal her care prepared,
While Lufra, crouching by her side,
Her station claim’d with jealous pride,
And Douglas, bent on woodland game,
Spoke of the chase to Malcolm Græme,
Whose answer, oft at random made,
The wandering of his thoughts betray’d.—
Those who such simple joys have known,
Are taught to prize them when they’re gone.
But sudden, see, she lifts her head!
The window seeks with cautious tread.
What distant music has the power
To win her in this woeful hour!
’Twas from a turret that o’erhung
Her latticed bower, the strain was sung.
LAY OF THE IMPRISONEDHUNTSMAN.“My hawk is tired of perch and hood,My idle greyhound loathes his food,My horse is weary of his stall,And I am sick of captive thrall.I wish I were, as I have been,Hunting the hart in forest green,With bended bow and bloodhound free,For that’s the life is meet for me.“I hate to learn the ebb of time,From yon dull steeple’s drowsy chime,Or mark it as the sunbeams crawl,Inch after inch, along the wall.The lark was wont my matins ring,The sable rook my vespers sing;These towers, although a king’s they be,Have not a hall of joy for me.“No more at dawning morn I rise,And sun myself in Ellen’s eyes,Drive the fleet deer the forest through,And homeward wend with evening dew;A blithesome welcome blithely meet,And lay my trophies at her feet,While fled the eve on wing of glee,—That life is lost to love and me!”
LAY OF THE IMPRISONEDHUNTSMAN.“My hawk is tired of perch and hood,My idle greyhound loathes his food,My horse is weary of his stall,And I am sick of captive thrall.I wish I were, as I have been,Hunting the hart in forest green,With bended bow and bloodhound free,For that’s the life is meet for me.
LAY OF THE IMPRISONED
HUNTSMAN.
“My hawk is tired of perch and hood,
My idle greyhound loathes his food,
My horse is weary of his stall,
And I am sick of captive thrall.
I wish I were, as I have been,
Hunting the hart in forest green,
With bended bow and bloodhound free,
For that’s the life is meet for me.
“I hate to learn the ebb of time,From yon dull steeple’s drowsy chime,Or mark it as the sunbeams crawl,Inch after inch, along the wall.The lark was wont my matins ring,The sable rook my vespers sing;These towers, although a king’s they be,Have not a hall of joy for me.
“I hate to learn the ebb of time,
From yon dull steeple’s drowsy chime,
Or mark it as the sunbeams crawl,
Inch after inch, along the wall.
The lark was wont my matins ring,
The sable rook my vespers sing;
These towers, although a king’s they be,
Have not a hall of joy for me.
“No more at dawning morn I rise,And sun myself in Ellen’s eyes,Drive the fleet deer the forest through,And homeward wend with evening dew;A blithesome welcome blithely meet,And lay my trophies at her feet,While fled the eve on wing of glee,—That life is lost to love and me!”
“No more at dawning morn I rise,
And sun myself in Ellen’s eyes,
Drive the fleet deer the forest through,
And homeward wend with evening dew;
A blithesome welcome blithely meet,
And lay my trophies at her feet,
While fled the eve on wing of glee,—
That life is lost to love and me!”
The heart-sick lay was hardly said,The list’ner had not turn’d her head,It trickled still, the starting tear,When light a footstep struck her ear,And Snowdoun’s graceful Knight was near.She turn’d the hastier, lest againThe prisoner should renew his strain.“Oh, welcome, brave Fitz-James!” she said;”How may an almost orphan maidPay the deep debt”—“Oh, say not so!To me no gratitude you owe.Not mine, alas! the boon to give,And bid thy noble father live;I can but be thy guide, sweet maid,With Scotland’s King thy suit to aid.No tyrant he, though ire and prideMay lay his better mood aside.Come, Ellen, come! ’tis more than time—He holds his court at morning prime.”With beating heart, and bosom wrung,As to a brother’s arm she clung.Gently he dried the falling tear,And gently whisper’d hope and cheer;Her faltering steps half led, half stayed,[357]Through gallery fair and high arcade,Till, at his touch, its wings of prideA portal arch unfolded wide.
The heart-sick lay was hardly said,The list’ner had not turn’d her head,It trickled still, the starting tear,When light a footstep struck her ear,And Snowdoun’s graceful Knight was near.She turn’d the hastier, lest againThe prisoner should renew his strain.“Oh, welcome, brave Fitz-James!” she said;”How may an almost orphan maidPay the deep debt”—“Oh, say not so!To me no gratitude you owe.Not mine, alas! the boon to give,And bid thy noble father live;I can but be thy guide, sweet maid,With Scotland’s King thy suit to aid.No tyrant he, though ire and prideMay lay his better mood aside.Come, Ellen, come! ’tis more than time—He holds his court at morning prime.”With beating heart, and bosom wrung,As to a brother’s arm she clung.Gently he dried the falling tear,And gently whisper’d hope and cheer;Her faltering steps half led, half stayed,[357]Through gallery fair and high arcade,Till, at his touch, its wings of prideA portal arch unfolded wide.
The heart-sick lay was hardly said,
The list’ner had not turn’d her head,
It trickled still, the starting tear,
When light a footstep struck her ear,
And Snowdoun’s graceful Knight was near.
She turn’d the hastier, lest again
The prisoner should renew his strain.
“Oh, welcome, brave Fitz-James!” she said;
”How may an almost orphan maid
Pay the deep debt”—“Oh, say not so!
To me no gratitude you owe.
Not mine, alas! the boon to give,
And bid thy noble father live;
I can but be thy guide, sweet maid,
With Scotland’s King thy suit to aid.
No tyrant he, though ire and pride
May lay his better mood aside.
Come, Ellen, come! ’tis more than time—
He holds his court at morning prime.”
With beating heart, and bosom wrung,
As to a brother’s arm she clung.
Gently he dried the falling tear,
And gently whisper’d hope and cheer;
Her faltering steps half led, half stayed,[357]
Through gallery fair and high arcade,
Till, at his touch, its wings of pride
A portal arch unfolded wide.
Within ’twas brilliant all and light,A thronging scene of figures bright;It glow’d on Ellen’s dazzled sight,As when the setting sun has givenTen thousand hues to summer even,And from their tissue, fancy framesAërial[358]knights and fairy dames.Still by Fitz-James her footing staid;A few faint steps she forward made,Then slow her drooping head she raised,And fearful round the presence[359]gazed;For him she sought, who own’d this state,The dreaded Prince, whose will was fate!—She gazed on many a princely port,Might well have ruled a royal court;On many a splendid garb she gazed,Then turn’d bewilder’d and amazed,For all stood bare; and, in the room,Fitz-James alone wore cap and plume.To him each lady’s look was lent;On him each courtier’s eye was bent;Midst furs, and silks, and jewels sheen,He stood, in simple Lincoln green,The center of the glittering ring,—And Snowdoun’s Knight[360]is Scotland’s King.
Within ’twas brilliant all and light,A thronging scene of figures bright;It glow’d on Ellen’s dazzled sight,As when the setting sun has givenTen thousand hues to summer even,And from their tissue, fancy framesAërial[358]knights and fairy dames.Still by Fitz-James her footing staid;A few faint steps she forward made,Then slow her drooping head she raised,And fearful round the presence[359]gazed;For him she sought, who own’d this state,The dreaded Prince, whose will was fate!—She gazed on many a princely port,Might well have ruled a royal court;On many a splendid garb she gazed,Then turn’d bewilder’d and amazed,For all stood bare; and, in the room,Fitz-James alone wore cap and plume.To him each lady’s look was lent;On him each courtier’s eye was bent;Midst furs, and silks, and jewels sheen,He stood, in simple Lincoln green,The center of the glittering ring,—And Snowdoun’s Knight[360]is Scotland’s King.
Within ’twas brilliant all and light,
A thronging scene of figures bright;
It glow’d on Ellen’s dazzled sight,
As when the setting sun has given
Ten thousand hues to summer even,
And from their tissue, fancy frames
Aërial[358]knights and fairy dames.
Still by Fitz-James her footing staid;
A few faint steps she forward made,
Then slow her drooping head she raised,
And fearful round the presence[359]gazed;
For him she sought, who own’d this state,
The dreaded Prince, whose will was fate!—
She gazed on many a princely port,
Might well have ruled a royal court;
On many a splendid garb she gazed,
Then turn’d bewilder’d and amazed,
For all stood bare; and, in the room,
Fitz-James alone wore cap and plume.
To him each lady’s look was lent;
On him each courtier’s eye was bent;
Midst furs, and silks, and jewels sheen,
He stood, in simple Lincoln green,
The center of the glittering ring,—
And Snowdoun’s Knight[360]is Scotland’s King.
As wreath of snow, on mountain breast,Slides from the rock that gave it rest,Poor Ellen glided from her stay,And at the Monarch’s feet she lay;No word her choking voice commands,—She show’d the ring—she clasp’d her hands.Oh! not a moment could he brook,The generous Prince, that suppliant look!Gently he raised her; and, the while,Check’d with a glance the circle’s smile;Graceful, but grave, her brow he kiss’d,And bade her terrors be dismiss’d:—“Yes, Fair; the wandering poor Fitz-JamesThe fealty of Scotland claims.To him thy woes, thy wishes, bring;He will redeem his signet ring.Ask naught for Douglas; yestereven,His Prince and he have much forgiven:Wrong hath he had from slanderous tongue—I, from his rebel kinsmen, wrong.We would not, to the vulgar crowd,Yield what they craved with clamor loud;Calmly we heard and judged his cause,Our council aided, and our laws.I stanch’d thy father’s death-feud sternWith stout De Vaux and gray Glencairn;And Bothwell’s Lord henceforth we ownThe friend and bulwark of our Throne.—But, lovely infidel, how now?What clouds thy misbelieving brow?Lord James of Douglas, lend thine aid;Thou must confirm this doubting maid.”
As wreath of snow, on mountain breast,Slides from the rock that gave it rest,Poor Ellen glided from her stay,And at the Monarch’s feet she lay;No word her choking voice commands,—She show’d the ring—she clasp’d her hands.Oh! not a moment could he brook,The generous Prince, that suppliant look!Gently he raised her; and, the while,Check’d with a glance the circle’s smile;Graceful, but grave, her brow he kiss’d,And bade her terrors be dismiss’d:—“Yes, Fair; the wandering poor Fitz-JamesThe fealty of Scotland claims.To him thy woes, thy wishes, bring;He will redeem his signet ring.Ask naught for Douglas; yestereven,His Prince and he have much forgiven:Wrong hath he had from slanderous tongue—I, from his rebel kinsmen, wrong.We would not, to the vulgar crowd,Yield what they craved with clamor loud;Calmly we heard and judged his cause,Our council aided, and our laws.I stanch’d thy father’s death-feud sternWith stout De Vaux and gray Glencairn;And Bothwell’s Lord henceforth we ownThe friend and bulwark of our Throne.—But, lovely infidel, how now?What clouds thy misbelieving brow?Lord James of Douglas, lend thine aid;Thou must confirm this doubting maid.”
As wreath of snow, on mountain breast,
Slides from the rock that gave it rest,
Poor Ellen glided from her stay,
And at the Monarch’s feet she lay;
No word her choking voice commands,—
She show’d the ring—she clasp’d her hands.
Oh! not a moment could he brook,
The generous Prince, that suppliant look!
Gently he raised her; and, the while,
Check’d with a glance the circle’s smile;
Graceful, but grave, her brow he kiss’d,
And bade her terrors be dismiss’d:—
“Yes, Fair; the wandering poor Fitz-James
The fealty of Scotland claims.
To him thy woes, thy wishes, bring;
He will redeem his signet ring.
Ask naught for Douglas; yestereven,
His Prince and he have much forgiven:
Wrong hath he had from slanderous tongue—
I, from his rebel kinsmen, wrong.
We would not, to the vulgar crowd,
Yield what they craved with clamor loud;
Calmly we heard and judged his cause,
Our council aided, and our laws.
I stanch’d thy father’s death-feud stern
With stout De Vaux and gray Glencairn;
And Bothwell’s Lord henceforth we own
The friend and bulwark of our Throne.—
But, lovely infidel, how now?
What clouds thy misbelieving brow?
Lord James of Douglas, lend thine aid;
Thou must confirm this doubting maid.”
Then forth the noble Douglas sprung,And on his neck his daughter hung.The Monarch drank, that happy hour,The sweetest, holiest draught of Power,—When it can say, with godlike voice,Arise, sad Virtue, and rejoice!Yet would not James the general eyeOn Nature’s raptures long should pry;He stepp’d between—“Nay, Douglas, nay,Steal not my proselyte away!The riddle ’tis my right to read,That brought this happy chance to speed.[361]Yes, Ellen, when disguised I strayIn life’s more low but happier way,’Tis under name which veils my power;Nor falsely veils—for Stirling’s towerOf yore the name of Snowdoun claims,And Normans call me James Fitz-James.Thus watch I o’er insulted laws,Thus learn to right the injured cause.”—Then, in a tone apart and low,—“Ah, little traitress! none must knowWhat idle dream, what lighter thought,What vanity full dearly bought,Join’d to thine eye’s dark witchcraft, drewMy spellbound steps to Benvenue,In dangerous hour, and all but gaveThy Monarch’s life to mountain glaive!”—Aloud he spoke,—“Thou still dost holdThat little talisman of gold,Pledge of my faith, Fitz-James’s ring—What seeks fair Ellen of the King?”
Then forth the noble Douglas sprung,And on his neck his daughter hung.The Monarch drank, that happy hour,The sweetest, holiest draught of Power,—When it can say, with godlike voice,Arise, sad Virtue, and rejoice!Yet would not James the general eyeOn Nature’s raptures long should pry;He stepp’d between—“Nay, Douglas, nay,Steal not my proselyte away!The riddle ’tis my right to read,That brought this happy chance to speed.[361]Yes, Ellen, when disguised I strayIn life’s more low but happier way,’Tis under name which veils my power;Nor falsely veils—for Stirling’s towerOf yore the name of Snowdoun claims,And Normans call me James Fitz-James.Thus watch I o’er insulted laws,Thus learn to right the injured cause.”—Then, in a tone apart and low,—“Ah, little traitress! none must knowWhat idle dream, what lighter thought,What vanity full dearly bought,Join’d to thine eye’s dark witchcraft, drewMy spellbound steps to Benvenue,In dangerous hour, and all but gaveThy Monarch’s life to mountain glaive!”—Aloud he spoke,—“Thou still dost holdThat little talisman of gold,Pledge of my faith, Fitz-James’s ring—What seeks fair Ellen of the King?”
Then forth the noble Douglas sprung,
And on his neck his daughter hung.
The Monarch drank, that happy hour,
The sweetest, holiest draught of Power,—
When it can say, with godlike voice,
Arise, sad Virtue, and rejoice!
Yet would not James the general eye
On Nature’s raptures long should pry;
He stepp’d between—“Nay, Douglas, nay,
Steal not my proselyte away!
The riddle ’tis my right to read,
That brought this happy chance to speed.[361]
Yes, Ellen, when disguised I stray
In life’s more low but happier way,
’Tis under name which veils my power;
Nor falsely veils—for Stirling’s tower
Of yore the name of Snowdoun claims,
And Normans call me James Fitz-James.
Thus watch I o’er insulted laws,
Thus learn to right the injured cause.”—
Then, in a tone apart and low,—
“Ah, little traitress! none must know
What idle dream, what lighter thought,
What vanity full dearly bought,
Join’d to thine eye’s dark witchcraft, drew
My spellbound steps to Benvenue,
In dangerous hour, and all but gave
Thy Monarch’s life to mountain glaive!”—
Aloud he spoke,—“Thou still dost hold
That little talisman of gold,
Pledge of my faith, Fitz-James’s ring—
What seeks fair Ellen of the King?”
Full well the conscious maiden guess’dHe probed the weakness of her breast;But, with that consciousness, there cameA lightening of her fears for Græme,And more she deem’d the Monarch’s ireKindled ’gainst him, who, for her sire,Rebellious broadsword boldly drew;And, to her generous feeling true,She craved the grace of Roderick Dhu.“Forbear thy suit:—the King of kingsAlone can stay life’s parting wings.I know his heart, I know his hand,Have shared his cheer, and proved his brand;—My fairest earldom would I giveTo bid Clan-Alpine’s Chieftain live!—Hast thou no other boon to crave?No other captive friend to save?”Blushing, she turn’d her from the King,And to the Douglas gave the ring,As if she wish’d her sire to speakThe suit that stain’d her glowing cheek.—“Nay, then, my pledge has lost its force,And stubborn Justice holds her course.—Malcolm, come forth!”—and, at the word,Down kneel’d the Græme to Scotland’s Lord.“For thee, rash youth, no suppliant sues,From thee may Vengeance claim her dues,Who, nurtured underneath our smile,Hast paid our care by treacherous wile,And sought, amid thy faithful clan,A refuge for an outlaw’d man,Dishonoring thus thy loyal name.—Fetters and warder for the Græme!”—His chain of gold the King unstrung,The links o’er Malcolm’s neck he flung,Then gently drew the glittering band,And laid the clasp on Ellen’s hand.Harp of the North, farewell! The hills grow dark,On purple peaks a deeper shade descending;In twilight copse the glowworm lights her spark,The deer, half seen, are to the covert wending.Resume thy wizard elm! the fountain lending,And the wild breeze, thy wilder minstrelsy;Thy numbers sweet with Nature’s vespers blending,With distant echo from the fold and lea,And herd-boy’s evening pipe, and hum of housing[362]bee.Yet, once again, farewell, thou Minstrel Harp!Yet, once again, forgive my feeble sway!And little reck I of the censure sharpMay idly cavil at an idle lay.Much have I owed thy strains on life’s long way,Through secret woes the world has never known,When on the weary night dawn’d wearier day,And bitterer was the grief devour’d alone.That I o’erlived such woes, Enchantress! is thine own.Hark! as my lingering footsteps slow retire,Some Spirit of the Air has waked thy string!’Tis now a seraph bold, with touch of fire—’Tis now the brush of Fairy’s frolic wing.Receding now, the dying numbers ringFainter and fainter down the rugged dell,And now the mountain breezes scarcely bringA wandering witch note of the distant spell—And now, ’tis silent all!—Enchantress, fare thee well!
Full well the conscious maiden guess’dHe probed the weakness of her breast;But, with that consciousness, there cameA lightening of her fears for Græme,And more she deem’d the Monarch’s ireKindled ’gainst him, who, for her sire,Rebellious broadsword boldly drew;And, to her generous feeling true,She craved the grace of Roderick Dhu.“Forbear thy suit:—the King of kingsAlone can stay life’s parting wings.I know his heart, I know his hand,Have shared his cheer, and proved his brand;—My fairest earldom would I giveTo bid Clan-Alpine’s Chieftain live!—Hast thou no other boon to crave?No other captive friend to save?”Blushing, she turn’d her from the King,And to the Douglas gave the ring,As if she wish’d her sire to speakThe suit that stain’d her glowing cheek.—“Nay, then, my pledge has lost its force,And stubborn Justice holds her course.—Malcolm, come forth!”—and, at the word,Down kneel’d the Græme to Scotland’s Lord.“For thee, rash youth, no suppliant sues,From thee may Vengeance claim her dues,Who, nurtured underneath our smile,Hast paid our care by treacherous wile,And sought, amid thy faithful clan,A refuge for an outlaw’d man,Dishonoring thus thy loyal name.—Fetters and warder for the Græme!”—His chain of gold the King unstrung,The links o’er Malcolm’s neck he flung,Then gently drew the glittering band,And laid the clasp on Ellen’s hand.
Full well the conscious maiden guess’d
He probed the weakness of her breast;
But, with that consciousness, there came
A lightening of her fears for Græme,
And more she deem’d the Monarch’s ire
Kindled ’gainst him, who, for her sire,
Rebellious broadsword boldly drew;
And, to her generous feeling true,
She craved the grace of Roderick Dhu.
“Forbear thy suit:—the King of kings
Alone can stay life’s parting wings.
I know his heart, I know his hand,
Have shared his cheer, and proved his brand;—
My fairest earldom would I give
To bid Clan-Alpine’s Chieftain live!—
Hast thou no other boon to crave?
No other captive friend to save?”
Blushing, she turn’d her from the King,
And to the Douglas gave the ring,
As if she wish’d her sire to speak
The suit that stain’d her glowing cheek.—
“Nay, then, my pledge has lost its force,
And stubborn Justice holds her course.—
Malcolm, come forth!”—and, at the word,
Down kneel’d the Græme to Scotland’s Lord.
“For thee, rash youth, no suppliant sues,
From thee may Vengeance claim her dues,
Who, nurtured underneath our smile,
Hast paid our care by treacherous wile,
And sought, amid thy faithful clan,
A refuge for an outlaw’d man,
Dishonoring thus thy loyal name.—
Fetters and warder for the Græme!”—
His chain of gold the King unstrung,
The links o’er Malcolm’s neck he flung,
Then gently drew the glittering band,
And laid the clasp on Ellen’s hand.
Harp of the North, farewell! The hills grow dark,On purple peaks a deeper shade descending;In twilight copse the glowworm lights her spark,The deer, half seen, are to the covert wending.Resume thy wizard elm! the fountain lending,And the wild breeze, thy wilder minstrelsy;Thy numbers sweet with Nature’s vespers blending,With distant echo from the fold and lea,And herd-boy’s evening pipe, and hum of housing[362]bee.
Harp of the North, farewell! The hills grow dark,
On purple peaks a deeper shade descending;
In twilight copse the glowworm lights her spark,
The deer, half seen, are to the covert wending.
Resume thy wizard elm! the fountain lending,
And the wild breeze, thy wilder minstrelsy;
Thy numbers sweet with Nature’s vespers blending,
With distant echo from the fold and lea,
And herd-boy’s evening pipe, and hum of housing[362]bee.
Yet, once again, farewell, thou Minstrel Harp!Yet, once again, forgive my feeble sway!And little reck I of the censure sharpMay idly cavil at an idle lay.Much have I owed thy strains on life’s long way,Through secret woes the world has never known,When on the weary night dawn’d wearier day,And bitterer was the grief devour’d alone.That I o’erlived such woes, Enchantress! is thine own.
Yet, once again, farewell, thou Minstrel Harp!
Yet, once again, forgive my feeble sway!
And little reck I of the censure sharp
May idly cavil at an idle lay.
Much have I owed thy strains on life’s long way,
Through secret woes the world has never known,
When on the weary night dawn’d wearier day,
And bitterer was the grief devour’d alone.
That I o’erlived such woes, Enchantress! is thine own.
Hark! as my lingering footsteps slow retire,Some Spirit of the Air has waked thy string!’Tis now a seraph bold, with touch of fire—’Tis now the brush of Fairy’s frolic wing.Receding now, the dying numbers ringFainter and fainter down the rugged dell,And now the mountain breezes scarcely bringA wandering witch note of the distant spell—And now, ’tis silent all!—Enchantress, fare thee well!
Hark! as my lingering footsteps slow retire,
Some Spirit of the Air has waked thy string!
’Tis now a seraph bold, with touch of fire—
’Tis now the brush of Fairy’s frolic wing.
Receding now, the dying numbers ring
Fainter and fainter down the rugged dell,
And now the mountain breezes scarcely bring
A wandering witch note of the distant spell—
And now, ’tis silent all!—Enchantress, fare thee well!
Arcade.A series of arches supported by columns or piers, either open or backed by masonry.
Augury.1. The art or practice of foretelling events. 2. An omen or prediction.
Barret cap.A kind of cap or head gear formerly worn by soldiers.
Battlement.A wall or rampart around the top of a castle, with openings to look through and annoy the enemy.
Black-jack.A capacious drinking cup or can formerly made of waxed leather.
Bracken.Large coarse fern.
Bulwark.A rampart; a fortification.
Carpet knight.A person knighted on some other ground than that of military service; a knight who has not known the hardships of war.
Close.To grapple; to come to close quarters in fight.
Coif.A kind of cap worn by Scottish matrons.
Crest.1. The plume or decoration on the top of a helmet. 2. The device over a coat of arms. 3. The ridge of the neck of a horse or dog.
Dicer.A gamester.
Drawbridge.A bridge at the entrance of a castle, which, when lowered by chains, gave access across the moat or ditch surrounding the structure.
Embossed.(A technical hunting term.) Flecked or spotted with foam.
Favor.Something which was bestowed as a token of good will or of love, as a glove or a knot of ribbon, to be worn habitually by a knight-errant.
Feint.(A technical fencing term.) A seeming aim at one part when it is intended to strike another.
Feudal.Pertaining to that political form in which there was a chain of persons holding land of one another on condition of performing certain services. Every man in the chain was bound to his immediate superior, held land from him, took oath of allegiance to him, and became his man.
Flourish.A trumpet call; a fanfare or prelude by one or more trumpets performed on the approach of any person of distinction.
Frontlet.The front of a stag’s head; the horns.
Guard.In fencing, a position of passive defense.
Halberd.A long-handled weapon armed with a steel point, and having a crosspiece of steel with a cutting edge.
Henchman.A groom; an attendant or follower.
Jack.An upper garment of leather, worn for defense by common soldiers. It was sometimes strengthened by small pieces of metal stitched into it.
Jennet.A small Spanish horse.
Ken.Sight; knowledge.
Law.“To give law” to a stag is to allow it a start of a certain distance or time before the hounds are slipped, the object being to insure a long chase.
Mew.A cage for hawks while mewing or moulting: hence an inclosure, a place of confinement.
Pass.(A term in fencing.) To thrust with a sword.
Pennon.A swallow-tailed flag or streamer.
Poleax.An ax fixed to a pole or handle. It was formerly used by mounted soldiers.
Prime.In the Roman Catholic Church the first canonical hour of prayer, six o’clock in the morning, generally the first quarter of the day.
Quarterstaff.A stout staff used as a weapon of defense. In using it, one hand was placed in the middle, and the other halfway between the middle and the end.
Signet.1. A seal. 2. A ring containing a signet or private seal.
Slip.To let slip; to loose hands from the noose; to be sent in pursuit of game.
Squire.An attendant upon a knight.
Stirrup cup.A cup of wine drunk on parting from a friend on horseback.
Store.(An obsolete adjective.) Accumulated; stored up.
Strath.A valley of considerable size, through which a river flows.
Targe.Target-shield.
Tine-man.An officer of the forest, who had the nocturnal care of vert and venison.
Troll.1. A song the parts of which are sung in succession; a round. 2. To sing in the manner of a catch or round, also in a full, jovial voice.
Vair.The skin of the squirrel, much used in the fourteenth century as fur for garments.
Vantage coign.A position of advantage for observing or operating.
Ward.A guarding or defensive position or motion in fencing.
Warder.One who wards or keeps.
Whinyard.A short sword or knife.
The Lady of the Lakeis usually read in the first year of the high school course, and it is with this fact in mind that the following suggestions have been made. It is an excellent book with which to begin the study of the ordinary forms of poetry, of plot structure, and the simpler problems of description. For this reason in the exercises that follow the emphasis has been placed on these topics.
The Lady of the Lakeis an excellent example of the minor epic. Corresponding to the “Arms and the man I sing,” of the Æneid, and the invocation to the Muse, are the statement of the theme, “Knighthood’s dauntless deed and Beauty’s matchless eye,” and the invocation to the Harp of the North, in the opening stanzas. For the heroes, descendants of the gods, of the great epic, we have a king, the chieftain of a great clan, an outlaw earl and his daughter, characters less elevated than those of the great epic, but still important. The element of the supernatural brought in by the gods and goddesses of the epic is here supplied by the minstrel, Brian the priest, and the harp. The interest of the poem lies in the incidents as with the epic. The romantic story of Ellen and Malcolm, however, lies quite outside the realm of the great epic, which is concerned with the fate of a state or body of people rather than with that of an individual.
There are two threads to the story, one concerned with the love story of Ellen and Malcolm, the main plot; and one with Roderick and his clan against the King, the minor plot. The connection between them is very slight, the story of Ellen could have been told almost without the other, but the struggle of the Clan makes a fine background for the love story of Ellen and Malcolm. The plot is anexcellent one for the beginner to study as the structure is so evident. The following is a simple outline of the main incidents of the story.