Part 17

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

XVI.

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

XVII.

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

XVIII.

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

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 through the pass of fear The battle's tide was poured; Vanished the Saxon's struggling spear, Vanished the mountain-sword. As Bracklinn's chasm, so black and steep, Receives her roaring linn As the dark caverns of the deep Suck the wild 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.

XIX.

'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 repassed, 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 again. 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 again, 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 darkening cloud of Saxon spears. At weary bay each shattered band, Eying their foemen, sternly stand; Their banners stream like tattered sail, That flings its fragments to the gale, And broken arms and disarray Marked the fell havoc of the day.

XX.

'Viewing the mountain's ridge askance, The Saxons 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 store, To him will swim a bow-shot 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. 'T was then, as by the outcry riven, Poured down at once the lowering heaven: A whirlwind swept Loch Katrine's breast, Her billows reared their snowy crest. Well for the swimmer swelled they high, To mar the Highland marksman's eye; For round him showered, 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 marked Duncraggan's widowed dame, Behind an oak I saw her stand, A naked dirk gleamed in her hand:-- It darkened,--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.

XXI.

"'Revenge! revenge!" the Saxons cried, The Gaels' 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 A 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 brooked 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 deafened ear The minstrel melody can hear; His face grows sharp,--his hands are clenched' As if some pang his heart-strings wrenched; Set are his teeth, his fading eye Is sternly fixed on vacancy; Thus, motionless and moanless, drew His parting breath stout Roderick Dhu!-- Old Allan-bane looked on aghast, While grim and still his spirit passed; But when he saw that life was fled, He poured his wailing o'er the dead.

XXII.

Lament.

'And art thou cold and lowly laid, Thy foeman's dread, thy people's aid, Breadalbane's 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 honored 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. O, woe for Alpine's honoured Pine!

'Sad was thy lot on mortal stage!-- The captive thrush may brook the cage, The prisoned eagle dies for rage. Brave spirit, do Dot 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 honoured Pine.'

XXIII.

Ellen the while, with bursting heart, Remained in lordly bower apart, Where played, with many-coloured gleams, Through storied pane the rising beams. In vain on gilded roof they fall, And lightened 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 looked, 't was but to say, With better omen dawned 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 claimed with jealous pride, And Douglas, bent on woodland game, Spoke of the chase to Malcolm Graeme, Whose answer, oft at random made, The wandering of his thoughts betrayed. 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 woful hour? 'T was from a turret that o'erhung Her latticed bower, the strain was sung.

XXIV.

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.

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!'

XXV.

The heart-sick lay was hardly said, The listener had not turned her head, It trickled still, the starting tear, When light a footstep struck her ear, And Snowdoun's graceful Knight was near. She turned the hastier, lest again The prisoner should renew his strain. 'O welcome, brave Fitz-James!' she said; 'How may an almost orphan maid Pay the deep debt--' 'O 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 heating heart, and bosom wrung, As to a brother's arm she clung. Gently he dried the falling tear, And gently whispered hope and cheer; Her faltering steps half led, half stayed, Through gallery fair and high arcade, Till at his touch its wings of pride A portal arch unfolded wide.