IX.

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

     X.

     Ellen.

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

     XI.

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

     Ellen.

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

     XII.

     Ballad.

     Alice Brand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     XIII.

     Ballad Continued.

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

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

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

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

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

     XIV.

     Ballad Continued.

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

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

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

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

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

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

     XV.

     Ballad Continued.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     XVI.

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

     XVII.

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

     XVIII.

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

     XIX.

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

     XX

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

     XXI.

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

     XXII.

     Song.

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

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

     XXIII.

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

     XXIV

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

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

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

     XXV.

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

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

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

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

     XXVI.

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

     XXVII.

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

     XXVIII.

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

     XXIX.

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

     XXX.

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

     XXXI..

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

     I.

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

     II.

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

     III.

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

     IV.

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

     V.

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

     VI.

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

     VII.

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

     VIII.

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

     IX.

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

     X.

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

     XI.

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

     XII.

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