XIII.

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

     XIV.

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

     XV.

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

     XVI.

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

     XVII.

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

     XVIII.

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

     XIX.

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

     XX.

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

     XXI.

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

     XXII.

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

     XXIII.

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

     XXIV.

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

     XXV.

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

     XXVI.

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

     XXVII.

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

     XXVIII,

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

     XXIX.

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

     XXX.

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

     XXXI..

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

     XXXII.

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

     XXXIII.

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

     I.

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

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

     II.

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

     III.

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

     IV.

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

     V.

     Soldier's Song.

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

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

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

     VI.

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

     VII.

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

     VIII.

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

     IX.

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

     X.

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

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

     XI.

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

     XII.

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

     XIII.

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

     XIV.

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