Canto Second
The Island
I
At morn the black-cock trims his jetty wing,‘T is morning prompts the linnet’s blithest lay,All Nature’s children feel the matin springOf life reviving, with reviving day;And while yon little bark glides down the bay,Wafting the stranger on his way again,Morn’s genial influence roused a minstrel gray,And sweetly o’er the lake was heard thy strain,Mixed with the sounding harp, O white-haired Allan-bane!
II
Song.
‘Not faster yonder rowers’ mightFlings from their oars the spray,Not faster yonder rippling bright,That tracks the shallop’s course in light,Melts in the lake away,Than men from memory eraseThe benefits of former days;Then, stranger, go! good speed the while,Nor think again of the lonely isle.
‘High place to thee in royal court,High place in battled line,Good hawk and hound for sylvan sport!Where beauty sees the brave resort,The honored meed be thine!True be thy sword, thy friend sincere,Thy lady constant, kind, and dear,And lost in love’s and friendship’s smileBe memory of the lonely isle!
III
Song Continued.
‘But if beneath yon southern skyA plaided stranger roam,Whose drooping crest and stifled sigh,And sunken cheek and heavy eye,Pine for his Highland home;Then, warrior, then be thine to showThe care that soothes a wanderer’s woe;Remember then thy hap erewhile,A stranger in the lonely isle.
‘Or if on life’s uncertain mainMishap shall mar thy sail;If faithful, wise, and brave in vain,Woe, want, and exile thou sustainBeneath the fickle gale;Waste not a sigh on fortune changed,On thankless courts, or friends estranged,But come where kindred worth shall smile,To greet thee in the lonely isle.’
IV
As died the sounds upon the tide,The shallop reached the mainland side,And ere his onward way he took,The stranger cast a lingering look,Where easily his eye might reachThe Harper on the islet beach,Reclined against a blighted tree,As wasted, gray, and worn as he.To minstrel meditation given,His reverend brow was raised to heaven,As from the rising sun to claimA sparkle of inspiring flame.His hand, reclined upon the wire,Seemed watching the awakening fire;So still he sat as those who waitTill judgment speak the doom of fate;So still, as if no breeze might dareTo lift one lock of hoary hair;So still, as life itself were fledIn the last sound his harp had sped.
V
Upon a rock with lichens wild,Beside him Ellen sat and smiled.—Smiled she to see the stately drakeLead forth his fleet upon the lake,While her vexed spaniel from the beachBayed at the prize beyond his reach?Yet tell me, then, the maid who knows,Why deepened on her cheek the rose?—Forgive, forgive, Fidelity!Perchance the maiden smiled to seeYon parting lingerer wave adieu,And stop and turn to wave anew;And, lovely ladies, ere your ireCondemn the heroine of my lyre,Show me the fair would scorn to spyAnd prize such conquest of her eve!
VI
While yet he loitered on the spot,It seemed as Ellen marked him not;But when he turned him to the glade,One courteous parting sign she made;And after, oft the knight would say,That not when prize of festal dayWas dealt him by the brightest fairWho e’er wore jewel in her hair,So highly did his bosom swellAs at that simple mute farewell.Now with a trusty mountain-guide,And his dark stag-hounds by his side,He parts,—the maid, unconscious still,Watched him wind slowly round the hill;But when his stately form was hid,The guardian in her bosom chid,—‘Thy Malcolm! vain and selfish maid!’‘T was thus upbraiding conscience said,—‘Not so had Malcolm idly hungOn the smooth phrase of Southern tongue;Not so had Malcolm strained his eyeAnother step than thine to spy.’—‘Wake, Allan-bane,’ aloud she criedTo the old minstrel by her side,—‘Arouse thee from thy moody dream!I ‘ll give thy harp heroic theme,And warm thee with a noble name;Pour forth the glory of the Graeme!’Scarce from her lip the word had rushed,When deep the conscious maiden blushed;For of his clan, in hall and bower,Young Malcolm Graeme was held the flower.
VII
The minstrel waked his harp,—three timesArose the well-known martial chimes,And thrice their high heroic prideIn melancholy murmurs died.‘Vainly thou bidst, O noble maid,’Clasping his withered hands, he said,‘Vainly thou bidst me wake the strain,Though all unwont to bid in vain.Alas! than mine a mightier handHas tuned my harp, my strings has spanned!I touch the chords of joy, but lowAnd mournful answer notes of woe;And the proud march which victors treadSinks in the wailing for the dead.O, well for me, if mine aloneThat dirge’s deep prophetic tone!If, as my tuneful fathers said,This harp, which erst Saint Modan swayed,Can thus its master’s fate foretell,Then welcome be the minstrel’s knell.’
VIII
‘But ah! dear lady, thus it sighed,The eve thy sainted mother died;And such the sounds which, while I stroveTo wake a lay of war or love,Came marring all the festal mirth,Appalling me who gave them birth,And, disobedient to my call,Wailed loud through Bothwell’s bannered hall.Ere Douglases, to ruin driven,Were exiled from their native heaven.—O! if yet worse mishap and woeMy master’s house must undergo,Or aught but weal to Ellen fairBrood in these accents of despair,No future bard, sad Harp! shall flingTriumph or rapture from thy string;One short, one final strain shall flow,Fraught with unutterable woe,Then shivered shall thy fragments lie,Thy master cast him down and die!’
IX
Soothing she answered him: ‘Assuage,Mine honored friend, the fears of age;All melodies to thee are knownThat harp has rung or pipe has blown,In Lowland vale or Highland glen,From Tweed to Spey—what marvel, then,At times unbidden notes should rise,Confusedly bound in memory’s ties,Entangling, as they rush along,The war-march with the funeral song?—Small ground is now for boding fear;Obscure, but safe, we rest us here.My sire, in native virtue great,Resigning lordship, lands, and state,Not then to fortune more resignedThan yonder oak might give the wind;The graceful foliage storms may reeve,‘Fine noble stem they cannot grieve.For me’—she stooped, and, looking round,Plucked a blue harebell from the ground,—‘For me, whose memory scarce conveysAn image of more splendid days,This little flower that loves the leaMay well my simple emblem be;It drinks heaven’s dew as blithe as roseThat in the King’s own garden grows;And when I place it in my hair,Allan, a bard is bound to swearHe ne’er saw coronet so fair.’Then playfully the chaplet wildShe wreathed in her dark locks, and smiled.
X
Her smile, her speech, with winning swayWiled the old Harper’s mood away.With such a look as hermits throw,When angels stoop to soothe their woeHe gazed, till fond regret and prideThrilled to a tear, then thus replied:‘Loveliest and best! thou little know’stThe rank, the honors, thou hast lost!O. might I live to see thee grace,In Scotland’s court, thy birthright place,To see my favorite’s step advanceThe lightest in the courtly dance,The cause of every gallant’s sigh,And leading star of every eye,And theme of every minstrel’s art,The Lady of the Bleeding Heart!’
XI
‘Fair dreams are these,’ the maiden cried,—Light was her accent, yet she sighed,—‘Yet is this mossy rock to meWorth splendid chair and canopy;Nor would my footstep spring more gayIn courtly dance than blithe strathspey,Nor half so pleased mine ear inclineTo royal minstrel’s lay as thine.And then for suitors proud and high,To bend before my conquering eye,—Thou, flattering bard! thyself wilt say,That grim Sir Roderick owns its sway.The Saxon scourge, Clan-Alpine’s pride,The terror of Loch Lomond’s side,Would, at my suit, thou know’st, delayA Lennox foray—for a day.’—
XII.
The ancient bard her glee repressed:‘Ill hast thou chosen theme for jest!For who, through all this western wild,Named Black Sir Roderick e’er, and smiled?In Holy-Rood a knight he slew;I saw, when back the dirk he drew,Courtiers give place before the strideOf the undaunted homicide;And since, though outlawed, hath his handFull sternly kept his mountain land.
Who else dared give—ah! woe the day,That I such hated truth should say!—The Douglas, like a stricken deer,Disowned by every noble peer,Even the rude refuge we have here?Alas, this wild maraudingChief Alone might hazard our relief,And now thy maiden charms expand,Looks for his guerdon in thy hand;Full soon may dispensation sought,To back his suit, from Rome be brought.Then, though an exile on the hill,Thy father, as the Douglas, stillBe held in reverence and fear;And though to Roderick thou’rt so dearThat thou mightst guide with silken thread.Slave of thy will, this chieftain dread,Yet, O loved maid, thy mirth refrain!Thy hand is on a lion’s mane.’—
XIII
Minstrel,’ the maid replied, and highHer father’s soul glanced from her eye,‘My debts to Roderick’s house I know:All that a mother could bestowTo Lady Margaret’s care I owe,Since first an orphan in the wildShe sorrowed o’er her sister’s child;To her brave chieftain son, from ireOf Scotland’s king who shrouds my sire,A deeper, holier debt is owed;And, could I pay it with my blood, Allan!Sir Roderick should commandMy blood, my life,—but not my hand.Rather will Ellen Douglas dwellA votaress in Maronnan’s cell;Rather through realms beyond the sea,Seeking the world’s cold charityWhere ne’er was spoke a Scottish word,And ne’er the name of Douglas heardAn outcast pilgrim will she rove,Than wed the man she cannot love.
XIV
‘Thou shak’st, good friend, thy tresses gray,—That pleading look, what can it sayBut what I own?—I grant him brave,But wild as Bracklinn’s thundering wave;And generous,—save vindictive moodOr jealous transport chafe his blood:I grant him true to friendly band,As his claymore is to his hand;But O! that very blade of steelMore mercy for a foe would feel:I grant him liberal, to flingAmong his clan the wealth they bring,When back by lake and glen they wind,And in the Lowland leave behind,Where once some pleasant hamlet stood,A mass of ashes slaked with blood.The hand that for my father foughtI honor, as his daughter ought;But can I clasp it reeking redFrom peasants slaughtered in their shed?No! wildly while his virtues gleam,They make his passions darker seem,And flash along his spirit high,Like lightning o’er the midnight sky.While yet a child,—and children know,Instinctive taught, the friend and foe,—I shuddered at his brow of gloom,His shadowy plaid and sable plume;A maiden grown, I ill could bearHis haughty mien and lordly air:But, if thou join’st a suitor’s claim,In serious mood, to Roderick’s name.I thrill with anguish! or, if e’erA Douglas knew the word, with fear.To change such odious theme were best,—What think’st thou of our stranger guest? ‘—
XV
‘What think I of him?—woe the whileThat brought such wanderer to our isle!Thy father’s battle-brand, of yoreFor Tine-man forged by fairy lore,What time he leagued, no longer foesHis Border spears with Hotspur’s bows,Did, self-unscabbarded, foreshowThe footstep of a secret foe.If courtly spy hath harbored here,What may we for the Douglas fear?What for this island, deemed of oldClan-Alpine’s last and surest hold?If neither spy nor foe, I prayWhat yet may jealous Roderick say?—Nay, wave not thy disdainful head!Bethink thee of the discord dreadThat kindled when at Beltane gameThou least the dance with Malcolm Graeme;Still, though thy sire the peace renewedSmoulders in Roderick’s breast the feud:Beware!—But hark! what sounds are these?My dull ears catch no faltering breezeNo weeping birch nor aspens wake,Nor breath is dimpling in the lake;Still is the canna’s hoary beard,Yet, by my minstrel faith, I heard—And hark again! some pipe of warSends the hold pibroch from afar.’
XVI
Far up the lengthened lake were spiedFour darkening specks upon the tide,That, slow enlarging on the view,Four manned and massed barges grew,And, bearing downwards from Glengyle,Steered full upon the lonely isle;The point of Brianchoil they passed,And, to the windward as they cast,Against the sun they gave to shineThe bold Sir Roderick’s bannered Pine.Nearer and nearer as they bear,Spears, pikes, and axes flash in air.Now might you see the tartars brave,And plaids and plumage dance and wave:Now see the bonnets sink and rise,As his tough oar the rower plies;See, flashing at each sturdy stroke,The wave ascending into smoke;See the proud pipers on the bow,And mark the gaudy streamers flowFrom their loud chanters down, and sweepThe furrowed bosom of the deep,As, rushing through the lake amain,They plied the ancient Highland strain.
XVII
Ever, as on they bore, more loudAnd louder rung the pibroch proud.At first the sounds, by distance tame,Mellowed along the waters came,And, lingering long by cape and bay,Wailed every harsher note away,Then bursting bolder on the ear,The clan’s shrill Gathering they could hear,Those thrilling sounds that call the mightOf old Clan-Alpine to the fight.Thick beat the rapid notes, as whenThe mustering hundreds shake the glen,And hurrying at the signal dread,‘Fine battered earth returns their tread.Then prelude light, of livelier tone,Expressed their merry marching on,Ere peal of closing battle rose,With mingled outcry, shrieks, and blows;And mimic din of stroke and ward,As broadsword upon target jarred;And groaning pause, ere yet again,Condensed, the battle yelled amain:The rapid charge, the rallying shout,Retreat borne headlong into rout,And bursts of triumph, to declareClan-Alpine’s congest—all were there.Nor ended thus the strain, but slowSunk in a moan prolonged and low,And changed the conquering clarion swellFor wild lament o’er those that fell.
XVIII
The war-pipes ceased, but lake and hillWere busy with their echoes still;And, when they slept, a vocal strainBade their hoarse chorus wake again,While loud a hundred clansmen raiseTheir voices in their Chieftain’s praise.Each boatman, bending to his oar,With measured sweep the burden bore,In such wild cadence as the breezeMakes through December’s leafless trees.The chorus first could Allan know,‘Roderick Vich Alpine, ho! fro!’And near, and nearer as they rowed,Distinct the martial ditty flowed.
XIX
Boat Song
Hail to the Chief who in triumph advances!Honored and blessed be the ever-green Pine!Long may the tree, in his banner that glances,Flourish, the shelter and grace of our line!Heaven send it happy dew,Earth lend it sap anew,Gayly to bourgeon and broadly to grow,While every Highland glenSends our shout back again,‘Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!’
Ours is no sapling, chance-sown by the fountain,
Blooming at Beltane, in winter to fade;When the whirlwind has stripped every leaf on the mountain,The more shall Clan-Alpine exult in her shade.Moored in the rifted rock,Proof to the tempest’s shock,Firmer he roots him the ruder it blow;Menteith and Breadalbane, then,Echo his praise again,‘Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!’
XX
Proudly our pibroch has thrilled in Glen Fruin,And Bannochar’s groans to our slogan replied;Glen Luss and Ross-dhu, they are smoking in ruin,And the best of Loch Lomond lie dead on her side.Widow and Saxon maidLong shall lament our raid,Think of Clan-Alpine with fear and with woe;Lennox and Leven-glenShake when they hear again,‘Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!’
Row, vassals, row, for the pride of the Highlands!Stretch to your oars for the ever-green Pine!O that the rosebud that graces yon islandsWere wreathed in a garland around him to twine!O that some seedling gem,Worthy such noble stem,Honored and blessed in their shadow might grow!Loud should Clan-Alpine thenRing from her deepmost glen,Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!’
XXI
With all her joyful female bandHad Lady Margaret sought the strand.Loose on the breeze their tresses flew,And high their snowy arms they threw,As echoing back with shrill acclaim,And chorus wild, the Chieftain’s name;While, prompt to please, with mother’s artThe darling passion of his heart,The Dame called Ellen to the strand,To greet her kinsman ere he land:‘Come, loiterer, come! a Douglas thou,And shun to wreathe a victor’s brow?’Reluctantly and slow, the maidThe unwelcome summoning obeyed,And when a distant bugle rung,In the mid-path aside she sprung:—‘List, Allan-bane! From mainland castI hear my father’s signal blast.Be ours,’ she cried, ‘the skiff to guide,And waft him from the mountain-side.’Then, like a sunbeam, swift and bright,She darted to her shallop light,And, eagerly while Roderick scanned,For her dear form, his mother’s band,The islet far behind her lay,And she had landed in the bay.
XXII
Some feelings are to mortals givenWith less of earth in them than heaven;And if there be a human tearFrom passion’s dross refined and clear,A tear so limpid and so meekIt would not stain an angel’s cheek,’Tis that which pious fathers shedUpon a duteous daughter’s head!And as the Douglas to his breastHis darling Ellen closely pressed,Such holy drops her tresses steeped,Though ‘t was an hero’s eye that weeped.Nor while on Ellen’s faltering tongueHer filial welcomes crowded hung,Marked she that fear—affection’s proof—Still held a graceful youth aloof;No! not till Douglas named his name,Although the youth was Malcolm Graeme.
XXIII
Allan, with wistful look the while,Marked Roderick landing on the isle;His master piteously he eyed,Then gazed upon the Chieftain’s pride,Then dashed with hasty hand awayFrom his dimmed eye the gathering spray;And Douglas, as his hand he laidOn Malcolm’s shoulder, kindly said:‘Canst thou, young friend, no meaning spyIn my poor follower’s glistening eye?I ‘ll tell thee:—he recalls the dayWhen in my praise he led the layO’er the arched gate of Bothwell proud,While many a minstrel answered loud,When Percy’s Norman pennon, wonIn bloody field, before me shone,And twice ten knights, the least a nameAs mighty as yon Chief may claim,Gracing my pomp, behind me came.Yet trust me, Malcolm, not so proudWas I of all that marshalled crowd,Though the waned crescent owned my might,And in my train trooped lord and knight,Though Blantyre hymned her holiest lays,And Bothwell’s bards flung back my praise,As when this old man’s silent tear,And this poor maid’s affection dear,A welcome give more kind and trueThan aught my better fortunes knew.Forgive, my friend, a father’s boast,—O, it out-beggars all I lost!’
XXIV
Delightful praise!—like summer rose,That brighter in the dew-drop glows,The bashful maiden’s cheek appeared,For Douglas spoke, and Malcolm heard.The flush of shame-faced joy to hide,The hounds, the hawk, her cares divide;The loved caresses of the maidThe dogs with crouch and whimper paid;And, at her whistle, on her handThe falcon took his favorite stand,Closed his dark wing, relaxed his eye,Nor, though unhooded, sought to fly.And, trust, while in such guise she stood,Like fabled Goddess of the wood,That if a father’s partial thoughtO’erweighed her worth and beauty aught,Well might the lover’s judgment failTo balance with a juster scale;For with each secret glance he stole,The fond enthusiast sent his soul.
XXV
Of stature fair, and slender frame,But firmly knit, was Malcolm Graeme.The belted plaid and tartan hoseDid ne’er more graceful limbs disclose;His flaxen hair, of sunny hue,Curled closely round his bonnet blue.Trained to the chase, his eagle eyeThe ptarmigan in snow could spy;Each pass, by mountain, lake, and heath,He knew, through Lennox and Menteith;Vain was the bound of dark-brown doeWhen Malcolm bent his sounding bow,And scarce that doe, though winged with fear,Outstripped in speed the mountaineer:Right up Ben Lomond could he press,And not a sob his toil confess.His form accorded with a mindLively and ardent, frank and kind;A blither heart, till Ellen cameDid never love nor sorrow tame;It danced as lightsome in his breastAs played the feather on his crest.Yet friends, who nearest knew the youthHis scorn of wrong, his zeal for truthAnd bards, who saw his features boldWhen kindled by the tales of oldSaid, were that youth to manhood grown,Not long should Roderick Dhu’s renownBe foremost voiced by mountain fame,But quail to that of Malcolm Graeme.
XXVI
Now back they wend their watery way,And, ‘O my sire!’ did Ellen say,‘Why urge thy chase so far astray?And why so late returned? And why ‘—The rest was in her speaking eye.‘My child, the chase I follow far,’Tis mimicry of noble war;And with that gallant pastime reftWere all of Douglas I have left.I met young Malcolm as I strayedFar eastward, in Glenfinlas’ shadeNor strayed I safe, for all aroundHunters and horsemen scoured the ground.This youth, though still a royal ward,Risked life and land to be my guard,And through the passes of the woodGuided my steps, not unpursued;And Roderick shall his welcome make,Despite old spleen, for Douglas’ sake.Then must he seek Strath-Endrick glenNor peril aught for me again.’
XXVII
Sir Roderick, who to meet them came,Reddened at sight of Malcolm Graeme,Yet, not in action, word, or eye,Failed aught in hospitality.In talk and sport they whiled awayThe morning of that summer day;But at high noon a courier lightHeld secret parley with the knight,Whose moody aspect soon declaredThat evil were the news he heard.Deep thought seemed toiling in his head;Yet was the evening banquet madeEre he assembled round the flameHis mother, Douglas, and the Graeme,And Ellen too; then cast aroundHis eyes, then fixed them on the ground,As studying phrase that might availBest to convey unpleasant tale.Long with his dagger’s hilt he played,Then raised his haughty brow, and said:—
XXVIII
‘Short be my speech;—nor time affords,Nor my plain temper, glozing words.Kinsman and father,—if such nameDouglas vouchsafe to Roderick’s claim;Mine honored mother;—Ellen,—why,My cousin, turn away thine eye?—And Graeme, in whom I hope to knowFull soon a noble friend or foe,When age shall give thee thy command,And leading in thy native land,—List all!—The King’s vindictive prideBoasts to have tamed the Border-side,Where chiefs, with hound and trawl; who cameTo share their monarch’s sylvan game,Themselves in bloody toils were snared,And when the banquet they prepared,And wide their loyal portals flung,O’er their own gateway struggling hung.Loud cries their blood from Meggat’s mead,From Yarrow braes and banks of Tweed,Where the lone streams of Ettrick glide,And from the silver Teviot’s side;The dales, where martial clans did ride,Are now one sheep-walk, waste and wide.This tyrant of the Scottish throne,So faithless and so ruthless known,Now hither comes; his end the same,The same pretext of sylvan game.What grace for Highland Chiefs, judge yeBy fate of Border chivalry.Yet more; amid Glenfinlas’ green,Douglas, thy stately form was seen.This by espial sure I know:Your counsel in the streight I show.’
XXIX
Ellen and Margaret fearfullySought comfort in each other’s eye,Then turned their ghastly look, each one,This to her sire, that to her son.The hasty color went and cameIn the bold cheek of Malcohm Graeme,But from his glance it well appeared‘T was but for Ellen that he feared;While, sorrowful, but undismayed,The Douglas thus his counsel said:‘Brave Roderick, though the tempest roar,It may but thunder and pass o’er;Nor will I here remain an hour,To draw the lightning on thy bower;For well thou know’st, at this gray headThe royal bolt were fiercest sped.For thee, who, at thy King’s command,Canst aid him with a gallant band,Submission, homage, humbled pride,Shall turn the Monarch’s wrath aside.Poor remnants of the Bleeding Heart,Ellen and I will seek apartThe refuge of some forest cell,There, like the hunted quarry, dwell,Till on the mountain and the moorThe stern pursuit be passed and o’er,’—
XXX
‘No, by mine honor,’ Roderick said,‘So help me Heaven, and my good blade!No, never! Blasted be yon Pine,My father’s ancient crest and mine,If from its shade in danger partThe lineage of the Bleeding Heart!Hear my blunt speech: grant me this maidTo wife, thy counsel to mine aid;To Douglas, leagued with Roderick Dhu,Will friends and allies flock enow;Like cause of doubt, distrust, and grief,Will bind to us each Western ChiefWhen the loud pipes my bridal tell,The Links of Forth shall hear the knell,The guards shall start in Stirling’s porch;And when I light the nuptial torch,A thousand villages in flamesShall scare the slumbers of King James!—Nay, Ellen, blench not thus away,And, mother, cease these signs, I pray;I meant not all my heat might say.—Small need of inroad or of fight,When the sage Douglas may uniteEach mountain clan in friendly band,To guard the passes of their land,Till the foiled King from pathless glenShall bootless turn him home again.’
XXXI
There are who have, at midnight hour,In slumber scaled a dizzy tower,And, on the verge that beetled o’erThe ocean tide’s incessant roar,Dreamed calmly out their dangerous dream,Till wakened by the morning beam;When, dazzled by the eastern glow,Such startler cast his glance below,And saw unmeasured depth around,And heard unintermitted sound,And thought the battled fence so frail,It waved like cobweb in the gale;Amid his senses’ giddy wheel,Did he not desperate impulse feel,Headlong to plunge himself below,And meet the worst his fears foreshow?—Thus Ellen, dizzy and astound,As sudden ruin yawned around,By crossing terrors wildly tossed,Still for the Douglas fearing most,Could scarce the desperate thought withstand,To buy his safety with her hand.
XXXII
Such purpose dread could Malcolm spyIn Ellen’s quivering lip and eye,And eager rose to speak,—but ereHis tongue could hurry forth his fear,Had Douglas marked the hectic strife,Where death seemed combating with life;For to her cheek, in feverish flood,One instant rushed the throbbing blood,Then ebbing back, with sudden sway,Left its domain as wan as clay.‘Roderick, enough! enough!’ he cried,‘My daughter cannot be thy bride;Not that the blush to wooer dear,Nor paleness that of maiden fear.It may not be,—forgive her,Chief, Nor hazard aught for our relief.Against his sovereign, Douglas ne’erWill level a rebellious spear.‘T was I that taught his youthful handTo rein a steed and wield a brand;I see him yet, the princely boy!Not Ellen more my pride and joy;I love him still, despite my wrongsBy hasty wrath and slanderous tongues.O. seek the grace you well may find,Without a cause to mine combined!’
XXXIII
Twice through the hall the Chieftain strode;The waving of his tartars broad,And darkened brow, where wounded prideWith ire and disappointment viedSeemed, by the torch’s gloomy light,Like the ill Demon of the night,Stooping his pinions’ shadowy swayUpon the righted pilgrim’s way:But, unrequited Love! thy dartPlunged deepest its envenomed smart,And Roderick, with thine anguish stung,At length the hand of Douglas wrung,While eyes that mocked at tears beforeWith bitter drops were running o’er.The death-pangs of long-cherished hopeScarce in that ample breast had scopeBut, struggling with his spirit proud,Convulsive heaved its checkered shroud,While every sob—so mute were allWas heard distinctly through the ball.The son’s despair, the mother’s look,III might the gentle Ellen brook;She rose, and to her side there came,To aid her parting steps, the Graeme.
XXXIV
Then Roderick from the Douglas broke—As flashes flame through sable smoke,Kindling its wreaths, long, dark, and low,To one broad blaze of ruddy glow,So the deep anguish of despairBurst, in fierce jealousy, to air.With stalwart grasp his hand he laidOn Malcolm’s breast and belted plaid:‘Back, beardless boy!’ he sternly said,‘Back, minion! holdst thou thus at naughtThe lesson I so lately taught?This roof, the Douglas, and that maid,Thank thou for punishment delayed.’Eager as greyhound on his game,Fiercely with Roderick grappled Graeme.‘Perish my name, if aught affordIts Chieftain safety save his sword!’Thus as they strove their desperate handGriped to the dagger or the brand,And death had been—but Douglas rose,And thrust between the struggling foesHis giant strength:—‘ Chieftains, forego!I hold the first who strikes my foe.—Madmen, forbear your frantic jar!What! is the Douglas fallen so far,His daughter’s hand is deemed the spoilOf such dishonorable broil?’Sullen and slowly they unclasp,As struck with shame, their desperate grasp,And each upon his rival glared,With foot advanced and blade half bared.
XXXV
Ere yet the brands aloft were flung,Margaret on Roderick’s mantle hung,And Malcolm heard his Ellen’s scream,As faltered through terrific dream.Then Roderick plunged in sheath his sword,And veiled his wrath in scornful word:’Rest safe till morning; pity ‘t wereSuch cheek should feel the midnight air!Then mayst thou to James Stuart tell,Roderick will keep the lake and fell,Nor lackey with his freeborn clanThe pageant pomp of earthly man.More would he of Clan-Alpine know,Thou canst our strength and passes show.—Malise, what ho!’—his henchman came:‘Give our safe-conduct to the Graeme.’Young Malcolm answered, calm and bold:’Fear nothing for thy favorite hold;The spot an angel deigned to graceIs blessed, though robbers haunt the place.Thy churlish courtesy for thoseReserve, who fear to be thy foes.As safe to me the mountain wayAt midnight as in blaze of day,Though with his boldest at his backEven Roderick Dhu beset the track.—Brave Douglas,—lovely Ellen,—nay,Naught here of parting will I say.Earth does not hold a lonesome glenSo secret but we meet again.—Chieftain! we too shall find an hour,’—He said, and left the sylvan bower.
XXXVI
Old Allan followed to the strand—Such was the Douglas’s command—And anxious told, how, on the morn,The stern Sir Roderick deep had sworn,The Fiery Cross should circle o’erDale, glen, and valley, down and moorMuch were the peril to the GraemeFrom those who to the signal came;Far up the lake ‘t were safest land,Himself would row him to the strand.He gave his counsel to the wind,While Malcolm did, unheeding, bind,Round dirk and pouch and broadsword rolled,His ample plaid in tightened fold,And stripped his limbs to such arrayAs best might suit the watery way,—
XXXVII
Then spoke abrupt: ‘Farewell to thee,Pattern of old fidelity!’The Minstrel’s hand he kindly pressed,—‘O, could I point a place of rest!My sovereign holds in ward my land,My uncle leads my vassal band;To tame his foes, his friends to aid,Poor Malcolm has but heart and blade.Yet, if there be one faithful GraemeWho loves the chieftain of his name,Not long shall honored Douglas dwellLike hunted stag in mountain cell;Nor, ere yon pride-swollen robber dare,—I may not give the rest to air!Tell Roderick Dhu I owed him naught,Not tile poor service of a boat,To waft me to yon mountain-side.’Then plunged he in the flashing tide.Bold o’er the flood his head he bore,And stoutly steered him from the shore;And Allan strained his anxious eye,Far mid the lake his form to spy,Darkening across each puny wave,To which the moon her silver gave.Fast as the cormorant could skim.The swimmer plied each active limb;Then landing in the moonlight dell,Loud shouted of his weal to tell.The Minstrel heard the far halloo,And joyful from the shore withdrew.