Canto Third
The Gathering
I
Time rolls his ceaseless course. The race of yore,Who danced our infancy upon their knee,And told our marvelling boyhood legends storeOf their strange ventures happed by land or sea,How are they blotted from the things that be!How few, all weak and withered of their force,Wait on the verge of dark eternity,Like stranded wrecks, the tide returning hoarse,To sweep them from out sight! Time rolls his ceaseless course.
Yet live there still who can remember well,How, when a mountain chief his bugle blew,Both field and forest, dingle, cliff; and dell,And solitary heath, the signal knew;And fast the faithful clan around him drew.What time the warning note was keenly wound,What time aloft their kindred banner flew,While clamorous war-pipes yelled the gathering sound,And while the Fiery Cross glanced like a meteor, round.
II
The Summer dawn’s reflected hueTo purple changed Loch Katrine blue;Mildly and soft the western breezeJust kissed the lake, just stirred the trees,And the pleased lake, like maiden coy,Trembled but dimpled not for joyThe mountain-shadows on her breastWere neither broken nor at rest;In bright uncertainty they lie,Like future joys to Fancy’s eye.The water-lily to the lightHer chalice reared of silver bright;The doe awoke, and to the lawn,Begemmed with dew-drops, led her fawn;The gray mist left the mountain-side,The torrent showed its glistening pride;Invisible in flecked sky The lark sent clown her revelry:The blackbird and the speckled thrushGood-morrow gave from brake and bush;In answer cooed the cushat doveHer notes of peace and rest and love.
III
No thought of peace, no thought of rest,Assuaged the storm in Roderick’s breast.With sheathed broadsword in his hand,Abrupt he paced the islet strand,And eyed the rising sun, and laidHis hand on his impatient blade.Beneath a rock, his vassals’ careWas prompt the ritual to prepare,With deep and deathful meaning fraught;For such Antiquity had taughtWas preface meet, ere yet abroadThe Cross of Fire should take its road.The shrinking band stood oft aghastAt the impatient glance he cast;—Such glance the mountain eagle threw,As, from the cliffs of Benvenue,She spread her dark sails on the wind,And, high in middle heaven reclined,With her broad shadow on the lake,Silenced the warblers of the brake.
IV
A heap of withered boughs was piled,Of juniper and rowan wild,Mingled with shivers from the oak,Rent by the lightning’s recent stroke.Brian the Hermit by it stood,Barefooted, in his frock and hood.His grizzled beard and matted hairObscured a visage of despair;His naked arms and legs, seamed o’er,The scars of frantic penance bore.That monk, of savage form and faceThe impending danger of his raceHad drawn from deepest solitudeFar in Benharrow’s bosom rude.Not his the mien of Christian priest,But Druid’s, from the grave releasedWhose hardened heart and eye might brookOn human sacrifice to look;And much, ‘t was said, of heathen loreMixed in the charms he muttered o’er.The hallowed creed gave only worseAnd deadlier emphasis of curse.No peasant sought that Hermit’s prayerHis cave the pilgrim shunned with care,The eager huntsman knew his boundAnd in mid chase called off his hound;’Or if, in lonely glen or strath,The desert-dweller met his pathHe prayed, and signed the cross between,While terror took devotion’s mien.
V
Of Brian’s birth strange tales were told.His mother watched a midnight fold,Built deep within a dreary glen,Where scattered lay the bones of menIn some forgotten battle slain,And bleached by drifting wind and rain.It might have tamed a warrior’s heartTo view such mockery of his art!The knot-grass fettered there the handWhich once could burst an iron band;Beneath the broad and ample bone,That bucklered heart to fear unknown,A feeble and a timorous guest,The fieldfare framed her lowly nest;There the slow blindworm left his slimeOn the fleet limbs that mocked at time;And there, too, lay the leader’s skullStill wreathed with chaplet, flushed and full,For heath-bell with her purple bloomSupplied the bonnet and the plume.All night, in this sad glen the maidSat shrouded in her mantle’s shade:She said no shepherd sought her side,No hunter’s hand her snood untied.Yet ne’er again to braid her hairThe virgin snood did Alive wear;Gone was her maiden glee and sport,Her maiden girdle all too short,Nor sought she, from that fatal night,Or holy church or blessed riteBut locked her secret in her breast,And died in travail, unconfessed.
VI
Alone, among his young compeers,Was Brian from his infant years;A moody and heart-broken boy,Estranged from sympathy and joyBearing each taunt which careless tongueOn his mysterious lineage flung.Whole nights he spent by moonlight paleTo wood and stream his teal, to wail,Till, frantic, he as truth receivedWhat of his birth the crowd believed,And sought, in mist and meteor fire,To meet and know his Phantom Sire!In vain, to soothe his wayward fate,The cloister oped her pitying gate;In vain the learning of the ageUnclasped the sable-lettered page;Even in its treasures he could findFood for the fever of his mind.Eager he read whatever tellsOf magic, cabala, and spells,And every dark pursuit alliedTo curious and presumptuous pride;Till with fired brain and nerves o’erstrung,And heart with mystic horrors wrung,Desperate he sought Benharrow’s den,And hid him from the haunts of men.
VII
The desert gave him visions wild,Such as might suit the spectre’s child.Where with black cliffs the torrents toil,He watched the wheeling eddies boil,Jill from their foam his dazzled eyesBeheld the River Demon rise:The mountain mist took form and limbOf noontide hag or goblin grim;The midnight wind came wild and dread,Swelled with the voices of the dead;Far on the future battle-heathHis eye beheld the ranks of death:Thus the lone Seer, from mankind hurled,Shaped forth a disembodied world.One lingering sympathy of mindStill bound him to the mortal kind;The only parent he could claimOf ancient Alpine’s lineage came.Late had he heard, in prophet’s dream,The fatal Ben-Shie’s boding scream;Sounds, too, had come in midnight blastOf charging steeds, careering fastAlong Benharrow’s shingly side,Where mortal horseman ne’er might ride;The thunderbolt had split the pine,—All augured ill to Alpine’s line.He girt his loins, and came to showThe signals of impending woe,And now stood prompt to bless or ban,As bade the Chieftain of his clan.
VIII
‘T was all prepared;—and from the rockA goat, the patriarch of the flock,Before the kindling pile was laid,And pierced by Roderick’s ready blade.Patient the sickening victim eyedThe life-blood ebb in crimson tideDown his clogged beard and shaggy limb,Till darkness glazed his eyeballs dim.The grisly priest, with murmuring prayer,A slender crosslet framed with care,A cubit’s length in measure due;The shaft and limbs were rods of yew,Whose parents in Inch-Cailliach waveTheir shadows o’er Clan-Alpine’s grave,And, answering Lomond’s breezes deep,Soothe many a chieftain’s endless sleep.The Cross thus formed he held on high,With wasted hand and haggard eye,And strange and mingled feelings woke,While his anathema he spoke:—
IX
‘Woe to the clansman who shall viewThis symbol of sepulchral yew,Forgetful that its branches grewWhere weep the heavens their holiest dewOn Alpine’s dwelling low!Deserter of his Chieftain’s trust,He ne’er shall mingle with their dust,But, from his sires and kindred thrust,Each clansman’s execration justShall doom him wrath and woe.’He paused;—the word the vassals took,With forward step and fiery look,On high their naked brands they shook,Their clattering targets wildly strook;And first in murmur low,Then like the billow in his course,That far to seaward finds his source,And flings to shore his mustered force,Burst with loud roar their answer hoarse,‘Woe to the traitor, woe!’Ben-an’s gray scalp the accents knew,The joyous wolf from covert drew,The exulting eagle screamed afar,—They knew the voice of Alpine’s war.
X
The shout was hushed on lake and fell,The Monk resumed his muttered spell:Dismal and low its accents came,The while he scathed the Cross with flame;And the few words that reached the air,Although the holiest name was there,Had more of blasphemy than prayer.But when he shook above the crowdIts kindled points, he spoke aloud:—‘Woe to the wretch who fails to rearAt this dread sign the ready spear!For, as the flames this symbol sear,His home, the refuge of his fear,A kindred fate shall know;Far o’er its roof the volumed flameClan-Alpine’s vengeance shall proclaim,While maids and matrons on his nameShall call down wretchedness and shame,And infamy and woe.’Then rose the cry of females, shrillAs goshawk’s whistle on the hill,Denouncing misery and ill,Mingled with childhood’s babbling trillOf curses stammered slow;Answering with imprecation dread,‘Sunk be his home in embers red!And cursed be the meanest shedThat o’er shall hide the houseless headWe doom to want and woe!’A sharp and shrieking echo gave,Coir-Uriskin, thy goblin cave!And the gray pass where birches waveOn Beala-nam-bo.
XI
Then deeper paused the priest anew,And hard his laboring breath he drew,While, with set teeth and clenched hand,And eyes that glowed like fiery brand,He meditated curse more dread,And deadlier, on the clansman’s headWho, summoned to his chieftain’s aid,The signal saw and disobeyed.The crosslet’s points of sparkling woodHe quenched among the bubbling blood.And, as again the sign he reared,Hollow and hoarse his voice was heard:‘When flits this Cross from man to man,Vich-Alpine’s summons to his clan,Burst be the ear that fails to heed!Palsied the foot that shuns to speed!May ravens tear the careless eyes,Wolves make the coward heart their prize!As sinks that blood-stream in the earth,So may his heart’s-blood drench his hearth!As dies in hissing gore the spark,Quench thou his light, Destruction dark!And be the grace to him denied,Bought by this sign to all beside!He ceased; no echo gave againThe murmur of the deep Amen.
XII
Then Roderick with impatient lookFrom Brian’s hand the symbol took:‘Speed, Malise, speed’ he said, and gaveThe crosslet to his henchman brave.‘The muster-place be Lanrick mead—Instant the time—speed, Malise, speed!’Like heath-bird, when the hawks pursue,A barge across Loch Katrine flew:High stood the henchman on the prow;So rapidly the barge-mall row,The bubbles, where they launched the boat,Were all unbroken and afloat,Dancing in foam and ripple still,When it had neared the mainland hill;And from the silver beach’s sideStill was the prow three fathom wide,When lightly bounded to the landThe messenger of blood and brand.
XIII
Speed, Malise, speed! the dun deer’s hideOn fleeter foot was never tied.Speed, Malise, speed! such cause of hasteThine active sinews never braced.Bend ’gainst the steepy hill thy breast,Burst down like torrent from its crest;With short and springing footstep passThe trembling bog and false morass;Across the brook like roebuck bound,And thread the brake like questing hound;The crag is high, the scaur is deep,Yet shrink not from the desperate leap:Parched are thy burning lips and brow,Yet by the fountain pause not now;Herald of battle, fate, and fear,Stretch onward in thy fleet career!The wounded hind thou track’st not now,Pursuest not maid through greenwood bough,Nor priest thou now thy flying paceWith rivals in the mountain race;But danger, death, and warrior deedAre in thy course—speed, Malise, speed!
XIV
Fast as the fatal symbol flies,In arms the huts and hamlets rise;From winding glen, from upland brown,They poured each hardy tenant down.Nor slacked the messenger his pace;He showed the sign, he named the place,And, pressing forward like the wind,Left clamor and surprise behind.The fisherman forsook the strand,The swarthy smith took dirk and brand;With changed cheer, the mower blitheLeft in the half-cut swath his scythe;The herds without a keeper strayed,The plough was in mid-furrow staved,The falconer tossed his hawk away,The hunter left the stag at hay;Prompt at the signal of alarms,Each son of Alpine rushed to arms;So swept the tumult and affrayAlong the margin of Achray.Alas, thou lovely lake! that e’erThy banks should echo sounds of fear!The rocks, the bosky thickets, sleepSo stilly on thy bosom deep,The lark’s blithe carol from the cloudSeems for the scene too gayly loud.
XV
Speed, Malise, speed! The lake is past,Duncraggan’s huts appear at last,And peep, like moss-grown rocks, half seenHalf hidden in the copse so green;There mayst thou rest, thy labor done,Their lord shall speed the signal on.—As stoops the hawk upon his prey,The henchman shot him down the way.What woful accents load the gale?The funeral yell, the female wail!A gallant hunter’s sport is o’er,A valiant warrior fights no more.Who, in the battle or the chase,At Roderick’s side shall fill his place!—Within the hall, where torch’s raySupplies the excluded beams of day,Lies Duncan on his lowly bier,And o’er him streams his widow’s tear.His stripling son stands mournful by,His youngest weeps, but knows not why;The village maids and matrons roundThe dismal coronach resound.
XVI
Coronach.
He is gone on the mountain,He is lost to the forest,Like a summer-dried fountain,When our need was the sorest.The font, reappearing,From the rain-drops shall borrow,But to us comes no cheering,To Duncan no morrow!
The hand of the reaperTakes the ears that are hoary,But the voice of the weeperWails manhood in glory.The autumn winds rushingWaft the leaves that are searest,But our flower was in flushing,When blighting was nearest.
Fleet foot on the correi,Sage counsel in cumber,Red hand in the foray,How sound is thy slumber!Like the dew on the mountain,Like the foam on the river,Like the bubble on the fountain,Thou art gone, and forever!
XVII
See Stumah, who, the bier besideHis master’s corpse with wonder eyed,Poor Stumah! whom his least hallooCould send like lightning o’er the dew,Bristles his crest, and points his ears,As if some stranger step he hears.‘T is not a mourner’s muffled tread,Who comes to sorrow o’er the dead,But headlong haste or deadly fearUrge the precipitate career.All stand aghast:—unheeding all,The henchman bursts into the hall;Before the dead man’s bier he stood,Held forth the Cross besmeared with blood;‘The muster-place is Lanrick mead;Speed forth the signal! clansmen, speed!’
Xviii,
Angus, the heir of Duncan’s line,Sprung forth and seized the fatal sign.In haste the stripling to his sideHis father’s dirk and broadsword tied;But when he saw his mother’s eyeWatch him in speechless agony,Back to her opened arms he flewPressed on her lips a fond adieu,—‘Alas’ she sobbed,—‘and yet be gone,And speed thee forth, like Duncan’s son!’One look he cast upon the bier,Dashed from his eye the gathering tear,Breathed deep to clear his laboring breast,And tossed aloft his bonnet crest,Then, like the high-bred colt when, freed,First he essays his fire and speed,He vanished, and o’er moor and mossSped forward with the Fiery Cross.Suspended was the widow’s tearWhile yet his footsteps she could hear;And when she marked the henchman’s eyeWet with unwonted sympathy,‘Kinsman,’ she said, ‘his race is runThat should have sped thine errand on.The oak teas fallen?—the sapling bough Is allDuncraggan’s shelter nowYet trust I well, his duty done,The orphan’s God will guard my son.—And you, in many a danger trueAt Duncan’s hest your blades that drew,To arms, and guard that orphan’s head!Let babes and women wail the dead.’Then weapon-clang and martial callResounded through the funeral hall,While from the walls the attendant bandSnatched sword and targe with hurried hand;And short and flitting energyGlanced from the mourner’s sunken eye,As if the sounds to warrior dearMight rouse her Duncan from his bier.But faded soon that borrowed force;Grief claimed his right, and tears their course.
XIX
Benledi saw the Cross of Fire,It glanced like lightning up Strath-Ire.O’er dale and hill the summons flew,Nor rest nor pause young Angus knew;The tear that gathered in his eyeHe deft the mountain-breeze to dry;Until, where Teith’s young waters rollBetwixt him and a wooded knollThat graced the sable strath with green,The chapel of Saint Bride was seen.Swoln was the stream, remote the bridge,But Angus paused not on the edge;Though the clerk waves danced dizzily,Though reeled his sympathetic eye,He dashed amid the torrent’s roar:His right hand high the crosslet bore,His left the pole-axe grasped, to guideAnd stay his footing in the tide.He stumbled twice,—the foam splashed high,With hoarser swell the stream raced by;And had he fallen,—forever there,Farewell Duncraggan’s orphan heir!But still, as if in parting life,Firmer he grasped the Cross of strife,Until the opposing bank he gained,And up the chapel pathway strained.A blithesome rout that morning-tideHad sought the chapel of Saint Bride.Her troth Tombea’s Mary gaveTo Norman, heir of Armandave,And, issuing from the Gothic arch,The bridal now resumed their march.In rude but glad procession cameBonneted sire and coif-clad dame;And plaided youth, with jest and jeerWhich snooded maiden would not hear:And children, that, unwitting why,Lent the gay shout their shrilly cry;And minstrels, that in measures viedBefore the young and bonny bride,Whose downcast eye and cheek discloseThe tear and blush of morning rose.With virgin step and bashful handShe held the kerchief’s snowy band.The gallant bridegroom by her sideBeheld his prize with victor’s pride.And the glad mother in her earWas closely whispering word of cheer.
XXI
Who meets them at the churchyard gate?The messenger of fear and fate!Haste in his hurried accent lies,And grief is swimming in his eyes.All dripping from the recent flood,Panting and travel-soiled he stood,The fatal sign of fire and swordHeld forth, and spoke the appointed word:‘The muster-place is Lanrick mead;Speed forth the signal! Norman, speed!’And must he change so soon the handJust linked to his by holy band,For the fell Cross of blood and brand?And must the day so blithe that rose,And promised rapture in the close,Before its setting hour, divideThe bridegroom from the plighted bride?O fatal doom’—it must! it must!Clan-Alpine’s cause, her Chieftain’s trust,Her summons dread, brook no delay;Stretch to the race,—away! away!
XXII
Yet slow he laid his plaid aside,And lingering eyed his lovely bride,Until he saw the starting tearSpeak woe he might not stop to cheer:Then, trusting not a second look,In haste he sped hind up the brook,Nor backward glanced till on the heathWhere Lubnaig’s lake supplies the Teith,—What in the racer’s bosom stirred?The sickening pang of hope deferred,And memory with a torturing trainOf all his morning visions vain.Mingled with love’s impatience, cameThe manly thirst for martial fame;The stormy joy of mountaineersEre yet they rush upon the spears;And zeal for Clan and Chieftain burning,And hope, from well-fought field returning,With war’s red honors on his crest,To clasp his Mary to his breast.Stung by such thoughts, o’er bank and brae,Like fire from flint he glanced away,While high resolve and feeling strongBurst into voluntary song.
XXIII
Song.
The heath this night must be my bed,The bracken curtain for my head,My lullaby the warder’s tread,Far, far, from love and thee, Mary;To-morrow eve, more stilly laid,My couch may be my bloody plaid,My vesper song thy wail, sweet maid!It will not waken me, Mary!
I may not, dare not, fancy nowThe grief that clouds thy lovely brow,I dare not think upon thy vow,And all it promised me, Mary.No fond regret must Norman know;When bursts Clan-Alpine on the foe,His heart must be like bended bow,His foot like arrow free, Mary.
A time will come with feeling fraught,For, if I fall in battle fought,Thy hapless lover’s dying thoughtShall be a thought on thee, Mary.And if returned from conquered foes,How blithely will the evening close,How sweet the linnet sing repose,To my young bride and me, Mary!
XXIV
Not faster o’er thy heathery braesBalquidder, speeds the midnight blaze,Rushing in conflagration strongThy deep ravines and dells along,Wrapping thy cliffs in purple glow,And reddening the dark lakes below;Nor faster speeds it, nor so far,As o’er thy heaths the voice of war.The signal roused to martial coilThe sullen margin of Loch Voil,Waked still Loch Doine, and to the sourceAlarmed, Balvaig, thy swampy course;Thence southward turned its rapid roadAdown Strath-Gartney’s valley broadTill rose in arms each man might claimA portion in Clan-Alpine’s name,From the gray sire, whose trembling handCould hardly buckle on his brand,To the raw boy, whose shaft and bowWere yet scarce terror to the crow.Each valley, each sequestered glen,Mustered its little horde of menThat met as torrents from the heightIn Highland dales their streams uniteStill gathering, as they pour along,A voice more loud, a tide more strong,Till at the rendezvous they stoodBy hundreds prompt for blows and blood,Each trained to arms since life began,Owning no tie but to his clan,No oath but by his chieftain’s hand,No law but Roderick Dhu’s command.
XXV
That summer morn had Roderick DhuSurveyed the skirts of Benvenue,And sent his scouts o’er hill and heath,To view the frontiers of Menteith.All backward came with news of truce;Still lay each martial Graeme and Bruce,In Rednock courts no horsemen wait,No banner waved on Cardross gate,On Duchray’s towers no beacon shone,Nor scared the herons from Loch Con;All seemed at peace.—Now wot ye wilyThe Chieftain with such anxious eye,Ere to the muster he repair,This western frontier scanned with care?—In Benvenue’s most darksome cleft,A fair though cruel pledge was left;For Douglas, to his promise true,That morning from the isle withdrew,And in a deep sequestered dellHad sought a low and lonely cell.By many a bard in Celtic tongueHas Coir-nan-Uriskin been sungA softer name the Saxons gave,And called the grot the Goblin Cave.
XXVI
It was a wild and strange retreat,As e’er was trod by outlaw’s feet.The dell, upon the mountain’s crest,Yawned like a gash on warrior’s breast;Its trench had stayed full many a rock,Hurled by primeval earthquake shockFrom Benvenue’s gray summit wild,And here, in random ruin piled,They frowned incumbent o’er the spotAnd formed the rugged sylvan “rot.The oak and birch with mingled shadeAt noontide there a twilight made,Unless when short and sudden shoneSome straggling beam on cliff or stone,With such a glimpse as prophet’s eyeGains on thy depth, Futurity.No murmur waked the solemn still,Save tinkling of a fountain rill;But when the wind chafed with the lake,A sullen sound would upward break,With dashing hollow voice, that spokeThe incessant war of wave and rock.Suspended cliffs with hideous swaySeemed nodding o’er the cavern gray.From such a den the wolf had sprung,In such the wild-cat leaves her young;Yet Douglas and his daughter fairSought for a space their safety there.Gray Superstition’s whisper dreadDebarred the spot to vulgar tread;For there, she said, did fays resort,And satyrs hold their sylvan court,By moonlight tread their mystic maze,And blast the rash beholder’s gaze.
XXVII
Now eve, with western shadows long,Floated on Katrine bright and strong,When Roderick with a chosen fewRepassed the heights of Benvenue.Above the Goblin Cave they go,Through the wild pass of Beal-nam-bo;The prompt retainers speed before,To launch the shallop from the shore,For ‘cross Loch Katrine lies his wayTo view the passes of Achray,And place his clansmen in array.Yet lags the Chief in musing mind,Unwonted sight, his men behind.A single page, to bear his sword,Alone attended on his lord;The rest their way through thickets break,And soon await him by the lake.It was a fair and gallant sightTo view them from the neighboring height,By the low-levelled sunbeam’s light!For strength and stature, from the clanEach warrior was a chosen man,As even afar might well be seen,By their proud step and martial mien.Their feathers dance, their tartars float,Their targets gleam, as by the boatA wild and warlike group they stand,That well became such mountain-strand.
XXVI
Their Chief with step reluctant stillWas lingering on the craggy hill,Hard by where turned apart the roadTo Douglas’s obscure abode.It was but with that dawning mornThat Roderick Dhu had proudly swornTo drown his love in war’s wild roar,Nor think of Ellen Douglas more;But he who stems a stream with sand,And fetters flame with flaxen band,Has yet a harder task to prove,—By firm resolve to conquer love!Eve finds the Chief, like restless ghost,Still hovering near his treasure lost;For though his haughty heart denyA parting meeting to his eyeStill fondly strains his anxious earThe accents of her voice to hear,And inly did he curse the breezeThat waked to sound the rustling trees.But hark! what mingles in the strain?It is the harp of Allan-bane,That wakes its measure slow and high,Attuned to sacred minstrelsy.What melting voice attends the strings?’Tis Ellen, or an angel, sings.
XXIX
Hymn to the Virgin.
Ave. Maria! maiden mild!Listen to a maiden’s prayer!Thou canst hear though from the wild,Thou canst save amid despair.Safe may we sleep beneath thy care,Though banished, outcast, and reviled—Maiden! hear a maiden’s prayer;Mother, hear a suppliant child!Ave Maria!
Ave Maria! undefiled!The flinty couch we now must shareShall seem with down of eider piled,If thy protection hover there.The murky cavern’s heavy airShall breathe of balm if thou hast smiled;Then, Maiden! hear a maiden’s prayer,Mother, list a suppliant child!Ave Maria!
Ave. Maria! stainless styled!Foul demons of the earth and air,From this their wonted haunt exiled,Shall flee before thy presence fair.We bow us to our lot of care,Beneath thy guidance reconciled:Hear for a maid a maiden’s prayer,And for a father hear a child!Ave Maria!
XXX
Died on the harp the closing hymn,—Unmoved in attitude and limb,As listening still, Clan-Alpine’s lordStood leaning on his heavy sword,Until the page with humble signTwice pointed to the sun’s decline.Then while his plaid he round him cast,‘It is the last time—’tis the last,’He muttered thrice,—‘the last time e’erThat angel-voice shall Roderick hear’’It was a goading thought,—his strideHied hastier down the mountain-side;Sullen he flung him in the boatAn instant ‘cross the lake it shot.They landed in that silvery bay,And eastward held their hasty wayTill, with the latest beams of light,The band arrived on Lanrick height’Where mustered in the vale belowClan-Alpine’s men in martial show.
XXXI
A various scene the clansmen made:Some sat, some stood, some slowly strayed:But most, with mantles folded round,Were couched to rest upon the ground,Scarce to be known by curious eyeFrom the deep heather where they lie,So well was matched the tartan screenWith heath-bell dark and brackens green;Unless where, here and there, a bladeOr lance’s point a glimmer made,Like glow-worm twinkling through the shade.But when, advancing through the gloom,They saw the Chieftain’s eagle plume,Their shout of welcome, shrill and wide,Shook the steep mountain’s steady side.Thrice it arose, and lake and fellThree times returned the martial yell;It died upon Bochastle’s plain,And Silence claimed her evening reign.