XVIII,

Angus, the heir of Duncan's line,

Sprung forth and seized the fatal sign.

In haste the stripling to his side

His father's dirk and broadsword tied;

But when he saw his mother's eye

Watch him in speechless agony,

Back to her opened arms he flew

Pressed 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 moss

Sped forward with the Fiery Cross.

Suspended was the widow's tear

While yet his footsteps she could hear;

And when she marked the henchman's eye

Wet with unwonted sympathy,

‘ Kinsman,’ she said,‘ his race is run

That should have sped thine errand on.

The oak teas fallen?— the sapling bough Is all

Duncraggan's shelter now

Yet trust I well, his duty done,

The orphan's God will guard my son.—

And you, in many a danger true

At 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 call

Resounded through the funeral hall,

While from the walls the attendant band

Snatched sword and targe with hurried hand;

And short and flitting energy

Glanced from the mourner's sunken eye,

As if the sounds to warrior dear

Might rouse her Duncan from his bier.

But faded soon that borrowed force;

Grief claimed his right, and tears their course.

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 eye

He deft the mountain-breeze to dry;

Until, where Teith's young waters roll

Betwixt him and a wooded knoll

That 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 guide

And 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-tide

Had sought the chapel of Saint Bride.

Her troth Tombea's Mary gave

To Norman, heir of Armandave,

And, issuing from the Gothic arch,

The bridal now resumed their march.

In rude but glad procession came

Bonneted sire and coif-clad dame;

And plaided youth, with jest and jeer

Which snooded maiden would not hear:

And children, that, unwitting why,

Lent the gay shout their shrilly cry;

And minstrels, that in measures vied

Before the young and bonny bride,

Whose downcast eye and cheek disclose

The tear and blush of morning rose.

With virgin step and bashful hand

She held the kerchief's snowy band.

The gallant bridegroom by her side

Beheld his prize with victor's pride.

And the glad mother in her ear

Was closely whispering word of cheer.

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 sword

Held 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 hand

Just 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, divide

The 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!

Yet slow he laid his plaid aside,

And lingering eyed his lovely bride,

Until he saw the starting tear

Speak 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 heath

Where Lubnaig's lake supplies the Teith,—

What in the racer's bosom stirred?

The sickening pang of hope deferred,

And memory with a torturing train

Of all his morning visions vain.

Mingled with love's impatience, came

The manly thirst for martial fame;

The stormy joy of mountaineers

Ere 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 strong

Burst into voluntary 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 now

The 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 thought

Shall 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!

Not faster o'er thy heathery braes

Balquidder, speeds the midnight blaze,

Rushing in conflagration strong

Thy 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 coil

The sullen margin of Loch Voil,

Waked still Loch Doine, and to the source

Alarmed, Balvaig, thy swampy course;

Thence southward turned its rapid road

Adown Strath-Gartney's valley broad

Till rose in arms each man might claim

A portion in Clan-Alpine's name,

From the gray sire, whose trembling hand

Could hardly buckle on his brand,

To the raw boy, whose shaft and bow

Were yet scarce terror to the crow.

Each valley, each sequestered glen,

Mustered its little horde of men

That met as torrents from the height

In Highland dales their streams unite

Still gathering, as they pour along,

A voice more loud, a tide more strong,

Till at the rendezvous they stood

By 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.

That summer morn had Roderick Dhu

Surveyed 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 wily

The 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 dell

Had sought a low and lonely cell.

By many a bard in Celtic tongue

Has Coir-nan-Uriskin been sung

A softer name the Saxons gave,

And called the grot the Goblin Cave.

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 shock

From Benvenue's gray summit wild,

And here, in random ruin piled,

They frowned incumbent o'er the spot

And formed the rugged sylvan “rot.

The oak and birch with mingled shade

At noontide there a twilight made,

Unless when short and sudden shone

Some straggling beam on cliff or stone,

With such a glimpse as prophet's eye

Gains 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 spoke

The incessant war of wave and rock.

Suspended cliffs with hideous sway

Seemed 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 fair

Sought for a space their safety there.

Gray Superstition's whisper dread

Debarred 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.

Now eve, with western shadows long,

Floated on Katrine bright and strong,

When Roderick with a chosen few

Repassed 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 way

To 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 sight

To view them from the neighboring height,

By the low-levelled sunbeam's light!

For strength and stature, from the clan

Each warrior was a chosen man,

As even afar might well be seen,

By their proud step and martial mien.

Heir feathers dance, their tartars float,

Their targets gleam, as by the boat

A wild and warlike group they stand,

That well became such mountain-strand.

Their Chief with step reluctant still

Was lingering on the craggy hill,

Hard by where turned apart the road

To Douglas's obscure abode.

It was but with that dawning morn

That Roderick Dhu had proudly sworn

To 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 deny

A parting meeting to his eye

Still fondly strains his anxious ear

The accents of her voice to hear,

And inly did he curse the breeze

That 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.

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 share

Shall seem with down of eider piled,

If thy protection hover there.

The murky cavern's heavy air

Shall 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!

Died on the harp the closing hymn,—

Unmoved in attitude and limb,

As listening still, Clan-Alpine's lord

Stood leaning on his heavy sword,

Until the page with humble sign

Twice 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'er

That angel-voice shall Roderick hear'’

It was a goading thought,— his stride

Hied hastier down the mountain-side;

Sullen he flung him in the boat

An instant‘ cross the lake it shot.

They landed in that silvery bay,

And eastward held their hasty way

Till, with the latest beams of light,

The band arrived on Lanrick height’

Where mustered in the vale below

Clan-Alpine's men in martial show.

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 eye

From the deep heather where they lie,

So well was matched the tartan screen

With heath-bell dark and brackens green;

Unless where, here and there, a blade

Or 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 fell

Three times returned the martial yell;

It died upon Bochastle's plain,

And Silence claimed her evening reign.