Right opposite, the mainland towers
Of my own Turnberry court our powers
Might not my father's beadsman hoar,
Cuthbert, who dwells upon the shore,
Kindle a signal-flame to show

The time propitious for the blow?

It shall be so

some friend shall bear

Our mandate with despatch and care;
Edward shall find the messenger.
That fortress ours, the island fleet
May on the coast of Carrick meet.
O Scotland! shall it e'er be mine
To wreak thy wrongs in battle-line,
To raise my victor-head, and see
Thy hills, thy dales, thy people free,
That glance of bliss is all I crave
Betwixt my labours and my grave!'
Then down the hill he slowly went,
Oft pausing on the steep descent,

And reached the spot where his bold train Held rustic camp upon the plain.

CANTO FIFTH

I

ON fair Loch-Ranza streamed the early day, Thin wreaths of cottage-smoke are upward curled From the lone hamlet which her inland bay And circling mountains sever from the world. And there the fisherman his sail unfurled, The goat-herd drove his kids to steep Ben-Ghoil, Before the hut the dame her spindle twirled, Courting the sunbeam as she plied her toil, — For, wake where'er he may, man wakes to care and coil.

But other duties called each convent maid,
Roused by the summons of the moss-grown bell;

Sung were the matins and the mass was said,
And every sister sought her separate cell,

Such was the rule, her rosary to tell.

And Isabel has knelt in lonely prayer;

The sunbeam through the narrow lattice fell
Upon the snowy neck and long dark hair,

As stooped her gentle head in meek devotion there.

II

She raised her eyes, that duty done,

When glanced upon the pavement-stone,

Gemmed and enchased, a golden ring,
Bound to a scroll with silken string,

With few brief words inscribed to tell,
This for the Lady Isabel.'

Within the writing farther bore,

"'T was with this ring his plight he swore, With this his promise I restore;

To her who can the heart command
Well may I yield the plighted hand.
And O, for better fortune born,
Grudge not a passing sigh to mourn
Her who was Edith once of Lorn!'
One single flash of glad surprise
Just glanced from Isabel's dark eyes,
But vanished in the blush of shame
That as its penance instant came.
'O thought unworthy of my race!
Selfish, ungenerous, mean, and base,
A moment's throb of joy to own
That rose upon her hopes o'erthrown!
Thou pledge of vows too well believed,
Of man ingrate and maid deceived,
Think not thy lustre here shall gain
Another heart to hope in vain!

For thou shalt rest, thou tempting gaud,
Where worldly thoughts are overawed,

And worldly splendours sink debased.'
Then by the cross the ring she placed.

III

Next rose the thought, its owner far,
How came it here through bolt and bar?
But the dim lattice is ajar.

She looks abroad, the morning dew
A light short step had brushed anew,
And there were footprints seen
On the carved buttress rising still,
Till on the mossy window-sill
Their track effaced the green.
The ivy twigs were torn and frayed,
As if some climber's steps to aid.

But who the hardy messenger

Whose venturous path these signs infer?

'Strange doubts are mine! - Mona, draw nigh;—

Nought 'scapes old Mona's curious eye

What strangers, gentle mother, say,

Have sought these holy walls to-day?'
'None, lady, none of note or name;
Only your brother's foot-page came
At peep of dawn- I prayed him pass
To chapel where they said the mass;
But like an arrow he shot by,

And tears seemed bursting from his eye.'

IV

The truth at once on Isabel

As darted by a sunbeam fell:

"T is Edith's self! - her speechless woe,
Her form, her looks, the secret show!
Instant, good Mona, to the bay,
And to my royal brother say,

I do conjure him seek my cell

With that mute page he loves so well.'
'What! know'st thou not his warlike host
At break of day has left our coast?
My old eyes saw them from the tower.
At eve they couched in greenwood bower,
At dawn a bugle signal made

By their bold lord their ranks arrayed;

Up sprung the spears through bush and tree, No time for benedicite!

Like deer that, rousing from their lair,

Just shake the dew-drops from their hair

And toss their armèd crest aloft,

Such matins theirs!'- 'Good mother, soft-
Where does my brother bend his way?' -
'As I have heard, for Brodick Bay,
Across the isle · of barks a score

Lie there, 't is said, to waft them o'er,

On sudden news, to Carrick shore.'