For, ere he parted, he would say
Farewell to lovely Loch Achray-
Where shall he find, in foreign land,

So lone a lake, so sweet a strand!

There is no breeze upon the fern,
No ripple on the lake,
Upon her eyrie nods the erne,

The deer has sought the brake;
The small birds will not sing aloud,
The springing trout lies still,

So darkly glooms yon thunder-cloud,
That swathes, as with a purple shroud,
Benledi's distant hill.

Is it the thunder's solemn sound
That mutters deep and dread,
Or echoes from the groaning ground
The warrior's measured tread?
Is it the lightning's quivering glance
That on the thicket streams,

Or do they flash, on spear and lance,
The sun's retiring beams?

-I see the dagger-crest of Mar,
I see the Moray's silver star,

No cymbal clash'd, no clarion rang,

Still were the pipe and drum;

Save heavy tread, and armour's clang,

The sullen march was dumb.

There breathed no wind their crests to shake,

Or wave their flags abroad;

Scarce the frail aspen seem'd to quake,

That shadow'd o'er their road.

Their va'ward scouts no tidings bring,
Can rouse no lurking foe,
Nor spy a trace of living thing,

Save when they stirr'd the roe;
The host moves like a deep-sea wave,
Where rise no rocks its pride to brave,
High-swelling, dark, and slow.
The lake is pass'd and now they gain
A narrow and a broken plain,
Before the Trosach's rugged jaws;
And here the horse and spearmen pause,
While, to explore the dangerous glen,
Dive through the pass the archer-men.

XVII.

« At once there rose so wild a yell
Within that dark and narrow dell,
As all the fiends, from heaven that fell,
Had peal'd the banner-cry of hell!
Forth from the pass in tumult driven,
Like chaff before the wind of heaven,
The archery appear:

For life! for life! their flight they ply--
And shriek, and shout, and battle-cry,
And plaids and bonnets waving high,
And broadswords flashing to the sky,
Are maddening in the rear.
Onward they drive, in dreadful race,
Pursuers and pursued;

Before that tide of flight and chase,
How shall it keep its rooted place,

The spearmen's twilight wood?

-Down, down,' cried Mar, 'your lances down!
Bear back both friend and foe!"

Like reeds before the tempest's frown,
That serried grove of lances brown

At once lay levell'd low;
And closely shouldering side to side,
The bristling ranks the onset bide.
—'We'll quell the savage mountaineer,
As their Tinchel cows the game!
They come as fleet as forest deer,

We'll drive them back as tame.—

XVIII.

Bearing before them, in their course,
The relics of the archer force,
Like wave with crest of sparkling foam,
Right onward did Clan-Alpine come.
Above the tide, each broadsword bright
Was brandishing like beam of light,

Each targe was dark below;
And with the ocean's mighty swing,
When heaving to the tempest's wing,
They hurl'd them on the foe.

I heard the lance's shivering crash,
As when the whirlwind rends the ash;
I heard the broadsword's deadly clang,
As if an hundred anvils rang!
But Moray wheel'd his rear-ward rank
Of horsemen on Clan-Alpine's flank,—
My banner-man, advance!

I see, he cried, their column shake.-
Now, gallants! for your ladies' sake,
Upon them with the lance!--
The horsemen dasli'd among the rout,

As deer break through the broom;
Their steeds are stout, their swords are out,
They soon make lightsome room.
Clan-Alpine's best are backward borne-
Where, where was Roderick then?
One blast upon his bugle-horn

Were worth a thousand men.
And refluent through the pass of fear
The battle's tide was pour'd;
Vanish'd the Saxon's struggling spear,
Vanish'd the mountain sword.
As Bracklinn's chasm, so black and steep,
Receives her roaring linn,

As the dark caverns of the deep
Suck the wild whirlpool in,
So did the deep and darksome pass
Devour the battle's mingled mass;
None linger now upon the plain,
Save those who ne'er shall fight again.

A circle of sportsmen, who, by surrounding a great space, and gradually narrowing, brought immense quantities of deer together, which usually made desperate efforts to break through the Tinchel.

XIX.

«Now westward rolls the battle's din,
That deep and doubling pass within.
-Minstrel, away! the work of fate
Is bearing on: its issue wait,

Where the rude Trosach's dread defile
Opens on Katrine's lake and isle.-
Gray Ben-venue I soon repass'd,
Loch Katrine lay beneath me cast.
The sun is set;-the clouds are met,
The louring scowl of heaven
An inky hue of livid blue

To the deep lake has given ;
Strange gusts of wind from mountain glen
Swept o'er the lake, then sunk agen.
I heeded not the eddying surge,
Mine eye but saw the Trosach's gorge,
Mine ear but heard that sullen sound,
Which like an earthquake shook the ground,
And spoke the stern and desperate strife,
That parts not but with parting life,
Seeming, to minstrel ear, to toll
The dirge of many a passing soul.
Nearer it comes-the dim-wood glen
The martial flood disgorged agen,
But not in mingled tide;
The plaided warriors of the north
High on the mountain thunder forth,
And overhang its side;

While by the lake below appears
The dark'ning cloud of Saxon spears.
At weary bay each shatter'd band,
Eyeing their foemen, sternly stand;
Their banners stream like tatter'd sail,
That flings its fragments to the gale,
And broken arms and disarray
Mark'd the fell havoc of the day.

XX.

«Viewing the mountain's ridge askance, The Saxons stood in sullen trance, Till Moray pointed with his lance,

And cried-Behold yon isle !-
See! none are left to guard its strand,
But women weak, that wring the hand!
'T is there of yore the robber band
Their booty wont to pile;-
My purse, with bonnet-pieces store,
To him will swim a bow-shot o'er,
And loose a shallop from the shore.
Lightly we 'll tame the war-wolf then,
Lords of his mate, and brood, and den.'
Forth from the ranks a spearman sprung,
On earth his casque and corslet rung,

He plunged him in the wave:-
All saw the deed-the purpose knew,
And to their clamours Ben-venue
A mingled echo gave;

The Saxons shout, their mate to cheer,
The helpless females scream for fear
And yells for rage the mountaineer.
'T was then, as by the outcry riven,
Pour'd down at once the louring heaven;
A whirlwind swept Loch Katrine's breast,
Her billows rear'd their snowy crest,

Well for the swimmer swell'd they high,
To mar the Highland marksman's eye;
For round him shower'd 'mid rain and hail,
The vengeful arrows of the Gael. —

In vain. He nears the isle-and lo!
His hand is on a shallop's bow.

-Just then a flash of lightning came,

It tinged the waves and strand with flame:-
I mark'd Duncraggan's widow'd dame,
Behind an oak I saw her stand,

A naked dirk gleam'd in her hand :-
It darken'd-but amid the moan
Of waves I heard a dying groan;—
Another flash-the spearman floats
A weltering corse beside the boats,
And the stern matron o'er him stood,
Her hand and dagger streaming blood.

XXI.

«'Revenge! revenge!' the Saxons cried,
The Gaels' exulting shout replied.
Despite the elemental rage,
Again they hurried to engage;

But, ere they closed in desperate fight,
Bloody with spurring came a knight,
Sprung from his horse, and, from a crag,
Waved 'twixt the hosts a milk-white flag.
Clarion and trumpet by his side
Rung forth a truce-note high and wide,
While in the monarch's name, afar
A herald's voice forbade the war,
For Bothwell's lord, and Roderick bold,
Were both, he said, in captive hold.»
-But here the lay made sudden stand,
The harp escaped the minstrel's hand!—
Oft had he stolen a glance, to spy
How Roderick brook'd his minstrelsy:
At first, the chieftain, to the chime,
With lifted hand, kept feeble time;
That motion ceased,-yet feeling strong
Varied his look as changed the song;
At length no more his deafen'd ear
The minstrel melody can hear;

His face grows sharp,-his hands are clench'd,
As if some pang his heart-strings wrench'd;
Set are his teeth, his fading eye

Is sternly fixed on vacancy;—

Thus, motionless, and moanless, drew
His parting breath, stout Roderick Dhu!-

Old Allan-bane look'd on aghast,
While grim and still his spirit pass'd;
But when he saw that life was fled,
He pour'd his wailing o'er the dead.

XXII.

LAMENT.

<< And art thou cold and lowly laid,
Thy foeman's dread, thy people's aid,
Breadalbane's boast, Clan-Alpine's shade!
For thee shall none a requiem say?
-For thee-who loved the minstrel's lay,
For thee, of Bothwell's house the stay,
The shelter of her exiled line,
Een in this prison-house of thine,
I'll wail for Alpine's honour'd pine!

« What groans shall yonder valleys fill!
What shrieks of grief shall rend yon hill!
What tears of burning rage shall thrill,
When mourns thy tribe thy battles done,
Thy fall before the race was won,
Thy sword ungirt ere set of sun!
There breathes not clansman of thy line
But would have given his life for thine.-
O woe for Alpine's honour'd pine!
«Sad was thy lot on mortal stage!-
The captive thrush may brook the cage,
The prison'd eagle dies for rage.
Brave spirit, do not scorn my strain!
And, when its notes awake again,
Even she, so long beloved in vain,
Shall with my harp her voice combine,
And mix her woe and tears with mine,
To wail Clan-Alpine's honour'd pine.»>—

XXIII.

Ellen, the while, with bursting heart,
Remain'd in lordly bower apart,
Where play'd, with many-colour'd gleams,
Through storied pane the rising beams.
In vain on gilded roof they fall,
And lighten'd up a tapestried wall,
And for her use a menial train
A rich collation spread in vain.
The banquet proud, the chamber gay,
Scarce drew one curious glance astray;
Or, if she look'd, 't was but to say,
With better omen dawn'd the day

In that lone isle, where waved on high
The dun deer's hide for canopy;
Where oft her noble father shared
The simple meal her care prepared,
While Lufra, crouching by her side,
Her station claim'd with jealous pride,
And Douglas, bent on woodland game,
Spoke of the chase to Malcolm Græme,
Whose answer,
oft at random made,
The wandering of his thoughts betray'd.-
Those who such simple joys have known
Are taught to prize them when they 're gone.
But sudden, see, she lifts her head!
The window seeks with cautious tread.
What distant music has the power
To win her in this woeful hour!
T was from a turret that o'erhung
Her latticed bower, the strain was sung.

#

XXIV.

LAY OF THE IMPRISONED HUNTSMAN.

My hawk is tired of perch and hood,

My idle greyhound loathes his food,
My horse is weary of his stall,
And I am sick of captive thrall.
I wish I were as I have been,
Hunting the hart in forest green,

With bended bow and blood-hound free,
For that's the life is meet for me.

"I hate to learn the ebb of time,
From yon dull steeple's drowsy chime,
Or mark it as the sun-beams crawl,
Inch after inch, along the wall.

The lark was wont my matins ring,
The sable rook my vespers sing;
These towers, although a king's they be,
Have not a hall of joy for me.

<< No more at dawning morn I rise,
And sun myself in Ellen's eyes,
Drive the fleet deer the forest through,
And homeward wend with evening dew;
A blithesome welcome blithely meet,
And lay my trophies at her feet,
While fled the eve on wing of glee,-
That life is lost to love and me!»>-

XXV.

The heart-sick lay was hardly said,
The list'ner had not turn'd her head,
It trickled still, the starting tear,
When light a footstep struck her ear,
And Snowdoun's graceful knight was near.
She turn'd the hastier, lest again

The prisoner should renew his strain.

<< O welcome, brave Fitz-James!»> she said;

<< How may an almost orphan maid
Pay the deep debt»-« O, say not so!
To me no gratitude you owe.
Not mine, alas! the boon to give,
And bid thy noble father live;

I can but be thy guide, sweet maid,
With Scotland's king thy suit to aid.
No tyrant he, though ire and pride
May lead his better mood aside.
Come, Ellen, come!-'t is more than time,
He holds his court at morning prime.»>-
With beating heart, and bosom wrung,
As to a brother's arm she clung.
Gently he dried the falling tear,
And gently whisper'd hope and cheer;
Her faltering steps half led, half staid,
Through gallery fair and high arcade,
Till, at his touch, its wings of pride
A portal arch unfolded wide.

XXVI.

Within 't was brilliant all and light,
A thronging scene of figures bright;
It glow'd on Ellen's dazzled sight,
As when the setting sun has given
Ten thousand hues to summer even,
And, from their tissue, fancy frames
Aerial knights and fairy dames.
Still by Fitz-James her footing staid;
A few faint steps she forward made,
Then slow her drooping head she raised,
And fearful round the presence gazed;
For him she sought who own'd this state,
The dreaded prince whose will was fate!-
She gazed on many a princely port,
Might well have ruled a royal court;
On many a splendid garb she gazed,—
Then turn'd bewilder'd and amazed,
For all stood bare; and, in the room,
Fitz-James alone wore cap and plume.
To him each lady's look was lent;
On him each courtier's eye was bent;

23

Poor Ellen glided from her stay,
And at the monarch's feet she lay;
No word her choking voice commands,-
She show'd the ring-she clasp'd her hands.
Oh! not a moment could he brook,
The generous prince, that suppliant look!
Gently he raised her,and, the while,
Check'd with a glance the circle's smile;
Graceful, but grave, her brow he kiss'd,
And bade her terrors be dismiss'd :-

Yes, fair, the wandering poor Fitz-James

The fealty of Scotland claims.

To him thy woes, thy wishes, bring;
He will redeem his signet ring.
Ask nought for Douglas;-yester even,
His prince and he have much forgiven :
Wrong hath he had from slanderous tongue,
1, from his rebel kinsmen, wrong.
We would not to the vulgar crowd

Yield what they craved with clamour loud;
Calinly we heard and judged his cause,
Our council aided, and our laws.

I staunch'd thy father's death-fend stern,
With stout de Vaux and gray Glencairn;
And Bothwell's lord henceforth we own
The friend and bulwark of our throne.-
But, lovely infidel, how now?
What clouds thy misbelieving brow?
Lord James of Douglas, lend thine aid;
Thou must confirm this doubting maid.»

XXVIII.

Then forth the noble Douglas sprung,
Aud on his neck his daughter hung.
The monarch drank, that happy hour,

The sweetest, holiest draught of power,-
When it can say, with godlike voice,
Arise, sad Virtue, and rejoice!
Yet would not James the general eye
On Nature's raptures long should
pry;
He stepp'd between-« Nay, Douglas, nay,
Steal not any proselyte away!
The riddle 't is my right to read,
That brought this happy chance to speed.
Yes, Ellen, wheu disguised I stray
In life's more low but happier way,
'T is under name which veils my power,
Nor falsely veils-for Stirling's Tower
Of

yore the name of Snowdoun claims, (6)
And Normans call me James Fitz-James.
Thus watch 1 o'er insulted laws,
Thus learn to right the injured cause.»
Then, in a tone apart and low,

-« Ah, little trait'ress! none must know
What idle dream, what lighter thought,
What vanity full dearly bought,
Join'd to thine eye's dark witchcraft, drew
My spell-bound steps to Ben-venue,

In dangerous hour, and all but gave
Thy monarch's life to mountain glaive!»—
Aloud he spoke- Thou still dost hold
That little talisman of gold,

Pledge of my faith, Fitz-James's ring-
What seeks fair Ellen of the king?»--

XXIX.

Full well the conscious maiden guess'd
He probed the weakness of her breast;
But, with that consciousness, there came
A lightning of her fears for Græme,
And more she deem'd the monarch's ire
Kindled 'gainst him, who, for her sire,
Rebellious broadsword boldly drew;
And, to her generous feeling true,
She craved the grace of Roderick Dhu.—
Forbear thy suit:-the King of kings
Alone can stay life's parting wings.

I know his heart, I know his hand,

Have shared his cheer and proved his brand:-
My fairest earldom would I give

To bid Clan-Alpine's chieftain live!—
Hast thou no other boon to crave?
No other captive friend to save?»-
Blushing, she turn'd her from the king,
And to the Douglas gave the ring,
As if she wish'd her sire to speak

The suit that stain'd her glowing cheek.-
Nay, then, my pledge has lost its force,
And stubborn justice holds her course.
Malcolm, come forth!»-And, at the word,
Down kneel'd the Græme to Scotland's lord.
« For thee, rash youth, no suppliant sues,
From thee may Vengeance claim her dues,
Who, nurtured underneath our smile,
Hast paid our care by treacherous wile,
And sought, amid thy faithful clan,
A refuge for an outlaw'd man,
Dishonouring thus thy loyal name.—
Fetters and warder for the Græme!»-
His chain of gold the king unstrung,
The links o'er Malcolm's neck he flung,
Then gently drew the glittering band,
And laid the clasp on Ellen's hand.

HARP of the North, farewell! The hills grow dark,
On purple peaks a deeper shade descending;
In twilight copse the glow-worm lights her spark,
The deer, half-seen, are to the covert wending.
Resume thy wizard elm! the fountain lending,
And the wild breeze, thy wilder minstrelsy;
Thy numbers sweet with Nature's vespers blending,
With distant echo from the fold and lea,

And herd-boy's evening pipe, and hum of housing bee.

Yet, once again, farewell, thou minstrel harp!
Yet, once again, forgive my feeble sway,
And little reck I of the censure sharp

May idly cavil at an idle lay.

Much have I owed thy strains on life's long way,
Through secret woes the world has never known,
When on the weary night dawn'd wearier day,
And bitterer was the grief devour'd alone.
That I o'erlive such woes, Enchantress! is thine own.

Hark! as my lingering footsteps slow retire, Some spirit of the air has waked thy string! 'Tis now a seraph bold, with touch of fire,

'Tis now the brush of fairy's frolic wing. Receding now, the dying numbers ring

Fainter and fainter down the rugged dell, And now the mountain breezes scarcely bring

A wandering witch-note of the distant spellAnd now, 't is silent all!-Enchantress, fare thee well!

NOTES.

CANTO I.

Note 1. Stanza iv.

-the heights of Cam-Var,

And roused the cavern, where, 't is told,
A giant made his den of old.

Ca-Var, as the name is pronounced, or more properly Vaigh-mor, is a mountain to the north-east of the village of Callender in Menteith, deriving its name, which SInifies the great den, or cavern, from a sort of retreat among the rocks on the south side, said, by tradition, to have been the abode of a giant. In latter times, it was the refuge of robbers and banditti, who have been only extirpated within these forty or fifty years. Strictly speaking, this strong-hold is not a cave, as the name would imply, but a sort of small inclosure, or recess, surrounded with large rocks, and open above head. may have been originally designed as a toil for deer, who might get in from the outside, but would find it difficult to return. This opinion prevails among the old sportsmen and deer-stalkers in the neighbourhood.

Note 2. Stanza vii.

Two dogs of black St Hubert's breed, Unmatch'd for courage, breath, and speed.

It

« The hounds which we call Saint Hubert's hounds are commonly all blacke, yet neuertheless, their race is so mingled at these days, that we find them of all colours. These are the hounds which the abbots of St Hubert haue always kept some of their race or kind, in honour or remembrance of the saint, which was a hunter with St Eustace. Whereupon we may conceiue that (by the grace of God) all good huntsmen shall follow

pur

them into paradise. To returne vnto my former pose, this kind of dogges hath beene dispersed through the countries of Henault, Lorayne, Flaunders, and Burgoyne. They are mighty of body, neuertheless their legges are low and short, likewise they are not swift, although they be very good of sent, hunting chases which are farre straggled, fearing neither water nor cold, and doe more couet the chases that smell, as foxes, bore, and such like, than other, because they find themselues neither of swiftness nor courage to hunt and kill the chases that are lighter and swifter. The bloodhounds of this colour prooue good, especially those that are cole-blacke, but I made no great account to breede on them, or to keepe the kind, and yet I found a booke which a hunter did dedicate to a prince of Lorayne, which seemed to loue hunting much, wherein was a blason, which the same hunter gaue to his blood-hound, called Souyllard, which was white:

My name came first from holy Hubert's race, Souyllard my sire, a hound of singular grace. Whereupon we may presume that some of the kind prooue white sometimes, but they are not of the kind of the Greffiers or Bouxes, which we haue at these days.» The noble art of Venerie or Hunting, translated and collected for the Use of all Noblemen and Gentlemen. Lond. 1611. 4. p. 15.

Note 3. Stanza viii.

For the death-wound and death-halloo,
Muster'd his breath, his whinyard drew.

When the stag turned to bay, the ancient hunter had the perilous task of going in upon, and killing or disabling the desperate animal. At certain times of the year this was held particularly dangerous, a wound received from a stag's horns being then deemed poisonous, and more dangerous than one from the tusks of a boar, as the old rhyme testifies:

If thou be hurt with bart, it brings thee to thy bier;

But barber's hand will boar's hurt heal, therefore thou needst not

fear.

At all times, however, the task was dangerous, and to be adventured upon wisely and warily, either by getting behind the stag while he was gazing on the hounds, or by watching an opportunity to gallop roundly in upon him, and kill him with the sword. See many directions Wilson the historian has recorded a providential escape to this in the Booke of Hunting, chap. 41. purpose which befel him in this hazardous sport, while a youth

and follower of the Earl of Essex.

« Sir Peter Lee, of Lime, in Cheshire, invited my lord one summer, to hunt the stagg. And having a great stagg in chase, and many gentlemen in the pursuit, the And divers, whereof I was one, stagg took soyle. alighted, and stood with swords drawne, to have a cut at him, at his coming out of the water. The staggs there being wonderfully fierce and dangerous, made us youths more eager to be at him. But he escaped us all; and it was my misfortune to be hindered of my coming nere him, the way being slipperie, by a falle, which gave occasion to some, who did not know mee, to speak as if I had falne for feare. Which being told me, I left the stagg, and followed the gentleman who [first] spake it. But I found him of that cold temper, that it seems his words made an escape from him; as by his denial and repentance it appeared. But this made mee more violent in the pursuit of the stagg, to recover my repuAnd I happened to be the only horseman in when the doggs sett him up at bay; and approaching near him on horsebacke, he broke through the dogs and ran at mee, and tore my horse's side with his hornes, close by my thigh. Then I quitted my horse, and grew more cunning (for the dogs had sette him up againe), stealing behind him with my sword, and cut his ham-strings; and then got upon his back, and cut his throate; which, as I was doing, the company came in, and blamed my rashness for running such a hazard. » PECK's Desiderata Curiosa, II, 464.

tation.

Note 4. Stanza xiv.

And now, to issue from the glen,

No pathway meets the wanderer's ken,
Unless be climb, with footing nice,
A far-projecting precipice.

Until the present road was made through the romantic pass which I have presumptuously attempted to de-