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And, since these adverse breezes blow,
If my good Liege love hunter's bow,
What hinders that on land we go,

And strike a mountain deer ?
Allan, my Page, shall with us wend,
A bow full deftly can he bend,
And, if we meet an herd, may send

A shaft shall mend our cheer."-
Then each took bow and bolts in hand,
Their row-boat launch'd and leapt to land,

And left their skiff and train, Where a wild stream, with headlong shock, Came brawling down its bed of rock,

To mingle with the main.

XIII.
A while their route they silent made,

As men who stalk for mountain-deer, Till the good Bruce to Ronald said,

“ St Mary! what a scene is here !

I've traversed many a mountain-strand,
Abroad and in my native land,
And it has been my lot to tread
Where safety more than pleasure led;

Thus, many a waste I've wanderd o'er,
Clombe many a crag, cross'd many a moor,

But, by my halidome,
A scene so rude, so wild as this,
Yet so sublime in barrenness,
Ne’er did my wandering footsteps press,

Where'er I happ'd to roam.”.

XIV.

No marvel thus the Monarch spake ;

For rarely human eye has known A scene so stern as that dread lake,

With its dark ledge of barren stone. Seems that primeval earthquake's sway Hath rent a strange and shatter'd way

Through the rude bosom of the hill,

And that each naked precipice,
Sable ravine, and dark abyss,

Tells of the outrage still.
The wildest glen, but this, can show
Some touch of Nature's genial glow;
On high Benmore green mosses grow,
And heath-bells bud in deep Glencróe,

And copse on Cruchan-Ben;
But here,-above, around, below,

On mountain or in glen,
Nor tree, nor shrub, nor plant; nor flower,
Nor aught of vegetative power,

The weary eye may ken.
For all is rocks at random thrown,
Black waves, bare crags, and banks of stone,

As if were here denied
The summer sun, the spring's sweet dew,
That clothe with many a varied hue

The bleakest mountain-side.

XV.

And wilder, forward as they wound,
Were the proud cliffs and lake profound,
Huge terraces of granite black
Afforded rude and cumber'd track ;

For from the mountain hoar,
Hurl'd headlong in some night of fear,
When yelld the wolf and fled the deer,

Loose crags had toppled o'er ;
And some, chance-poised and balanced, lay,
So that a stripling arm might sway

A mass no host could raise,
In Nature's rage at random thrown,
Yet trembling like the Druid's stone

On its precarious base.
The evening mists, with ceaseless change,
Now clothed the mountains' lofty range,

Now left their foreheads bare,

And round the skirts their mantle furl'd,
Or on the sable waters curld,
Or, on the eddying breezes whirld,

Dispersed in middle air.
And oft, condensed, at once they lower,
When, brief and fierce, the mountain shower

Pours like a torrent down,
And when return the sun's glad beams,
Whiten’d with foam a thousand streams

Leap from the mountain's crown.

XVI.

“ This lake," said Bruce," whose barriers drear Are precipices sharp and sheer, Yielding no track for goat or deer,

Save the black shelves we tread, How term you its dark waves ? and how Yon northern mountain's pathless brow,

And yonder peak of dread,

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