"It was there he met with a wounded doe, She was bleeding deathfully; She warned him of the toils below, O so faithfully, faithfully! "He had an eye, and he could heed, He had a foot, and he could speed-- XXVI. Fitz-James's mind was passion-toss'd, He waved at once his blade on high, "Disclose thy treachery, or die!"— Forth at full speed the Clansman flew, But in his race his bow he drew. The shaft just grazed Fitz-James's crest, For ne'er had Alpine's son such need! The fierce avenger is behind! Fate judges of the rapid strife— The forfeit, death-the prize is life! Thy kindred ambush lies before, Close couched upon the heathery moor; Them couldst thou reach !—it may not be Thine ambushed kin thou ne'er shalt see, The fiery Saxon gains on thee! -Resistless speeds the deadly thrust, As lightning strikes the pine to dust; With foot and hand Fitz-James must strain, Ere he can win his blade again. Bent o'er the fall'n, with falcon eye, He grimly smiled to see him die; Then slower wended back his way, Where the poor maiden bleeding lay. XXVII. She sate beneath the birchen tree, Her elbow resting on her knee; She had withdrawn the fatal shaft, And gazed on it, and feebly laughed ; Her wreath of broom and feathers grey, Daggled with blood, beside her lay. The Knight to staunch the life-stream tried,— Stranger, it is in vain!" she cried. "This hour of death has given me more Of reason's power than years before; For, as these ebbing veins decay, My frenzied visions fade away. A helpless injured wretch I die, And something tells me in thine eye, That thou wert mine avenger born.— Seest thou this tress?-O! still I've worn This little tress of yellow hair, Through danger, frenzy, and despair! It once was bright and clear as thine, I will not tell thee when 'twas shred, Till sun and wind shall bleach the stain, I waver still!-O God! more bright Be thy heart bold, thy weapon strong, And wreak poor Blanche of Devan's wrong!They watch for thee by pass and fell... Avoid the path ... O God!... farewell.'— XXVIII. A kindly heart had brave Fitz-James; The mingled braid in blood he dyed, "By Him whose word is truth! I swear, No other favour will I wear, Till this sad token I embrue In the best blood of Roderick Dhu! -But hark! what means yon faint halloo ? |