Still he avoided forward look, But slow and circumspectly took A circling, never-ceasing glance, By doubt and cunning mark'd at once, Had that dark look, the timid shun; The half-clad serfs behind them sate, And scowl'd a glare 'twixt fear and hateTill all, as darkness onward crept, Couch'd down and seem'd to sleep, or slept. Nor he, that boy, whose powerless tongue Must trust his eyes to wail his wrong, A longer watch of sorrow made, But stretch'd his limbs to slumber laid. XXVI. Not in his dangerous host confides The King, but wary watch provides, H Ronald keeps ward till midnight past, What is Lord Ronald's wakeful thought, He thinks of lovely Isabel,. When at her foeman's feet she fell, Nor less when, placed in princely selle, In pride of place as 'mid despair, Must she alone engross his care. His thoughts to his betrothed bride, To Edith, turn-O how decide, When here his love and heart are given, And there his faith stands plight to Heaven! No drowsy ward 'tis his to keep, For seldom lovers long for sleep. Till sung his midnight hymn the owl, Lord Ronald stretch'd himself to rest. XXVII. What spell was good King Robert's, say, His was the patriot's burning thought, Of Freedom's battle bravely fought, Of castles storm'd, of cities freed, Of deep design and daring deed, Of England's roses reft and torn, And Scotland's cross in triumph worn, Of rout and rally, war and truce,—— As heroes think, so thought the Bruce. Sleep shunn'd the monarch's thoughtful eye. Now over Coolin's eastern head The greyish light begins to spread, The otter to his cavern drew, And clamour'd shrill the wakening mew; Then watch'd the Page-to needful rest The King resign'd his anxious breast. XXVIII. To Allan's eyes was harder task, The weary watch their safeties ask. He trimm'd the fire, and gave to shine Then gazed awhile, where silent laid But little fear waked in his mind, For he was bred of martial kind, And, if to manhood he arrive, May match the boldest knight alive. How there the Easter-gambols pass, In rays prolong'd the blazes die-.. To tales at which his youth had burn'd, Of sprightly elf or yelling ghost, Of the wild witch's baneful cot, And mermaid's alabaster grot, Who bathes her limbs in sunless well Deep in Strathaird's enchanted cell. Thither in fancy rapt he flies, And on his sight the vaults arise; 10 |