Ronald keeps ward till midnight past, When at her foeman's feet she fell, Nor less when, placed in princely selle, 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 castles storm'd, of cities freed, 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. No marvel, 'mid such musings high, 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 With bickering light the splinter'd pine; Then gazed awhile, where silent laid Their hosts were shrouded by the plaid. 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. Then thought he of his mother's tower, His little sisters' green-wood bower, How there the Easter-gambols pass, Again he roused him-on the lake Look'd forth, where now the twilight-flake Of pale cold dawn began to wake. 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; That hut's dark walls he sees no more, His foot is on the marble floor, And o'er his head the dazzling spars Gleam like a firmament of stars! -Hark! hears he not the sea-nymph speak No! all too late, with Allan's dream Upward he casts his dizzy eyes,... Murmurs his master's name, ... and dies! XXIX. Not so awoke the King! his hand Snatch'd from the flame a knotted brand, The nearest weapon of his wrath; With this he cross'd the murderer's path, And venged young Allan well! |