A soldier to the portal went,—
'Here is old Bertram, sirs, of Ghent ;
And, beat for jubilee the drum !
A maid and minstrel with him come.'
Bertram, a Fleming, grey and scarr'd,
Was entering now the Court of Guard,
A harper with him, and in plaid
All muffled close, a mountain maid,
Who backward shrunk to 'scape the
view
Ofthe loose scene and boisterous crew.
'What news?' they roar'd. 'I only
know,
Old Allan, though unfit for strife,
Laid hand upon his dagger-knife;
But Ellen boldly stepp'd between,
And dropp'd at once the tartan screen:
So, from his morning cloud, appears
The sun of May, through summer tears.
The savage soldiery, amazed,
As on descended angel gazed;
Even hardy Brent, abash'd and tamed,
Stood half admiring, half ashamed.
Boldly she spoke, Soldiers, attend!
From noon till eve we fought with foe, My father was the soldier's friend; As wild and as untameable
As the rude mountains where they
dwell;
On both sides store of blood is lost,
Nor much success can either boast.'
'But whence thy captives, friend?
such spoil
As theirs must needs reward thy toil.
Old dost thou wax, and wars grow
sharp;
Thou now hast glee-maiden and harp!
Get thee an ape, and trudge the land,
The leader of a juggler band.'
'No, comrade; no such fortune mine.
After the fight these sought our line,
That aged harper and the girl,
And, having audience of the Earl,
Mar bade I should purvey them steed,
And bring them hitherward with speed.
Forbear your mirth and rude alarm,
For none shall do them shame or
harm.'
'Hear ye his boast?' cried John of Brent,
Ever to strife and jangling bent;
'Shall he strike doe beside our lodge,
And yet the jealous niggard grudge
To pay the forester his fee?
I'll have my share, howe'er it be,
Despite of Moray, Mar, or thee.'
Bertram his forward step withstood;
And, burning in his vengeful mood,
Cheer'd him in camps, in marches led,
And with him in the battle bled.
Not from the valiant, or the strong,
Should exile's daughter suffer wrong.'
Answer'd De Brent, most forward still
In every feat or good or ill-
'I shame me of the part I play'd:
And thou an outlaw's child, poor maid!
An outlaw I by forest laws,
And merry Needwood knows the cause.
Poor Rose-if Rose be living now
He wiped his iron eye and brow—
'Must bear such age, I think, as thou.
Hear ye, my mates;-I go to call
The Captain of our watch to hall:
There lies my halberd on the floor;
And he that steps my halberd o'er,
To do the maid injurious part,
My shaft shall quiver in his heart!
Beware loose speech, or jesting rough:
Ye all know John de Brent. Enough.'
Their Captain came, a gallant young,
(Of Tullibardine's house he sprung,)
Nor wore he yet the spurs of knight;
Gay was his mien, his humour light,
And, though by courtesy controll❜d,
Forward his speech, his bearing bold,
The high-born maiden ill could brook
The scanning of his curious look
And dauntless eye;-and yet, in sooth.
Young Lewis was a generous youth;
But Ellen's lovely face and mien,
Ill suited to the garb and scene,
Mightlightly bear construction strange,
And give loose fancy scope to range.
'Welcome to Stirling towers, fair maid!
Come ye to seek a champion's aid,
On palfrey white, with harper hoar,
Like errant damosel of yore?
Does thy high quest a knight require,
Or may the venture suit a squire?'
Her dark eye flash'd; she paused and
sigh'd,
'O what have I to do with pride! Through scenes of sorrow, shame, and strife,
A suppliant for a father's life,
I crave an audience of the King.
Behold, to back my suit, a ring,
The royal pledge of grateful claims,
Given by the Monarch to Fitz-James.'
The signet-ring young Lewis took,
With deep respect and alter'd look ;
And said, 'This ring our duties own;
And pardon, if to worth unknown,
In semblance mean obscurely veil'd,
Lady, in aught my folly fail'd.
Soon as the day flings wide his gates,
The King shall know what suitor waits.
Please you, meanwhile, in fitting bower
Repose you till his waking hour;
Female attendance shall obey
Your hest, for service or array.
Permit I marshall you the way.'
But, ere she followed, with the grace
And open bounty of her race,
She bade her slender purse be shared
Among the soldiers of the guard.
Therest with thanks their guerdon took;
But Brent, with shy and awkward look,
On the reluctant maiden's hold
Forced bluntly back the proffer'd gold-
'Forgive a haughty English heart,
And O forget its ruder part!
The vacant purse shall be my share,
Which in my barret-cap I'll bear,
Perchance, in jeopardy of war, Where gayer crests may keep afar.' With thanks ('twas all she could) the maid
His rugged courtesy repaid.
When Ellen forth with Lewis went,
Allan made suit to John of Brent:
'My lady safe, O let your grace
Give me to see my master's face!
His minstrel I; to share his doom
Bound from the cradle to the tomb;
Tenth in descent, since first my sires
Waked for his noble house their lyres;
Nor one of all the race was known
But prized its weal above their own.
With the Chief's birth begins our care;
Our harp must soothe the infant heir,
Teach the youth tales of fight, and grace
His earliest feat of field or chase;
In peace, in war, our rank we keep,
Wecheer his board, we soothe his sleep,
Nor leave him till we pour our verse,
A doleful tribute! o'er his hearse.
Then let me share his captive lot;
It is my right, deny it not!'
'Little we reck,' said John of Brent,
'We Southern men, of long descent;
Nor wot we how a name, a word,
Makes clansmen vassals to a lord:
Yet kind my noble landlord's part,—
God bless the house of Beaudesert!
And, but I loved to drive the deer,
More than to guide the labouring steer,
I had not dwelt an outcast here.
Come, good old Minstrel, follow me;
Thy Lord and Chieftain shalt thou see.'
Then, from a rusted iron hook,
A bunch of ponderous keys he took,
Lighted a torch, and Allan led
Through grated arch and passage dread; Portals they pass'd, where, deep within,
Spoke prisoner's moan, and fetters' din;
Through rugged vaults, where, loosely That shake her frame with ceaseless
Lay wheel, and axe, and headsman's
And many an hideous engine grim,
For wrenching joint, and crushing limb,
By artist form'd, who deem'd it shame
And sin to give their work a name.
They halted at a low-brow'd porch,
And Brent to Allan gave the torch,
While bolt and chain he backward
roll'd,
And made the bar unhasp its hold.
They enter'd: 'twas a prison-room
Of stern security and gloom,
Yet not a dungeon; for the day
Through lofty gratings found its way,
And rude and antique garniture
Deck'd the sad walls and oaken floor;
Such as the rugged days of old
Deem'd fit for captive noble's hold.
'Here,' said De Brent, thou mayst
remain
Till the leech visit him again.
Strict is his charge, the warders tell,
To tend the noble prisoner well.'
Retiring then, the bolt he drew,
And the lock's murmurs growl'd anew.
Roused at the sound, from lowly bed
A captive feebly raised his head;
The wondering Minstrel look'd, and
knew
Not his dear lord, but Roderick Dhu!
For, come from where Clan-Alpine
Yet cannot heave her from her seat;
O how unlike her course at sea!
Or his free step on hill and lea! Soon as the Minstrel he could scan, 'What of thy lady? of my clan ? My mother? Douglas? tell me all? Have they been ruin'd in my fall? Ah, yes! or wherefore art thou here? Yet speak, speak boldly, do not fear.' (For Allan, who his mood well knew, Was choked with grief and terror too.)
"Who fought-who fled? Old man, be brief;
Some might-for they had lost their Chief.
Who basely live? who bravely died?' 'O, calm thee, Chief!' the Minstrel cried,
'Ellen is safe.'-'For that, thank Heaven!'
'And hopes are for the Douglas given;
The Lady Margaret, too, is well;
And, for thy clan,-on field or fell,
Has never harp of minstrel told,
Of combat fought so true and bold.
Thy stately Pine is yet unbent,
Though many a goodly bough is rent.'
The Chieftain rear'd his form on high,
And fever's fire was in his eye;
But ghastly, pale, and livid streaks
They, erring, deem'd the Chief he Chequer'd his swarthy brow and
Fling me the picture of the fight When met my clan the Saxon might. I'll listen, till my fancy hears
The clang of swords, the crash of
These grates, these walls, shall vanish then,
For the fair field of fighting men,
And my free spirit burst away,
As if it soar'd from battle fray.'
The trembling Bard with awe obey'd,
Slow on the harp his hand he laid;
But soon remembrance of the sight
He witness'd from the mountain's
height,
With what old Bertram told at night,
Awaken'd the full power of song,
And bore him in career along-
As shallop launch'd on river's tide,
That slow and fearful leaves the side,
But, when it feels the middle stream,
Drives downward swift as lightning's
beam:
BATTLE OF BEAL' AN DUine.
'The Minstrel came once more to view
The eastern ridge of Benvenue,
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,
Nor ripple on the lake;
Upon her eyry 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 Wave o'er the cloud of Saxon war, That up the lake comes winding far! To hero bound for battle-strife, Or bard of martial lay, 'Twere worth ten years of peaceful life,
One glance at their array!
'Their light-arm'd archers far and
Survey'd the tangled ground; Their centre ranks, with pike and spear,
A twilight forest frown'd; Their barbed horsemen, in the rear,
The stern battalia crown'd. 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
Or wave their flags abroad; Scarce the frail aspen seem'd to quake,
That shadow'd o'er their road. Their vaward 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
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 Trosachs' rugged jaws; And here the horse and spearmen pause,
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 rearward 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 dash'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
One blast upon his bugle-horn
Were worth a thousand men ! And refluent through the pass offear, The battle's tide was pour'd; Vanish'd the Saxon's struggling
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.
'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 Trosachs' dread defile
Opens on Katrine's lake and isle.
Grey Benvenue I soon repass'd,
Loch Katrine lay beneath me cast.
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