I heard the lance's shivering crash,

As when the whirl-wind rends the ash;

I heard the broad-swords deadly clang,
As if an hundred anvils rang! !.

But Moray wheeled his rear-ward 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 dashed among the route,
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 then!

One blast upon his bugle-horn

Were worth a thousand men.

And refluent through the pass of fear

The battle's tide was pour'd;

Vanished the Saxon's struggling spear,

Vanished 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.

XIX.

"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 Trosach's dread defile

Opens on Katrine's lake and isle.

Grey Benvenue I soon repassed,

Loch-Katrine lay beneath me cast.

The sun is set ;-the clouds are met,

The lowering scowl of heaven

An inky hue of livid blue

To the deep lake has given;

Strange gusts of wind from mountain glen
Swept o'er the lake, then sunk agen.
I heeded not the eddying surge,

Mine eye but saw the Trosach's gorge,

Mine ear but heard that sullen sound,

Which like an earth-quake shook the ground,

And spoke the stern and desperate strife

That parts not but with parting life,

Seeming, to minstrel-ear, to toll

The dirge of many a passing soul.

Nearer it comes the dim-wood glen

The martial flood disgorged agen,

But not in mingled tide;

The plaided warriors of the North

High on the mountain thunder forth,

And overhang its side;

While by the lake below appears

The dark'ning cloud of Saxon spears.
At weary bay each shattered band,
Eyeing their foemen, sternly stand;
Their banners stream like tatter'd sail,

That flings its fragments to the gale,
And broken arms and disarray

Marked the fell havock of the day.

XX.

"Viewing the mountain's ridge askance,

The Saxons stood in sullen trance,

Till Moray pointed with his lance,

And cried- Behold yon isle !

See! none are left to guard its strand, But women weak, that wring the hand : 'Tis there of yore the robber band

Their booty wont to pile ;

My purse, with bonnet-pieces store,
To him will swim a bow-shot o'er,
And loose a shallop from the shore.

Lightly we'll tame the war-wolf then,

Lords of his mate, and brood, and den.'

Forth from the ranks a spearman sprung,

On earth his casque and corslet rung,

He plunged him in the wave :All saw the deed-the purpose knew, And to their clamours Benvenue

A mingled echo gave ;

The Saxons shout, their mate to cheer,

The helpless females scream for fear,

And yells for rage the mountaineer.

'Twas then, as by the outcry riven,

Poured down at once the lowering heaven;
A whirlwind swept Loch-Katrine's breast,

Her billows reared their snowy crest.
Well for the swimmer swelled they high,

To mar the Highland marksman's eye;

For round him showered, 'mid rain and hail,

The vengeful arrows of the Gael.—

In vain. He nears the isle-and lo!

His hand is on a shallop's bow.

$