He ceased; and cries of rage and grief Burst mingling from the kindred band,

And half arose the kindling Chief,

And halfunsheathed his Arran brand.

But who, o'er bush, o'er stream and rock,

Rides headlong, with resistless speed,

Whose bloody poniard's frantic stroke Drives to the leap his jaded steed,

Whose cheek is pale, whose eyeballs glare,

As one some vision'd sight that saw, Whose hands are bloody, loose his

hair?

'Tis he! 'tis he! 'tis Bothwellhaugh.

From gory selle, and reeling steed, Sprung the fierce horseman with a bound,

And, reeking from the recent deed,

He dash'd his carbine on the ground.

Sternly he spoke: "Tis sweet to hear In good greenwood the bugle blown, But sweeter to Revenge's ear,

To drink a tyrant's dying groan. 'Your slaughter'd quarry proudly trode,

At dawning morn, o'er dale and down,

But prouder base-born Murray rode Through old Linlithgow's crowded

town.

From the wild Border's humbled side,

In haughty triumph marchèd he, While Knox relax'd his bigot pride

And smiled the traitorous pomp to

see.

'But can stern Power, with all his vaunt,

Or Pomp, with all her courtly glare, The settled heart of Vengeance daunt, Or change the purpose of Despair?

With hackbut bent, my secret stand, Dark as the purposed deed, I chose, And mark'd where, mingling in his band,

Troop'd Scottish pikes and English bows.

'Dark Morton, girt with many a spear, Murder's foul minion, led the van; And clash'd their broadswords in the

rear

The wild Macfarlanes' plaided clan. Glencairn and stout Parkhead were nigh,

Obsequious at their Regent's rein, And haggard Lindesay's iron eye,

That saw fair Mary weep in vain.

"Mid pennon'd spears, a steely grove, Proud Murray's plumage floated high;

Scarce could his trampling charger move,

So close the minions crowded nigh. 'From the raised vizor's shade, his eye

Dark-rolling glanced the ranks along, And his steel truncheon, waved on high,

Seem'd marshalling the iron throng.

'But yet his sadden'd brow confess'd A passing shade of doubt and awe; Some fiend was whispering in his breast;

"Beware of injured Bothwellhaugh!"

"The death-shot parts! the charger springs,

Wild rises tumult's startling roar, And Murray's plumy helmet ringsRings on the ground, to rise no more.

'What joy the raptured youth can feel
To hear her love the loved one tell!
Or he who broaches on his steel
The wolf by whom his infant fell!