Not Katrine, in her mirror blue,
Gives back the shaggy banks more true,
Than every free-born glance confess'd
The guileless movements of her breast;
Whether joy danced in her dark eye,
Or woe or pity claim'd a sigh,
Or filial love was glowing there,
Or meek devotion pour'd a prayer,
Or tale of injury call'd forth
The indignant spirit of the North.
One only passion unreveal'd,
With maiden pride the maid conceal'd
Yet not less purely felt the flame;
O need I tell that passion's name!
BOAT SONG.
Lady of the Lake, Canto ii.]
HAIL to the Chief who in triumph ad
Honor'd and bless'd be the ever-green
Pine!
Long may the tree, in his banner that
Flourish, the shelter and grace of our line!
Heaven send it happy dew, Earth lend it sap anew, Gayly to bourgeon, and broadly to grow,
While every Highland glen Sends our shout back agen, "Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!"
Ours is no sapling, chance-sown by the fountain,
Blooming at Beltane, in winter to fade;
When the whirlwind has stripp'd every leaf on the mountain,
The more shall Clan-Alpine exult in her shade.
Moor'd in the rifted rock, Proof to the tempest's shock, Firmer he roots him the ruder it blow;
Menteith and Breadalbane, then, Echo his praise agen, "Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!"
A goat, the patriarch of the flock,
Before the kindling pile was laid,
And pierced by Roderick's ready blade.
Patient the sickening victim eyed
The life-blood ebb in crimson tide,
Down his clogg'd beard and shaggy
limb,
Till darkness glazed his eyeballs dim. The grisly priest, with murmuring prayer,
A slender crosslet form'd with care,
A cubit's length in measure due;
The shaft and limbs were rods of yew,
Whose parents in Inch-Cailliach wave
Their shadows o'er Clan-Alpine's grave,
And, answering Lomond's breezes deep,
Sooth many a chieftain's endless sleep.
The Cross, thus form'd, he held on high,
With wasted hand, and haggard eye,
And strange and mingled feelings woke,
While his anathema he spoke.
"Woe to the clansman, who shall view This symbol of sepulchral yew, Forgetful that its branches grew
Where weep the heavens their holiest dew,
On Alpine's dwelling low! Deserter of his Chieftain's trust,
He ne'er shall mingle with their dust, But, from his sires and kindred thrust, Each clansman's execration just
Shall doom him wrath and woe!"
He paused; the word the vassals took
With forward step and fiery look,
On high their naked brands they shook,
Their clattering targets wildly strook;
And first in murmur low,
Then, like the billow in his course,
That far to seaward finds his source,
And flings to shore his muster'd force,
Burst, with loud roar, their answer
hoarse,
"Woe to the traitor, woe!" Ben-an's gray scalp the accents knew, The joyous wolf from covert drew, The exulting eagle scream'd afar, They knew the voice of Alpine's war.
The life-blood thrill'd with sudden start,
He monn'd himself with dauntless air,
Return'd the chief his haughty stare,
His back against a rock he bore,
And firmly placed his foot before:
"Come one, come all! this rock shall fly
From its firm base as soon as I."
Sir Roderick mark'd - and in his eyes
Respect was mingled with surprise,
And the stern joy which warriors feel
In foemen worthy of their steel.
Short space he stood then waved his
hand:
Down sunk the disappearing band;
Each warrior vanish'd where he stood,
In broom or bracken, heath or wood;
Sunk brand and spear and bended bow,
In osiers pale and copses low;
It seem'd as if their mother Earth
Had swallow'd up her warlike birth.
The wind's last breath had toss'd in air,
Pennon, and plaid, and plumage fair,
The next but swept a lone hill-side,
Where heath and fern were waving wide
From spear and glaive, from targe and
jack,
The next, all unreflected shone
On bracken green and cold gray stone.
The Chief in silence strode before, And reach'd that torrent's sounding shore,
Which, daughter of three mighty lakes,
From Vennachar in silver breaks,
Sweeps through the plain, and ceaseless
mines
On Bochastle the mouldering lines,
Where Rome, the Empress of the world,
Of yore her eagle wings unfurl'd.
And here his course the Chieftain stai
Threw down his target and his plaid,
And to the Lowland warrior said:
"Bold Saxon! to his promise just,
Vich-Alpine has discharged his trust.
This murderous Chief, this ruthless mar,
This head of a rebellious clan,
Hath led thee safe through watch and
ward,
Far past Clan-Alpine's outmost guard.
Now, man to man, and steel to steel,
A chieftain's vengeance thou shalt feel.
See here, all vantageless I stand,
Arm'd, like thyself, with single brand:
For this is Coilantogle ford,
And thou must keep thee with thy sword."
The Saxon paused: -"I ne'er delay'd,
When foeman bade me draw my blade:
Nay, more, brave Chief, I vow'd thy
death:
Yet sure thy fair and generous faith,
And my deep debt for life preserved,
A better meed have well deserved:
Can nought but blood our feud atone?
Are there no means?"-"No, Stranger,
none!
And hear, to fire thy flagging zeal,-
The Saxon cause rests on thy steel;
For thus spoke Fate, by prophet bred
Between the living and the dead:
Who spills the foremost foeman's life.
His party conquers in the strife.'"
"Then, by my word," the Saxon said,
"The riddle is already read.
Seek yonder brake beneath the cliff, -
There lies Red Murdoch, stark and stiff.
Thus Fate has solved her prophecy,
Then yield to Fate, and not to me.
To James, at Stirling, let us go,
When, if thou wilt be still his foe,
Or if the King shall not agree
To grant thee grace and favor free,
I plight mine honor, oath, and word,
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