TIME rolls his ceaseless course.
Who danced our infancy upon their knee, And told our marvelling boyhood legends store, Of their strange ventures happ'd by land or sea, How are they blotted from the things that be! How few, all weak and wither'd of their force, Wait on the verge of dark eternity,
Like stranded wrecks, the tide returning hoarse, To sweep them from our sight! Time rolls his ceaseless
Yet live there still who can remember well, How, when a mountain chief his bugle blew, Both field and forest, dingle, cliff, and dell, And solitary heath, the signal knew; And fast the faithful clan around him drew,
What time the warning note was keenly wound, What time aloft their kindred banner flew,
While clamorous war-pipes yell'd the gathering sound, And while the Fiery Cross glanced, like a meteor, round.
The summer dawn's reflected hue
To purple changed Loch Katrine blue; Mildly and soft the western breeze Just kiss'd the lake, just stirr'd the trees; And the pleased lake, like maiden coy, Trembled but dimpled not for joy; The mountain-shadows on her breast Were neither broken nor at rest; In bright uncertainty they lie, Like future joys to Fancy's eye. The water-lily to the light Her chalice rear'd of silver bright;
The doe awoke, and to the lawn, Begemm'd with dewdrops, led her fawn; The grey mist left the mountain side, The torrent show'd its glistening pride; Invisible in flecked sky,
The lark sent down her revelry; The blackbird and the speckled thrush Good-morrow gave from brake and bush; In answer coo'd the cushat dove
Her notes of peace, and rest, and love.
No thought of peace, no thought of rest, Assuaged the storm in Roderick's breast. With sheathed broadsword in his hand, Abrupt he paced the islet strand, And eyed the rising sun, and laid His hand on his impatient blade.
Beneath a rock, his vassals' care Was prompt the ritual to prepare,
With deep and deathful meaning fraught; For such Antiquity had taught
Was preface meet, ere yet abroad
The Cross of Fire should take its road. The shrinking band stood oft aghast At the impatient glance he cast;— Such glance the mountain eagle threw, As, from the cliffs of Benvenue, She spread her dark sails on the wind, And, high in middle heav'n reclined, With her broad shadow on the lake, Silenced the warblers of the brake.
A heap of wither'd boughs was piled, Of juniper and rowan wild,
Mingled with shivers from the oak, Rent by the lightning's recent stroke. Brian, the Hermit, by it stood, Barefooted, in his frock and hood. His grisled beard and matted hair Obscured a visage of despair;
His naked arms and legs, seam'd o'er, The scars of frantic penance bore. That monk, of savage form and face, The impending danger of his race Had drawn from deepest solitude, Far in Benharrow's bosom rude. Not his the mien of Christian priest, But Druid's, from the grave released,
Whose harden'd heart and eye might brook On human sacrifice to look;
And much, 'twas said, of heathen lore Mix'd in the charms he mutter'd o'er. The hallow'd creed gave only worse And deadlier emphasis of curse;
peasant sought that Hermit's prayer, His cave the pilgrim shunn'd with care, The eager huntsman knew his bound, And in mid chase call'd off his hound; Or if, in lonely glen or strath, The desert-dweller met his path,
He pray'd, and sign'd the cross between, While terror took devotion's mien.
Of Brian's birth strange tales were told. His mother watch'd a midnight fold, Built deep within a dreary glen, Where scatter'd lay the bones of men, In some forgotten battle slain,
And bleach'd by drifting wind and rain. It might have tamed a warrior's heart, To view such mockery of his art! The knot-grass fetter'd there the hand, Which once could burst an iron band; Beneath the broad and ample bone, That buckler'd heart to fear unknown, A feeble and a timorous guest, The field-fare framed her lowly nest; There the slow blind-worm left his slime On the fleet limbs that mock'd at time;
And there, too, lay the leader's skull, Still wreath'd with chaplet, flush'd and full, For heath-bell with her purple bloom, Supplied the bonnet and the plume. All night, in this sad glen, the maid Sate, shrouded in her mantle's shade: —She said, no shepherd sought her side, No hunter's hand her snood untied, Yet ne'er again, to braid her hair, The virgin snood did Alice wear; Gone was her maiden glee and sport, Her maiden girdle all too short; Nor sought she, from that fatal night, Or holy church, or blessed rite, But lock'd her secret in her breast, And died in travail, unconfess'd.
Alone, among his young compeers, Was Brian from his infant years; A moody and heart-broken boy, Estranged from sympathy and joy, Bearing each taunt which careless tongue On his mysterious lineage flung. Whole nights he spent by moonlight pale, To wood and stream his hap to wail, Till, frantic, he as truth received What of his birth the crowd believed, And sought, in mist and meteor fire, To meet and know his Phantom Sire! In vain, to soothe his wayward fate, The cloister oped her pitying gate;
« AnteriorContinuar » |