Himself would row him to the strand.
He gave his counsel to the wind, While Malcolm did, unheeding, bind,
Round dirk and pouch and broadsword 'rolled, His ample plaid in tightened fold, And stripped his limbs to such array As best might suit the watery way,-
Then spoke abrupt: "Farewell to thee, Pattern of old fidelity!"
The Minstrel's hand he kindly pressed, - "O, could I point a place of rest! My sovereign holds in ward my land, My uncle leads my vassal band; To tame his foes, his friends to aid, Poor Malcolm has but heart and blade. Yet, if there be one faithful Græme Who loves the chieftain of his name, Not long shall honored Douglas dwell Like hunted stag in mountain cell; Nor, ere yon pride-swollen robber dare,— may not give the rest to air!
Tell Roderick Dhu I owed him naught, Not the poor service of a boat, To waft me to yon mountain-side." Then plunged he in the flashing tide. Bold o'er the flood his head he bore, And stoutly steered him from the shore; And Allan strained his anxious eye, Far mid the lake his form to spy, Darkening across each puny wave, To which the moon her silver gave.
Fast as the cormorant could skim, The swimmer plied each active limb; Then landing in the moonlight dell, Loud shouted of his weal to tell. The Minstrel heard the far halloo, And joyful from the shore withdrew.
TIME rolls his ceaseless course. The race of yore, Who danced our infancy upon their knee, And told our marvelling boyhood legends 'store Of their strange ventures happed by land or sea, How are they blotted from the things that be! How few, all weak and withered 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 yelled 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 kissed the lake, just stirred 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 reared of silver bright; The doe awoke, and to the lawn,
Begemmed with dew-drops, led her fawn; The gray mist left the mountain-side, The torrent showed 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 cooed 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 heaven reclined, With her broad shadow on the lake, Silenced the warblers of the brake.
A heap of withered 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 grizzled beard and matted hair Obscured a visage of despair;
His naked arms and legs, seamed 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 hardened heart and eye might brook On human sacrifice to look;
And much, 'twas said, of heathen lore
Mixed in the charms he muttered o'er. The 'hallowed creed gave only worse And deadlier emphasis of curse.
« AnteriorContinuar » |