"Who is this maid? what means her lay?
She hovers o'er the hollow way,
And flutters wide her mantle gray,
As the lone heron spreads his wing
By twilight, o'er a haunted spring."
"'T is Blanche of Devan," Murdoch said,
"A crazed and captive Lowland maid,
Ta'en on the morn she was a bride,
When Roderick foray'd Devan-side.
The gay bridegrcom resistance made.
And felt our Chief's unconquer'd blade.
I marvel she is now at large.
But oft she 'scapes from Maudlin's charge.
Hence, brain-sick fool!" He raised his bow:
"Now, if thou strik'st her but one blow,
I'll pitch thee from the cliff as far
As ever peasant pitch'd a bar!"
Thanks, champion. thanks!" the Maniac cried,
And press'd her to Fitz-James's side.
"See the gray pennons 1 prepare,
To seek my true-love through the air!
I will not lend that savage groom,
To break his fall, one downy plume!
No!-deep amid disjointed stones,
The wolves shall batten on his bones,
And then shall his detested plaid,
By bush and brier in mid-air staid,
Wave forth a banner fair and free,
Meet signal for their revelry.".
"Hush thee, poor maiden, and be still!". "O! thou look'st kindly, and I will. Mine eye has dried and wasted been, But still it loves the Lincoln green; And though mine ear is all unstrung, Still, still it loves the Lowland tongue.
"For O my sweet William was forester true,
He stole poor Blanche's heart away!
His coat it was all of the greenwood hue,
And so blithely he trill'd the Lowland lay!
"It was not that I meant to tell,
But thou art wise, and guessest well."
Then, in a low and broken tone,
And hurried note, the song went on.
Still on the clansman fearfully
She fix'd her apprehensive eye;
Then turn'd it on the Knight; and then
Her look glanced wildly o'er the glen.
The toils are pitch'd, and the stakes are set, Ever sing merrily, merrily;
The bows they bend, and the knives they whet, Hunters live so cheerily.
It was a stag, a stag of ten,
Bearing his branches sturdily; He came stately down the glen, – Ever sing hardily, hardily.
It was there he met with a wounded doe,
She was bleeding deathfully;
She warn'd him of the toils below,
O, so faithfully, faithfully!
He had an eye, and he could heed,
Ever sing warily, warily;
He had a foot, and he could speed,-
Hunters watch so narrowly.
Fitz-James's mind was passion-toss'd,
When Ellen's hints and fears were lost;
But Murdoch's shout suspicion wrought,
And Blanche's song conviction brought.
Not like a stag that spies the snare,
But lion of the hunt aware,
He waved at once his blade on high:
"Disclose thy treachery or die!"
Forth at full speed the clansman flew,
But in his race his bow he drew :
The shaft just grazed Fitz-James's crest,
And thrill'd in Blanche's faded breast.
Murdoch of Alpine! prove thy speed,
For ne'er had Alpine's son such need:
With heart of fire, and foot of wind,
The fierce avenger is behind!
Fate judges of the rapid strife
The forfeit death — the prize is life!
Thy kindred ambush lies before,
Close couch'd upon the heathery moor;
Them couldst thou reach!-it may not be:
Thine ambush'd kin thou ne'er shalt see,
The fiery Saxon gains on thee!
Resistless speeds the deadly thrust,
As lightning strikes the pine to dust;
With foot and hand Fitz-James must strain
Ere he can win his blade again.
She sate beneath the birchen tree,
Her elbow resting on her knee;
She had withdrawn the fatal shaft,
And gazed on it, and feebly laugh'd;
Her wreath of broom and feathers gray,
Daggled with blood, beside her lay.
The Knight to staunch the life-stream tried, -
Stranger, it is in vain!" she cried,
"This hour of death has given me more
Of reason's power than years before;
For, as these ebbing veins decay,
My frenzied visions fade away.
A helpless injured wretch I die,
And something tells me in thine eye
That thou wert mine avenger born.
Seest thou this tress?-O, still I've worn
This little tress of yellow hair,
Through danger, frenzy, and despair!
It once was bright and clear as thine,
But blood and tears have dimmed its shine.
I will not tell thee when 't was shred,
Nor from what guiltless victim's head,
My brain would turn !—but it shall wave
Like plumage on thy helmet brave,
Till sun and wind shall bleach the stain,
And thou wilt bring it me again. —
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