When, rousing at its glimmer red,
The warriors left their lowly bed,
Look'd out upon the dappled sky,
Mutter'd their soldier matins by,
And then awaked their fire, to steal,
As short and rude, their soldier meal.
That o'er, the Gael around him threw
His graceful plaid of varied hue,
And, true to promise, led the way,
By thicket green and mountain grey.
A wildering path!-they winded now
Along the precipice's brow,
Commanding the rich scenes beneath,
The windings of the Forth and Teith,
And all the vales beneath that lie,
Till Stirling's turrets melt in sky;
Then, sunk in copse, their farthest
glance

Gain'd not the length of horseman's lance.

'Twas oft so steep, the foot was fain Assistance from the hand to gain; So tangled oft, that, bursting through Each hawthorn shed her showers of dew,

That diamond dew, so pure and clear, It rivals all but Beauty's tear!

III.

At length they came where, stern and steep,

The hill sinks down upon the deep.
Here Vennachar in silver flows,
There, ridge on ridge, Benledi rose;
Ever the hollow path twined on,
Beneath steep bank and threatening
stone;

An hundred men might hold the post
With hardihood against a host.
The rugged mountain's scanty cloak
Was dwarfish shrubs of birch and oak,
With shingles bare, and cliffs between,
And patches bright of bracken green,
And heather black, that waved so high,
It held the copse in rivalry.

But where the lake slept deep and still,

Dank osiers fringed the swamp and hill;

And oft both path and hill were torn,
Where wintry torrents down had borne,
And heap'd upon the cumber'd land
Its wreck of gravel, rocks, and sand.
So toilsome was the road to trace,
The guide, abating of his pace,

Heard'st thou that shameful word and blow

Brought Roderick's vengeance on his foe?

What reck'd the Chieftain if he stood
On Highland heath, or Holy Rood?
He rights such wrong where it is given,
If it were in the court of heaven."-
"Still was it outrage;-yet, 'tis true,
Not then claim'd sovereignty his due;
While Albany, with feeble hand,
Held borrow'd truncheon of command,
The young King, mew'd in Stirling
tower,

Was stranger to respect and power.
But then, thy Chieftain's robber life!
Winning mean prey by causeless strife,
Wrenching from ruin'd Lowland swain
His herds and harvest rear'd in vain.-
Methinks a soul, like thine, should

With gentle slopes and groves between :

These fertile plains, that soften'd vale,
Were once the birthright of the Gael;
The stranger came with iron hand,
And from our fathers reft the land.
Where dwell we now! See, rudely
! swell

Crag over crag, and fell o'er fell.
Ask we this savage hill we tread,
For fatten'd steer or household bread;
Ask we for flocks these shingles dry,
And well the mountain might reply,-
To you, as to your sires of yore,
Belong the target and claymore!
I give you shelter in my breast,
Your own good blades must win the
rest.'

6

Pent in this fortress of the North,
Think'st thou we will not sally forth,
To spoil the spoiler as we may,
And from the robber rend the prey?
Ay, by my soul!-While on yon plain
The Saxon rears one shock of grain;
While, of ten thousand herds, there
strays

But one along yon river's maze,-
The Gael, of plain and river heir,
Shall, with strong hand, redeem his
share.

Where live the mountain Chiefs who bold,

That plundering Lowland field and fold

Is aught but retribution true?
Seek other cause 'gainst Roderick
Dhu."-

I seek my hound, or falcon stray'd,
I seek, good faith, a Highland maid,-
Free hadst thou been to come and go;
But secret path marks secret foe.
Nor yet. for this, even as a spy,
Hadst thou, unheard, been doom'd to
die,

As ever knight that belted glaive;
Yet dare not say, that now his blood.
Kept on its wont and temper'd flood,
As, following Roderick's stride, he drew
That seeming lonesome pathway
through,

Which yet, by fearful proof, was rife
With lances, that, to take his life,
Waited but signal from a guide,
So late dishonour'd and defied.
Ever, by stealth, his eye sought round
The vanish'd guardians of the ground,
And still, from copse and heather deep,
Fancy saw spear and broadsword peep,
And in the plover's shrilly strain,
The signal whistle heard again.
Nor breathed he free till far behind
The path was left; for then they wind
Along a wide and level green,
Where neither tree nor tuft was seen,
Nor rush nor bush of broom was near,
To hide a bonnet or a spear.

XII.

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 staid,
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 man,
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 then must keep thee with thy

sword."

AIII.

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 favour free,
I plight my honour, oath, and word,
That, to thy native strengths restored,
With each advantage shalt thou stand,
That aids thee now to guard thy land.'

XIV.

Dark lightning flash'd from Roderick's

eye

"Soars thy presumption, then, so high,
Because a wretched kern ye slew,
Homage to name to Roderick Dhu?
He yields not, he, to man nor Fate !
Thou add'st but fuel to my hate:-
Not yet prepared? By heaven, 1
My clansman's blood demands revenge.
change

My thought, and hold thy valour light
As that of some vain carpet knight,
Who ill deserved my courteous care,
And whose best boast is but to wear
A braid of his fair lady's hair."-
"I thank thee, Roderick, for the word!
It nerves my heart, it steels my sword;
For I have sworn this braid to stain
In the best blood that warms thy vein.
Now, truce, farewell! and, ruth,
begone!

Yet think not that by thee alone,
Proud Chief! can courtesy be shown;

Ill fared it then with Roderick Dhu,
That on the field his targe he threw,
Whose brazen studs and tough bull-
hide

Had death so often dash'd aside;
For, train'd abroad his arms to wield,
Fitz-James's blade was sword and shield.
He practised every pass and ward,
To thrust, to strike, to feint, to guard;
While less expert, though stronger far,
The Gael maintain'd unequal war.
Three times in closing strife they stood,
And thrice the Saxon blade drank
blood;

No stinted draught, no scanty tide,
The gushing flood the tartans dyed.
Fierce Roderick felt the fatal drain,
And shower'd his blows like wintry
rain;

And, as firm rock, or castle-roof,
Against the winter shower is proof,
The foe, invulnerable still,
Foil'd his wild rage by steady skill;
Till, at advantage ta'en, his brand
Forced Roderick's weapon from
hand,

his

And backward borne upon the lea, Brought the proud Chieftain to his knee.

Like mountain-cat who guards her

young,

Full at Fitz-James's throat he sprung; Received, but reck'd not of a wound, And lock'd his arms his foeman round.

Now, gallant Saxon, hold thine own! No maiden's hand is round thee thrown!

That desperate grasp thy frame might feel,

Through bars of brass and triple steel !——— They tug, they strain! down, down they go,

The Gael above, Fitz-James below. The Chieftain's gripe his throat compress'd,

His knee was planted in his breast;
His clotted locks he backward threw,
Across his brow his hand he drew,
From blood and mist to clear his sight,
Then gleam'd aloft his dagger bright!—
-But hate and fury ill supplied
The stream of life's exhausted tide,
And all too late the advantage came,
To turn the odds of deadly game;
For, while the dagger gleam'd on high,
Reel'd soul and sense, reel'd brain and
eye.

Down came the blow! but in the heath
The erring blade found bloodless sheath.
The struggling foe may now unclasp
The fainting Chief's relaxing grasp;
Unwounded from the dreadful close,
But breathless all, Fitz-James arose.

XVII.

He falier'd thanks to Heaven for life, Redeem'd, unhoped, from desperate strife;

Next on his foe his look he cast,
Whose every gasp appear'd his last;
In Roderick's gore he dipt the braid,-
"Poor Blanche! thy wrongs are dearly
paid:

Yet with thy foe must die, or live,
The praise that Faith and Valour give."
With that he blew a bugle-note,
Undid the collar from his throat,
Unbonneted, and by the wave
Sate down his brow and hands to laves
Then faint afar are heard the feet
Of rushing steeds in gallop fleet;
The sounds increase, and now are see
Four mounted squires in Lincoln green