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Come, good old Minstrel, follow me;
Thy Lord and Chieftain shalt thou see,"

XII.

Then, from a rusted iron hook,
A bunch of ponderous keys he took,
Lighted a torch, and Allan led

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Through grated arch and passage dread.
Portals they pass'd, where, deep within,
Spoke prisoner's moan, and fetters' din
Through rugged vaults, where, loosely stored,
Lay wheel, and axe, and headsman's sword,
And many a hideous engine grim,
For wrenching joint, and crushing limb,
By artists form'd, who deem'd it shame
And sin to give their work a name.
They halted at a low-brow'd porch,
And Brent to Allan gave the torch,
While bolt and chain he backward roll'd,
And made the bar unhasp its hold.
They enter'd:-'twas a prison-room
Of stern security and gloom,
Yet not a dungeon; for the day
Through lofty gratings found its way,
And rude and antique garniture
Deck'd the sad walls and oaken floor;
Such as the rugged days of old

Deem'd fit for captive noble's hold.

66

Here," said De Brent, "thou may'st remain

Till the Leech visit him again.

Strict is his charge, the warders tell,
To tend the noble prisoner well.”—
Retiring then the bolt he drew,

And the lock's murmur growl'd anew.
Roused at the sound, from lowly bed
A Captive feebly raised his head;

The wondering Minstrel look'd, and knew-
Not his dear lord, but Roderick Dhu!

For, come from where Clan-Alpine fought,
They erring, deem'd the Chief he sought.

XIII.

As the tall ship whose lofty prore
Shall never stem the billows more,
Deserted by her gallant band,
Amid the breakers lies astrand,-
So, on his couch, lay Roderick Dha!
And oft his fever'd limbs he threw
In toss abrupt, as when her sides
Lie rocking in the advancing tides,
That shake her frame with ceaseless beat,
Yet cannot heave her from her seat;--
O! how unlike her course on sea!
Or his free step on hill and lea!
Soon as the Minstrel he could scan,
-"What of thy lady?-of my clan ?-
My mother?-Douglas ?-tell me ail!
Have they been ruin'd in my fall?
Ah, yes! or wherefore art thou here!
Yet speak,-speak boldly,-do not fear.".
(For Allan, who his mood well knew,
Was choked with grief and terror too.)-~-
"Who fought-who fled !-Old man, he brief;-
Some might-for they had lost their Chief.
Who basely live ?-who bravely died ?"—
"O, calm thee, Chief!" the Minstrei cried,
"Ellen is safe;"-" For that, thank Heaven!"
"And hopes are for the Douglas given;-
The Lady Margaret too is well;
And, for thy clan,- -on field or fell,
Has never harp or Minstrel told,
Of combat fought so true and bold.
Thy stately Pine is yet unbent,
Though many a goodly bough is rent."

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XIV.

The Chieftain rear'd his form on high,
And fever's fire was in his eye;

But ghastly, pale, and livid streaks
Chequer'd his swarthy brow and cheeks.

-“ Hark, Minstrel ! I have heard thee play, With measure bold, on festal day,

In yon lone isle,

again where ne'er

Shall harper play, or warrior hear!...
That stirring air that peals on high,
O'er Dermid's race our victory-

Strike it! and then, (for well thou canst,)
Free from thy minstrel spirit glanced,

Fling me the picture of the fight,
When met my clan the Saxon might.

I'll listen, till my fancy hears

The clang of swords, the crash of spears!
These grates, these walls, shall vanish then,
For the fair field of fighting men,
And my free spirit burst away,
As if it soar'd from battle-fray."

The trembling Bard with awe obey'd,-
Slow on the harp his hand he laid;
But soon remembrance of the sight
He witness'd from the mountain's height,
With what old Bertram told at night,
Awaken'd the full power of song,
And bore him in career along

As shallop launch'd on river's tide,

That slow and fearful leaves the side,

But, when it feels the middle stream,

Drives downward swift as lightning's beam.

XV.

BATTLE OF BEAL AN DUINE.

The Minstrel came once more to view

The eastern ridge of Ben-venue,

For, ere he parted, he would say
Farewell to lovely Loch-Achray-
Where shall he find, in foreign land,
So lone a lake, so sweet a strand !—
There is no breeze upon the fern,
No ripple on the lake,

Upon her eyrie nods the erne,

The deer has sought the brake;
The small birds will not sing aloud,
The springing trout lies still,
So darkly glooms yon thunder-cloud,
That swathes, as with a purple shroud,
Benledi's distant hill.

Is it the thunder's solemn sound
That mutters deep and dread,
Or echoes from the groaning ground
The warrior's measured tread?
Is it the lightning's quivering glance
That on the thicket streams,
Or do they flash on spear and lance
The sun's retiring beams?

-I see the dagger-crest of Mar,
I see the Moray's silver star,
Wave o'er the cloud of Saxon war

That up the lake comes winding far
To hero boune for battle-strife,

Or bard of martial lay,

'Twere worth ten years of peaceful life, One glance at their array.

XVI.

"Their light-arm'd archers far and near Survey'd the tangled ground;

Their centre ranks, with pike and spear A twilight forest frown'd!

Their barbed horsemen, in the rear,

The stern battalia crown'd.

No cymbal clash'd, no clarion rang,

Still were the pipe and drum;

Save heavy tread, and armour's clang,
The sullen march was dumb.

There breathed no wind their crests to shake,
Or wave their flags abroad;
Scarce the frail aspen seem'd to quake,

That shadow'd o'er their road.
Their vaward scouts no tidings bring,
Can rouse no lurking foe,
Nor spy a trace of living thing,
Save when they stirr'd the roe;
The host moves, like a deep-sea wave,
Where rise no rocks its pride to brave
High-swelling, dark, and slow.
The lake is pass'd, and now they gain
A narrow and a broken plain,
Before the Trosachs' rugged jaws;
And here the horse and spearmen pause,
While to explore the dangerous glen,
Dive through the pass the archer-men.

XVII.

"At once there rose so wild a yell
Within that dark and narrow dell,
As all the fiends, from heaven that fell,
Had peal'd the banner-cry of hell!

Forth from the pass in tumult driven,
Like chaff before the wind of heaven.

The archery appear:

For life! for life! their flight they ply-
And shriek, and shout, and battle-cry.
And plaids and bonnets waving high
And broad-swords flashing to the sky,
Are maddening in the rear.
Onward they drive, in dreadful race,
Pursuers and pursued;

Before that tide of flight and chase,
How shall it keep its rooted place,

The spearmen's twilight wood?

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