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XXI.

Revenge! revenge!' the Saxons cried,

The Gaels' exulting shout replied.

Despite the elemental rage,

Again they hurried to engage ;

But, ere they closed in desperate fight,
Bloody with spurring came a knight,
Sprung from his horse, and, from a crag,
Waved 'twixt the hosts a milk-white flag.
Clarion and trumpet by his side

Rung forth a truce-note high and wide,
While, in the Monarch's name, afar
An herald's voice forbade the war,
For Bothwell's lord, and Roderick bold,
Were both, he said, in captive hold."
-But here the lay made sudden stand,
The harp escaped the minstrel's hand!-
Oft had he stolen a glance, to spy
How Roderick brook'd his minstrelsy:
At first, the Chieftain, to the chime,
With lifted hand, kept feeble time:
That motion ceased, yet feeling strong
Varied his look as changed the song:1
At length, no more his deafen'd car
The minstrel melody can hear;

His face grows sharp,-his hands are clench'd,
As if some pang his heart-strings wrench'd;

1 MS.- Glow'd in his look, as swell'd the song.

Set are his teeth, his fading eye'

Is sternly fix'd on vacancy;

Thus, motionless, and moanless, drew

His parting breath, stout Roderick Dhu!-2
Old Allan-bane look'd on aghast,

While grim and still his spirit pass'd;

But when he saw that life was fled,

He pour'd his wailing o'er the dead.

XXII.

Lament.

"And art thou cold and lowly laid,3
Thy foeman's dread, thy people's aid,
Breadalbane's boast, Clan-Alpine's shade!
For thee shall none a requiem say?
-For thee,-who loved the minstrel's lay,
For thee, of Bothwell's house the stay,

Rob Roy, while on his deathbed, learned that a person, with whom he was at enmity, proposed to visit him. "Raise me from my bed," said the invalid; "throw my plaid around me, and bring me my claymore, dirk, and pistols, it shall never be said that a foeman saw Rob Roy MacGregor defenceless and unarmed." His foeman, conjectured to be one of the MacLarens, before and after mentioned, entered and paid his compliments, enquiring after the health of his formidable neighbour. Rob Roy maintained a cold haughty civility during their short conference; and so soon as he had left the house, "Now," he said, "all is over-let the piper play, Ha til mi tulidh" [we return no more], and he is said to have expired before the dirge was finished.—Introduction to Rob Roy, Waverley Novels, vol. vii. p. 85.

3 MS." And art thou gone," the Minstrel said.

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The shelter of her exiled line.1

E'en in this prison-house of thine,

I'll wail for Alpine's honour'd Pine!

What groans shall yonder valleys fill!
What shrieks of grief shall rend yon hill!
What tears of burning rage shall thrill,
When mourns thy tribe thy battles done,
Thy fall before the race was won,
Thy sword ungirt ere set of sun!
There breathes not clansman of thy line,
But would have given his life for thine.-
O woe for Alpine's honour'd Pine!

"Sad was thy lot on mortal stage!—
The captive thrush may brook the cage,
The prison'd eagle dies for rage.
Brave spirit, do not scorn my strain!
And, when its notes awake again,
Even she, so long beloved in vain,
Shall with my harp her voice combine,
And mix her woe and tears with mine,
To wail Clan-Alpine's honour'd Pine."

XXIII.

Ellen, the while, with bursting heart,
Remain'd in lordly bower apart,

Where play'd, with many colour'd gleams,
Through storied pane the rising beams.

1 MS.-The mightiest of a mighty line.

In vain on gilded roof they fall,

And lighten'd up a tapestried wall,
And for her use a menial train
A rich collation spread in vain.
The banquet proud, the chamber gay,'
Scarce drew one curious glance astray;
Or, if she look'd, 't was but to say,
With better omen dawn'd the day
In that lone isle, where waved on high
The dun-deer's hide for canopy;

Where oft her noble father shared
The simple meal her care prepared,
While Lufra, crouching by her side,
Her station claim'd with jealous pride,
And Douglas, bent on woodland game,2
Spoke of the chase to Malcolm Græme,
Whose answer oft at random made,
The wandering of his thoughts betrayed.—
Those who such simple joys have known,
Are taught to prize them when they're gone.

But sudden, see, she lifts her head!

The window seeks with cautious tread.
What distant music has the power

To win her in this woful hour!

'Twas from a turret that o'erhung
Her latticed bower, the strain was sung.