-She said, no shepherd sought her side, No hunter's hand her snood untied, Yet ne'er again to braid her hair The virgin snood did Alice wear; Gone was her maiden glee and sport, Her maiden girdle all too short, Nor sought she, from that fatal night, Or holy church or blessed rite, But lock'd her secret in her breast, And died in travail, unconfess'd. VI. Alone, among his young compeers, Was Brian from his infant years; A moody and heart-broken boy, Estranged from sympathy and joy, Bearing each taunt which careless tongue On his mysterious lineage flung. Whole nights he spent by moonlight pale, To wood and stream his hap to wail, Till, frantic, he as truth received What of his birth the crowd believed, And sought, in mist and meteor fire, To meet and know his Phantom Sire! In vain, to soothe his wayward fate, The cloister oped her pitying gate; In vain, the learning of the age Unclasp'd the sable-letter'd page; Even in his treasures he could find Food for the fever of his mind. Eager he read whatever tells Of magic, cabala, and spells, And every dark pursuit allied To curious and presumptuous pride; Till with fired brain and nerves o'erstrung, The desert gave him visions wild, The midnight wind came wild and dread, Far on the future battle-heath His eye beheld the ranks of death; Thus the lone Seer, from mankind hurl'd, Shaped forth a disembodied world. One lingering sympathy of mind Still bound him to the mortal kind; The only parent he could claim Of ancient Alpine's lineage came. Late had he heard, in prophet's dream, The fatal Ben-Shie's boding scream; Sounds, too, had come in midnight blast, Of charging steeds, careering fast Along Benharrow's shingly side, Where mortal horsemen ne'er might ride; All augur'd ill to Alpine's line. The signals of impending woe, And now stood prompt to bless or ban, VIII. 'Twas all prepared;—and from the rock, IX. "Woe to the clansman, who shall view This symbol of sepulchral yew, Forgetful that its branches grew Where weep the heavens their holiest dew On Alpine's dwelling low! Deserter of his Chieftain's trust, He ne'er shall mingle with their dust, But, from his sires and kindred thrust, Shall doom him wrath and woe.' Then, like the billow in his course, Ben-an's gray scalp the accents knew, X. The shout was hush'd on lake and fell, The while he scathed the Cross with flame, A kindred fate shall know: Far o'er its roof the volumed flame Clan-Alpine's vengeance shall proclaim, Then rose the cry of females, shrill Mingled with childhood's babbling trill Answering, with imprecation dread, That e'er shall hide the houseless head A sharp and shrieking echo gave, XI. Then deeper paused the priest anew, The crosslet's points of sparkling wood, Hollow and hoarse his voice was heard: |