The small birds will not sing aloud, Is it the thunder's solemn sound That matters deep and dread, -I see the dagger-crest of Mar, Wave o'er the cloud of Saxon war, That up the lake comes winding far! Or bard of martial lay, "I were worth ten years of peaceful life, One glance at their array! 63 XVI. Their light-arm'd archers far and near Survey'd the tangled ground, A twilight forest frown'd, Their barhed horsemen, in the rear, The stern battalia crown'd. Farewell to lovely Loch Achray, Where shall we find, in foreign land, So lone a lake, so sweet a strand. CANTO VI., STANZA XV. No cymbal clash'd, no clarion rang, Still were the pipe and drum; The sullen march was dumb. There breathed no wind their crests to shake, Scarce the frail aspen seem'd to quake, That shadow'd o'er their road. Can rouse no lurking foe, Nor spy a trace of living thing Save when they stirr'd the roe; The lake is pass'd, and now they gain XVII. "At once there rose so wild a yell Forth from the pass in tumult driven, The archery appear; For life! for life! their plight they ply- Before that tide of flight and chase, The spearmen's twilight wood ? 'Down, down,' cried Mar, 'your lances down! At once lay levell❜d low; And closely shouldering side to side, As their Tinchel1 cows the game! XVIII. Bearing before them, in their course, The relics of the archer force, Like wave with crest of sparkling foam, Right onward did Clan-Alpine come. 1 A circle of sportsmen, who, by surrounding a great space, and gradually narrowing, brought immense quantities of deer together, which usually made desperate efforts to break through the Tinchel. |