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The pageant pomp of earthly man.

       More would he of Clan-Alpine know,

       Thou canst our strength and passes show.—

       Malise, what ho!’—his henchman came:

       ‘Give our safeconduct to the Graeme.’

       Young Malcolm answered, calm and bold:’

       Fear nothing for thy favorite hold;

       The spot an angel deigned to grace

       Is blessed, though robbers haunt the place.

       Thy churlish courtesy for those

       Reserve, who fear to be thy foes.

       As safe to me the mountain way

       At midnight as in blaze of day,

       Though with his boldest at his back

       Even Roderick Dhu beset the track.—

       Brave Douglas,—lovely Ellen,—nay,

       Naught here of parting will I say.

       Earth does not hold a lonesome glen

       So secret but we meet again.—

       Chieftain! we too shall find an hour,’—

       He said, and left the sylvan bower.

       XXXVI

      Old Allan followed to the strand —

       Such was the Douglas’s command—

       And anxious told, how, on the morn,

       The stern Sir Roderick deep had sworn,

       The Fiery Cross should circle o’er

       Dale, glen, and valley, down and moor

       Much were the peril to the Graeme

       From those who to the signal came;

       Far up the lake ‘t were safest land,

       Himself would row him to the strand.

       He gave his counsel to the wind,

       While Malcolm did, unheeding, bind,

       Round dirk and pouch and broadsword rolled,

       His ample plaid in tightened fold,

       And stripped his limbs to such array

       As best might suit the watery way,—

       XXXVII

      Then spoke abrupt: ‘Farewell to thee,

       Pattern of old fidelity!’

       The Minstrel’s hand he kindly pressed,—

       ‘O, could I point a place of rest!

       My sovereign holds in ward my land,

       My uncle leads my vassal band;

       To tame his foes, his friends to aid,

       Poor Malcolm has but heart and blade.

       Yet, if there be one faithful Graeme

       Who loves the chieftain of his name,

       Not long shall honored Douglas dwell

       Like hunted stag in mountain cell;

       Nor, ere yon pride-swollen robber dare,—

       I may not give the rest to air!

       Tell Roderick Dhu I owed him naught,

       Not tile poor service of a boat,

       To waft me to yon mountainside.’

       Then plunged he in the flashing tide.

       Bold o’er the flood his head he bore,

       And stoutly steered him from the shore;

       And Allan strained his anxious eye,

       Far mid the lake his form to spy,

       Darkening across each puny wave,

       To which the moon her silver gave.

       Fast as the cormorant could skim.

       The swimmer plied each active limb;

       Then landing in the moonlight dell,

       Loud shouted of his weal to tell.

       The Minstrel heard the far halloo,

       And joyful from the shore withdrew.

      Canto Third

       Table of Contents

       The Gathering

       I

      Time rolls his ceaseless course. The race of yore,

       Who danced our infancy upon their knee,

       And told our marvelling boyhood legends store

       Of their strange ventures happed by land or sea,

       How are they blotted from the things that be!

       How few, all weak and withered of their force,

       Wait on the verge of dark eternity,

       Like stranded wrecks, the tide returning hoarse,

       To sweep them from out sight! Time rolls his ceaseless course.

      Yet live there still who can remember well,

       How, when a mountain chief his bugle blew,

       Both field and forest, dingle, cliff; and dell,

       And solitary heath, the signal knew;

       And fast the faithful clan around him drew.

       What time the warning note was keenly wound,

       What time aloft their kindred banner flew,

       While clamorous war-pipes yelled the gathering sound,

       And while the Fiery Cross glanced like a meteor, round.

       II

      The Summer dawn’s reflected hue

       To purple changed Loch Katrine blue;

       Mildly and soft the western breeze

       Just kissed the lake, just stirred the trees,

       And the pleased lake, like maiden coy,

       Trembled but dimpled not for joy

       The mountain-shadows on her breast

       Were neither broken nor at rest;

       In bright uncertainty they lie,

       Like future joys to Fancy’s eye.

       The water-lily to the light

       Her chalice reared of silver bright;

       The doe awoke, and to the lawn,

       Begemmed with dewdrops, led her fawn;

       The gray mist left the mountainside,

       The torrent showed its glistening pride;

       Invisible in flecked sky The lark sent clown her revelry:

       The blackbird and the speckled thrush

       Good-morrow gave from brake and bush;

       In answer cooed the cushat dove

       Her notes of peace and rest and love.

       III

      No thought of peace, no thought of rest,

       Assuaged the storm in Roderick’s breast.

       With sheathed broadsword in his hand,

       Abrupt he paced the islet strand,

       And eyed the rising sun, and laid

       His hand on his impatient blade.

      

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