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Along Benharrow’s shingly side,

       Where mortal horseman ne’er might ride;

       The thunderbolt had split the pine,—

       All augured ill to Alpine’s line.

       He girt his loins, and came to show

       The signals of impending woe,

       And now stood prompt to bless or ban,

       As bade the Chieftain of his clan.

       VIII

      ‘T was all prepared;—and from the rock

       A goat, the patriarch of the flock,

       Before the kindling pile was laid,

       And pierced by Roderick’s ready blade.

       Patient the sickening victim eyed

       The lifeblood ebb in crimson tide

       Down his clogged beard and shaggy limb,

       Till darkness glazed his eyeballs dim.

       The grisly priest, with murmuring prayer,

       A slender crosslet framed with care,

       A cubit’s length in measure due;

       The shaft and limbs were rods of yew,

       Whose parents in Inch-Cailliach wave

       Their shadows o’er Clan-Alpine’s grave,

       And, answering Lomond’s breezes deep,

       Soothe many a chieftain’s endless sleep.

       The Cross thus formed he held on high,

       With wasted hand and haggard eye,

       And strange and mingled feelings woke,

       While his anathema he spoke:—

       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,

       Each clansman’s execration just

       Shall doom him wrath and woe.’

       He paused; — the word the vassals took,

       With forward step and fiery look,

       On high their naked brands they shook,

       Their clattering targets wildly strook;

       And first in murmur low,

       Then like the billow in his course,

       That far to seaward finds his source,

       And flings to shore his mustered force,

       Burst with loud roar their answer hoarse,

       ‘Woe to the traitor, woe!’

       Ben-an’s gray scalp the accents knew,

       The joyous wolf from covert drew,

       The exulting eagle screamed afar,—

       They knew the voice of Alpine’s war.

       X

      The shout was hushed on lake and fell,

       The Monk resumed his muttered spell:

       Dismal and low its accents came,

       The while he scathed the Cross with flame;

       And the few words that reached the air,

       Although the holiest name was there,

       Had more of blasphemy than prayer.

       But when he shook above the crowd

       Its kindled points, he spoke aloud:—

       ‘Woe to the wretch who fails to rear

       At this dread sign the ready spear!

       For, as the flames this symbol sear,

       His home, the refuge of his fear,

       A kindred fate shall know;

       Far o’er its roof the volumed flame

       Clan-Alpine’s vengeance shall proclaim,

       While maids and matrons on his name

       Shall call down wretchedness and shame,

       And infamy and woe.’

       Then rose the cry of females, shrill

       As goshawk’s whistle on the hill,

       Denouncing misery and ill,

       Mingled with childhood’s babbling trill

       Of curses stammered slow;

       Answering with imprecation dread,

       ‘Sunk be his home in embers red!

       And cursed be the meanest shed

       That o’er shall hide the houseless head

       We doom to want and woe!’

       A sharp and shrieking echo gave,

       Coir-Uriskin, thy goblin cave!

       And the gray pass where birches wave

       On Beala-nam-bo.

       XI

      Then deeper paused the priest anew,

       And hard his laboring breath he drew,

       While, with set teeth and clenched hand,

       And eyes that glowed like fiery brand,

       He meditated curse more dread,

       And deadlier, on the clansman’s head

       Who, summoned to his chieftain’s aid,

       The signal saw and disobeyed.

       The crosslet’s points of sparkling wood

       He quenched among the bubbling blood.

       And, as again the sign he reared,

       Hollow and hoarse his voice was heard:

       ‘When flits this Cross from man to man,

       Vich-Alpine’s summons to his clan,

       Burst be the ear that fails to heed!

       Palsied the foot that shuns to speed!

       May ravens tear the careless eyes,

       Wolves make the coward heart their prize!

       As sinks that blood-stream in the earth,

       So may his heart’s-blood drench his hearth!

       As dies in hissing gore the spark,

       Quench thou his light, Destruction dark!

       And be the grace to him denied,

       Bought by this sign to all beside!

       He ceased; no echo gave again

       The murmur of the deep Amen.

       XII

      Then Roderick with impatient look

       From Brian’s hand the symbol took:

       ‘Speed, Malise, speed’ he said, and gave

       The crosslet to his henchman brave.

       ‘The muster-place be Lanrick mead—

       Instant the time–speed, Malise, speed!’

       Like heath-bird, when the hawks pursue,

       A barge across Loch Katrine flew:

       High stood the henchman

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