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Her look glanced wildly o’er the glen.

       XXV

      ‘The toils are pitched, and the stakes are set,—

       Ever sing merrily, merrily;

       The bows they bend, and the knives they whet,

       Hunters live so cheerily.

      It was a stag, a stag of ten,

       Bearing its branches sturdily;

       He came stately down the glen,—

       Ever sing hardily, hardily.

      ‘It was there he met with a wounded doe,

       She was bleeding deathfully;

       She warned him of the toils below,

       O. so faithfully, faithfully!

      ‘He had an eye, and he could heed,—

       Ever sing warily, warily;

       He had a foot, and he could speed,—

       Hunters watch so narrowly.’

       XXVI

      FitzJames’s mind was passion-tossed,

       When Ellen’s hints and fears were lost;

       But Murdoch’s shout suspicion wrought,

       And Blanche’s song conviction brought.

       Not like a stag that spies the snare,

       But lion of the hunt aware,

       He waved at once his blade on high,

       ‘Disclose thy treachery, or die!’

       Forth at hell speed the Clansman flew,

       But in his race his bow he drew.

       The shaft just grazed FitzJames’s crest,

       And thrilled in Blanche’s faded breast.—

       Murdoch of Alpine! prove thy speed,

       For ne’er had Alpine’s son such need;

       With heart of fire, and foot of wind,

       The fierce avenger is behind!

       Fate judges of the rapid strife—

       The forfeit death—the prize is life;

       Thy kindred ambush lies before,

       Close couched upon the heathery moor;

       Them couldst thou reach!—it may not be

       Thine ambushed kin thou ne’er shalt see,

       The fiery Saxon gains on thee!—

       Resistless speeds the deadly thrust,

       As lightning strikes the pine to dust;

       With foot and hand FitzJames must strain

       Ere he can win his blade again.

       Bent o’er the fallen with falcon eye,

       He grimly smiled to see him die,

       Then slower wended back his way,

       Where the poor maiden bleeding lay.

       XXVII

      She sat beneath the birchen tree,

       Her elbow resting on her knee;

       She had withdrawn the fatal shaft,

       And gazed on it, and feebly laughed;

       Her wreath of broom and feathers gray,

       Daggled with blood, beside her lay.

       The Knight to stanch the life-stream tried,—

       ‘Stranger, it is in vain!’ she cried.

       ‘This hour of death has given me more

       Of reason’s power than years before;

       For, as these ebbing veins decay,

       My frenzied visions fade away.

       A helpless injured wretch I die,

       And something tells me in thine eye

       That thou wert mine avenger born.

       Seest thou this tress?—O. still I ‘ve worn

       This little tress of yellow hair,

       Through danger, frenzy, and despair!

       It once was bright and clear as thine,

       But blood and tears have dimmed its shine.

       I will not tell thee when ‘t was shred,

       Nor from what guiltless victim’s head,—

       My brain would turn!—but it shall wave

       Like plumage on thy helmet brave,

       Till sun and wind shall bleach the stain,

       And thou wilt bring it me again.

       I waver still. —O God! more bright

       Let reason beam her parting light!—

       O. by thy knighthood’s honored sign,

       And for thy life preserved by mine,

       When thou shalt see a darksome man,

       Who boasts him Chief of Alpine’s Clan,

       With tartars broad and shadowy plume,

       And hand of blood, and brow of gloom

       Be thy heart bold, thy weapon strong,

       And wreak poor Blanche of Devan’s wrong!—

       They watch for thee by pass and fell …

       Avoid the path … O God! … farewell.’

       XXVIII

      A kindly heart had brave FitzJames;

       Fast poured his eyes at pity’s claims;

       And now, with mingled grief and ire,

       He saw the murdered maid expire.

       ‘God, in my need, be my relief,

       As I wreak this on yonder Chief!’

       A lock from Blanche’s tresses fair

       He blended with her bridegroom’s hair;

       The mingled braid in blood he dyed,

       And placed it on his bonnet-side:

       ‘By Him whose word is truth, I swear,

       No other favour will I wear,

       Till this sad token I imbrue

       In the best blood of Roderick Dhu!—

       But hark! what means yon faint halloo?

       The chase is up,—but they shall know,

       The stag at bay ‘s a dangerous foe.’

       Barred from the known but guarded way,

       Through copse and cliffs FitzJames must stray,

       And oft must change his desperate track,

       By stream and precipice turned back.

       Heartless, fatigued, and faint, at length,

       From lack of food and loss of strength

       He couched him in a thicket hoar

       And thought his toils and perils o’er:—

       ‘Of all my rash adventures past,

       This frantic feat must prove the last!

       Who e’er so mad but might have guessed

       That all this Highland hornet’s nest

       Would muster up in swarms so soon

       As e’er they heard of bands at Doune?—

       Like bloodhounds now they search me out,—

      

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