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Bear back both friend and foe! “—

       Like reeds before the tempest’s frown,

       That serried grove of lances brown

       At once lay levelled low;

       And closely shouldering side to side,

       The bristling ranks the onset bide.— “

       “We’ll quell the savage mountaineer,

       As their Tinchel cows the game!

       They come as fleet as forest deer,

       We’ll drive them back as tame.”

       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.

       Above the tide, each broadsword bright

       Was brandishing like beam of light,

       Each targe was dark below;

       And with the ocean’s mighty swing,

       When heaving to the tempest’s wing,

       They hurled them on the foe.

       I heard the lance’s shivering crash,

       As when the whirlwind rends the ash;

       I heard the broadsword’s deadly clang,

       As if a hundred anvils rang!

       But Moray wheeled his rearward rank

       Of horsemen on Clan-Alpine’s flank,—

       “My bannerman, advance!

       I see,” he cried, “their column shake.

       Now, gallants! for your ladies’ sake,

       Upon them with the lance!”—

       The horsemen dashed among the rout,

       As deer break through the broom;

      Their steeds are stout, their swords are out,

       They soon make lightsome room.

       Clan-Alpine’s best are backward borne—

       Where, where was Roderick then!

       One blast upon his bugle-horn

       Were worth a thousand men.

       And refluent through the pass of fear

       The battle’s tide was poured;

       Vanished the Saxon’s struggling spear,

       Vanished the mountain-sword.

       As Bracklinn’s chasm, so black and steep,

       Receives her roaring linn

       As the dark caverns of the deep

       Suck the wild whirlpool in,

       So did the deep and darksome pass

       Devour the battle’s mingled mass;

       None linger now upon the plain

       Save those who ne’er shall fight again.

       XIX

      ‘Now westward rolls the battle’s din,

       That deep and doubling pass within.—

       Minstrel, away! the work of fate

       Is bearing on; its issue wait,

       Where the rude Trosachs’ dread defile

       Opens on Katrine’s lake and isle.

       Gray Benvenue I soon repassed,

       Loch Katrine lay beneath me cast.

       The sun is set;—the clouds are met,

       The lowering scowl of heaven

       An inky hue of livid blue

       To the deep lake has given;

       Strange gusts of wind from mountain glen

       Swept o’er the lake, then sunk again.

       I heeded not the eddying surge,

       Mine eye but saw the Trosachs’ gorge,

       Mine ear but heard that sullen sound,

       Which like an earthquake shook the ground,

       And spoke the stern and desperate strife

       That parts not but with parting life,

       Seeming, to minstrel ear, to toll

       The dirge of many a passing soul.

       Nearer it comes—the dim-wood glen

       The martial flood disgorged again,

       But not in mingled tide;

       The plaided warriors of the North

       High on the mountain thunder forth

       And overhang its side,

       While by the lake below appears

       The darkening cloud of Saxon spears.

       At weary bay each shattered band,

       Eying their foemen, sternly stand;

       Their banners stream like tattered sail,

       That flings its fragments to the gale,

       And broken arms and disarray

       Marked the fell havoc of the day.

       XX

      ‘Viewing the mountain’s ridge askance,

       The Saxons stood in sullen trance,

       Till Moray pointed with his lance,

       And cried: “Behold yon isle!—

       See! none are left to guard its strand

       But women weak, that wring the hand:

       ‘Tis there of yore the robber band

       Their booty wont to pile;—

       My purse, with bonnet-pieces store,

       To him will swim a bowshot o’er,

       And loose a shallop from the shore.

       Lightly we’ll tame the war-wolf then,

       Lords of his mate, and brood, and den.”

       Forth from the ranks a spearman sprung,

       On earth his casque and corselet rung,

       He plunged him in the wave:—

       All saw the deed,—the purpose knew,

       And to their clamors Benvenue

       A mingled echo gave;

       The Saxons shout, their mate to cheer,

       The helpless females scream for fear

       And yells for rage the mountaineer.

       ‘T was then, as by the outcry riven,

       Poured down at once the lowering heaven:

       A whirlwind swept Loch Katrine’s breast,

       Her billows reared their snowy crest.

       Well for the swimmer swelled they high,

       To mar the Highland marksman’s eye;

       For round him showered, mid rain and hail,

       The vengeful arrows of the Gael.

       In vain.—He nears the isle—and lo!

       His hand is on a shallop’s bow.

       Just then a flash of lightning came,

       It tinged the waves and strand with flame;

       I marked Duncraggan’s widowed dame,

       Behind an oak I saw her stand,

       A naked dirk

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