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moan

       Of waves I heard a dying groan;—

       Another flash!—the spearman floats

       A weltering corse beside the boats,

       And the stern matron o’er him stood,

       Her hand and dagger streaming blood.

       XXI

      “‘Revenge! revenge!” the Saxons cried,

       The Gaels’ exulting shout replied.

       Despite the elemental rage,

       Again they hurried to engage;

       But, ere they closed in desperate fight,

       Bloody with spurring came a knight,

       Sprung from his horse, and from a crag

       Waved ‘twixt the hosts a milk-white flag.

       Clarion and trumpet by his side

       Rung forth a truce-note high and wide,

       While, in the Monarch’s name, afar

       A herald’s voice forbade the war,

       For Bothwell’s lord and Roderick bold

       Were both, he said, in captive hold.’—

       But here the lay made sudden stand,

       The harp escaped the Minstrel’s hand!

       Oft had he stolen a glance, to spy

       How Roderick brooked his minstrelsy:

       At first, the Chieftain, to the chime,

       With lifted hand kept feeble time;

       That motion ceased,—yet feeling strong

       Varied his look as changed the song;

       At length, no more his deafened ear

       The minstrel melody can hear;

       His face grows sharp,—his hands are clenched’

       As if some pang his heartstrings wrenched;

       Set are his teeth, his fading eye

       Is sternly fixed on vacancy;

       Thus, motionless and moanless, drew

       His parting breath stout Roderick Dhu!—

       Old Allan-bane looked on aghast,

       While grim and still his spirit passed;

       But when he saw that life was fled,

       He poured his wailing o’er the dead.

       XXII

      Lament.

      ‘And art thou cold and lowly laid,

       Thy foeman’s dread, thy people’s aid,

       Breadalbane’s boast, Clan-Alpine’s shade!

       For thee shall none a requiem say?—

       For thee, who loved the minstrel’s lay,

       For thee, of Bothwell’s house the stay,

       The shelter of her exiled line,

       E’en in this prison-house of thine,

       I’ll wail for Alpine’s honored Pine!

      ‘What groans shall yonder valleys fill!

       What shrieks of grief shall rend yon hill!

       What tears of burning rage shall thrill,

       When mourns thy tribe thy battles done,

       Thy fall before the race was won,

       Thy sword ungirt ere set of sun!

       There breathes not clansman of thy line,

       But would have given his life for thine.

       O, woe for Alpine’s honoured Pine!

      ‘Sad was thy lot on mortal stage!—

       The captive thrush may brook the cage,

       The prisoned eagle dies for rage.

       Brave spirit, do Dot scorn my strain!

       And, when its notes awake again,

       Even she, so long beloved in vain,

       Shall with my harp her voice combine,

       And mix her woe and tears with mine,

       To wail Clan-Alpine’s honoured Pine.’

       XXIII

      Ellen the while, with bursting heart,

       Remained in lordly bower apart,

       Where played, with many-coloured gleams,

       Through storied pane the rising beams.

       In vain on gilded roof they fall,

       And lightened up a tapestried wall,

       And for her use a menial train

       A rich collation spread in vain.

       The banquet proud, the chamber gay,

       Scarce drew one curious glance astray;

       Or if she looked, ‘t was but to say,

       With better omen dawned the day

       In that lone isle, where waved on high

       The dundeer’s hide for canopy;

       Where oft her noble father shared

       The simple meal her care prepared,

       While Lufra, crouching by her side,

       Her station claimed with jealous pride,

       And Douglas, bent on woodland game,

       Spoke of the chase to Malcolm Graeme,

       Whose answer, oft at random made,

       The wandering of his thoughts betrayed.

       Those who such simple joys have known

       Are taught to prize them when they ‘re gone.

       But sudden, see, she lifts her head;

       The window seeks with cautious tread.

       What distant music has the power

       To win her in this woful hour?

       ‘T was from a turret that o’erhung

       Her latticed bower, the strain was sung.

       XXIV

      Lay of the Imprisoned Huntsman.

      ‘My hawk is tired of perch and hood,

       My idle greyhound loathes his food,

       My horse is weary of his stall,

       And I am sick of captive thrall.

       I wish I were as I have been,

       Hunting the hart in forest green,

       With bended bow and bloodhound free,

       For that’s the life is meet for me.

      I hate to learn the ebb of time

       From yon dull steeple’s drowsy chime,

       Or mark it as the sunbeams crawl,

       Inch after inch, along the wall.

       The lark was wont my matins ring,

       The sable rook my vespers sing;

       These towers, although a king’s they be,

       Have not a hall of joy for me.

      No more at dawning morn I rise,

       And sun myself in Ellen’s eyes,

       Drive the fleet deer the forest through,

       And homeward wend with evening dew;

       A blithesome welcome blithely meet,

       And lay my

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