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And instant to his arms he sprung.

       'Stand, or thou diest!—What, Malise?—soon

       Art thou returned from Braes of Doune.

       By thy keen step and glance I know,

       Thou bring'st us tidings of the foe.'—

       For while the Fiery Cross tried on,

       On distant scout had Malise gone.—

       'Where sleeps the Chief?' the henchman said.

       'Apart, in yonder misty glade;

       To his lone couch I'll be your guide.'—

       Then called a slumberer by his side,

       And stirred him with his slackened bow—

       'Up, up, Glentarkin! rouse thee, ho!

       We seek the Chieftain; on the track

       Keep eagle watch till I come back.'

      III.

       Together up the pass they sped:

       'What of the foeman?' Norman said.—

       'Varying reports from near and far;

       This certain—that a band of war

       Has for two days been ready boune,

       At prompt command to march from Doune;

       King James the while, with princely powers,

       Holds revelry in Stirling towers.

       Soon will this dark and gathering cloud

       Speak on our glens in thunder loud.

       Inured to bide such bitter bout,

       The warrior's plaid may bear it out;

       But, Norman, how wilt thou provide

       A shelter for thy bonny bride?''—

       'What! know ye not that Roderick's care

       To the lone isle hath caused repair

       Each maid and matron of the clan,

       And every child and aged man

       Unfit for arms; and given his charge,

       Nor skiff nor shallop, boat nor barge,

       Upon these lakes shall float at large,

       But all beside the islet moor,

       That such dear pledge may rest secure?'—

      IV.

       ''T is well advised—the Chieftain's plan

       Bespeaks the father of his clan.

       But wherefore sleeps Sir Roderick Dhu

       Apart from all his followers true?'

       'It is because last evening-tide

       Brian an augury hath tried,

       Of that dread kind which must not be

       Unless in dread extremity,

       The Taghairm called; by which, afar,

       Our sires foresaw the events of war.

       Duncraggan's milk-white bull they slew,'—

       Malise.

       'Ah! well the gallant brute I knew!

       The choicest of the prey we had

       When swept our merrymen Gallangad.

       His hide was snow, his horns were dark,

       His red eye glowed like fiery spark;

       So fierce, so tameless, and so fleet,

       Sore did he cumber our retreat,

       And kept our stoutest kerns in awe,

       Even at the pass of Beal 'maha.

       But steep and flinty was the road,

       And sharp the hurrying pikeman's goad,

       And when we came to Dennan's Row

       A child might scathless stroke his brow.'

      V.

       Norman.

       'That bull was slain; his reeking hide

       They stretched the cataract beside,

       Whose waters their wild tumult toss

       Adown the black and craggy boss

       Of that huge cliff whose ample verge

       Tradition calls the Hero's Targe.

       Couched on a shelf beneath its brink,

       Close where the thundering torrents sink,

       Rocking beneath their headlong sway,

       And drizzled by the ceaseless spray,

       Midst groan of rock and roar of stream,

       The wizard waits prophetic dream.

       Nor distant rests the Chief;—but hush!

       See, gliding slow through mist and bush,

       The hermit gains yon rock, and stands

       To gaze upon our slumbering bands.

       Seems he not, Malise, dike a ghost,

       That hovers o'er a slaughtered host?

       Or raven on the blasted oak,

       That, watching while the deer is broke,

       His morsel claims with sullen croak?'

       Malise.

       'Peace! peace! to other than to me

       Thy words were evil augury;

       But still I hold Sir Roderick's blade

       Clan-Alpine's omen and her aid,

       Not aught that, gleaned from heaven or hell,

       Yon fiend-begotten Monk can tell.

       The Chieftain joins him, see—and now

       Together they descend the brow.'

      VI.

       And, as they came, with Alpine's Lord

       The Hermit Monk held solemn word:—.

       'Roderick! it is a fearful strife,

       For man endowed with mortal life

       Whose shroud of sentient clay can still

       Feel feverish pang and fainting chill,

       Whose eye can stare in stony trance

       Whose hair can rouse like warrior's lance,

       'Tis hard for such to view, unfurled,

       The curtain of the future world.

       Yet, witness every quaking limb,

       My sunken pulse, mine eyeballs dim,

       My soul with harrowing anguish torn,

       This for my Chieftain have I borne!—

       The shapes that sought my fearful couch

       A human tongue may ne'er avouch;

       No mortal man—save he, who, bred

       Between the living and the dead,

       Is gifted beyond nature's law

       Had e'er survived to say he saw.

       At length the fateful answer came

       In characters of living flame!

       Not spoke in word, nor blazed in scroll,

       But borne and branded on my soul:—

       WHICH SPILLS THE FOREMOST FOEMAN'S LIFE,

       THAT PARTY CONQUERS IN THE STRIFE.'

      VII.

       'Thanks, Brian, for thy zeal and care!

       Good is thine augury, and fair.

       Clan-Alpine ne'er in battle stood

      

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