Walter Scott - The Complete Poems of Sir Walter Scott

A Lennox foray—for a day.’—

XII

The ancient bard her glee repressed:

‘Ill hast thou chosen theme for jest!

For who, through all this western wild,

Named Black Sir Roderick e’er, and smiled?

In Holy-Rood a knight he slew;

I saw, when back the dirk he drew,

Courtiers give place before the stride

Of the undaunted homicide;

And since, though outlawed, hath his hand

Full sternly kept his mountain land.

Who else dared give—ah! woe the day,

That I such hated truth should say!—

The Douglas, like a stricken deer,

Disowned by every noble peer,

Even the rude refuge we have here?

Alas, this wild marauding

Chief Alone might hazard our relief,

And now thy maiden charms expand,

Looks for his guerdon in thy hand;

Full soon may dispensation sought,

To back his suit, from Rome be brought.

Then, though an exile on the hill,

Thy father, as the Douglas, still

Be held in reverence and fear;

And though to Roderick thou’rt so dear

That thou mightst guide with silken thread.

Slave of thy will, this chieftain dread,

Yet, O loved maid, thy mirth refrain!

Thy hand is on a lion’s mane.’—

XIII

Minstrel,’ the maid replied, and high

Her father’s soul glanced from her eye,

‘My debts to Roderick’s house I know:

All that a mother could bestow

To Lady Margaret’s care I owe,

Since first an orphan in the wild

She sorrowed o’er her sister’s child;

To her brave chieftain son, from ire

Of Scotland’s king who shrouds my sire,

A deeper, holier debt is owed;

And, could I pay it with my blood, Allan!

Sir Roderick should command

My blood, my life,—but not my hand.

Rather will Ellen Douglas dwell

A votaress in Maronnan’s cell;

Rather through realms beyond the sea,

Seeking the world’s cold charity

Where ne’er was spoke a Scottish word,

And ne’er the name of Douglas heard

An outcast pilgrim will she rove,

Than wed the man she cannot love.

XIV

‘Thou shak’st, good friend, thy tresses gray,—

That pleading look, what can it say

But what I own?—I grant him brave,

But wild as Bracklinn’s thundering wave;

And generous, –save vindictive mood

Or jealous transport chafe his blood:

I grant him true to friendly band,

As his claymore is to his hand;

But O! that very blade of steel

More mercy for a foe would feel:

I grant him liberal, to fling

Among his clan the wealth they bring,

When back by lake and glen they wind,

And in the Lowland leave behind,

Where once some pleasant hamlet stood,

A mass of ashes slaked with blood.

The hand that for my father fought

I honor, as his daughter ought;

But can I clasp it reeking red

From peasants slaughtered in their shed?

No! wildly while his virtues gleam,

They make his passions darker seem,

And flash along his spirit high,

Like lightning o’er the midnight sky.

While yet a child,—and children know,

Instinctive taught, the friend and foe,—

I shuddered at his brow of gloom,

His shadowy plaid and sable plume;

A maiden grown, I ill could bear

His haughty mien and lordly air:

But, if thou join’st a suitor’s claim,

In serious mood, to Roderick’s name.

I thrill with anguish! or, if e’er

A Douglas knew the word, with fear.

To change such odious theme were best,—

What think’st thou of our stranger guest? ‘—

XV

‘What think I of him?—woe the while

That brought such wanderer to our isle!

Thy father’s battle-brand, of yore

For Tineman forged by fairy lore,

What time he leagued, no longer foes

His Border spears with Hotspur’s bows,

Did, self-unscabbarded, foreshow

The footstep of a secret foe.

If courtly spy hath harbored here,

What may we for the Douglas fear?

What for this island, deemed of old

Clan-Alpine’s last and surest hold?

If neither spy nor foe, I pray

What yet may jealous Roderick say?—

Nay, wave not thy disdainful head!

Bethink thee of the discord dread

That kindled when at Beltane game

Thou least the dance with Malcolm Graeme;

Still, though thy sire the peace renewed

Smoulders in Roderick’s breast the feud:

Beware!—But hark! what sounds are these?

My dull ears catch no faltering breeze

No weeping birch nor aspens wake,

Nor breath is dimpling in the lake;

Still is the canna’s hoary beard,

Yet, by my minstrel faith, I heard—

And hark again! some pipe of war

Sends the hold pibroch from afar.’

XVI

Far up the lengthened lake were spied

Four darkening specks upon the tide,

That, slow enlarging on the view,

Four manned and massed barges grew,

And, bearing downwards from Glengyle,

Steered full upon the lonely isle;

The point of Brianchoil they passed,

And, to the windward as they cast,

Against the sun they gave to shine

The bold Sir Roderick’s bannered Pine.

Nearer and nearer as they bear,

Spears, pikes, and axes flash in air.

Now might you see the tartars brave,

And plaids and plumage dance and wave:

Now see the bonnets sink and rise,

As his tough oar the rower plies;

See, flashing at each sturdy stroke,

The wave ascending into smoke;

See the proud pipers on the bow,

And mark the gaudy streamers flow

From their loud chanters down, and sweep

The furrowed bosom of the deep,

As, rushing through the lake amain,

They plied the ancient Highland strain.

XVII

Ever, as on they bore, more loud

And louder rung the pibroch proud.

At first the sounds, by distance tame,

Mellowed along the waters came,

And, lingering long by cape and bay,

Wailed every harsher note away,

Then bursting bolder on the ear,

The clan’s shrill Gathering they could hear,

Those thrilling sounds that call the might

Of old Clan-Alpine to the fight.

Thick beat the rapid notes, as when

The mustering hundreds shake the glen,

And hurrying at the signal dread,

‘Fine battered earth returns their tread.

Then prelude light, of livelier tone,

Expressed their merry marching on,

Ere peal of closing battle rose,

With mingled outcry, shrieks, and blows;

And mimic din of stroke and ward,

As broadsword upon target jarred;

And groaning pause, ere yet again,

Condensed, the battle yelled amain:

The rapid charge, the rallying shout,

Retreat borne headlong into rout,

And bursts of triumph, to declare

Clan-Alpine’s congest—all were there.

Nor ended thus the strain, but slow

Sunk in a moan prolonged and low,

And changed the conquering clarion swell

For wild lament o’er those that fell.

XVIII

The war-pipes ceased, but lake and hill

Were busy with their echoes still;

And, when they slept, a vocal strain

Bade their hoarse chorus wake again,

While loud a hundred clansmen raise

Their voices in their Chieftain’s praise.

Each boatman, bending to his oar,

With measured sweep the burden bore,

In such wild cadence as the breeze

Makes through December’s leafless trees.

The chorus first could Allan know,

‘Roderick Vich Alpine, ho! fro!’

And near, and nearer as they rowed,

Distinct the martial ditty flowed.