Walter Scott - The Complete Poems of Sir Walter Scott

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

But first our broadswords tasted blood.

A surer victim still I know,

Self-offered to the auspicious blow:

A spy has sought my land this morn,—

No eve shall witness his return!

My followers guard each pass’s mouth,

To east, to westward, and to south;

Red Murdoch, bribed to be his guide,

Has charge to lead his steps aside,

Till in deep path or dingle brown

He light on those shall bring him clown.

But see, who comes his news to show!

Malise! what tidings of the foe?’

VIII

‘At Doune, o’er many a spear and glaive

Two Barons proud their banners wave.

I saw the Moray’s silver star,

And marked the sable pale of Mar.’

‘By Alpine’s soul, high tidings those!

I love to hear of worthy foes.

When move they on?’ ‘Tomorrow’s noon

Will see them here for battle boune.’

‘Then shall it see a meeting stern!

But, for the place,—say, couldst thou learn

Nought of the friendly clans of Earn?

Strengthened by them, we well might bide

The battle on Benledi’s side.

Thou couldst not?—well! Clan-Alpine’s men

Shall man the Trosachs’ shaggy glen;

Within Loch Katrine’s gorge we’ll fight,

All in our maids’ and matrons’ sight,

Each for his hearth and household fire,

Father for child, and son for sire Lover

for maid beloved!—But why

Is it the breeze affects mine eye?

Or dost thou come, ill-omened tear!

A messenger of doubt or fear?

No! sooner may the Saxon lance

Unfix Benledi from his stance,

Than doubt or terror can pierce through

The unyielding heart of Roderick Dhu!

‘tis stubborn as his trusty targe.

Each to his post!—all know their charge.’

The pibroch sounds, the bands advance,

The broadswords gleam, the banners dance’

Obedient to the Chieftain’s glance.—

I turn me from the martial roar

And seek Coir-Uriskin once more.

IX

Where is the Douglas?—he is gone;

And Ellen sits on the gray stone

Fast by the cave, and makes her moan,

While vainly Allan’s words of cheer

Are poured on her unheeding ear.

‘He will return—dear lady, trust!—

With joy return;—he will—he must.

Well was it time to seek afar

Some refuge from impending war,

When e’en Clan-Alpine’s rugged swarm

Are cowed by the approaching storm.

I saw their boats with many a light,

Floating the livelong yesternight,

Shifting like flashes darted forth

By the red streamers of the north;

I marked at morn how close they ride,

Thick moored by the lone islet’s side,

Like wild ducks couching in the fen

When stoops the hawk upon the glen.

Since this rude race dare not abide

The peril on the mainland side,

Shall not thy noble father’s care

Some safe retreat for thee prepare?’

X