Walter Scott - The Complete Poems of Sir Walter Scott

The Gael beheld him grim the while,

And answered with disdainful smile:

‘Saxon, from yonder mountain high,

I marked thee send delighted eye

Far to the south and east, where lay,

Extended in succession gay,

Deep waving fields and pastures green,

With gentle slopes and groves between:—

These fertile plains, that softened vale,

Were once the birthright of the Gael;

The stranger came with iron hand,

And from our fathers reft the land.

Where dwell we now? See, rudely swell

Crag over crag, and fell o’er fell.

Ask we this savage hill we tread

For fattened steer or household bread,

Ask we for flocks these shingles dry,

And well the mountain might reply,—

“To you, as to your sires of yore,

Belong the target and claymore!

I give you shelter in my breast,

Your own good blades must win the rest.”

Pent in this fortress of the North,

Think’st thou we will not sally forth,

To spoil the spoiler as we may,

And from the robber rend the prey?

Ay, by my soul!—While on yon plain

The Saxon rears one shock of grain,

While of ten thousand herds there strays

But one along yon river’s maze,—

The Gael, of plain and river heir,

Shall with strong hand redeem his share.

Where live the mountain Chiefs who hold

That plundering Lowland field and fold

Is aught but retribution true?

Seek other cause ‘gainst Roderick Dhu.’

VIII

Answered FitzJames: ‘And, if I sought,

Think’st thou no other could be brought?

What deem ye of my path waylaid?

My life given o’er to ambuscade?’

‘As of a meed to rashness due:

Hadst thou sent warning fair and true,—

I seek my hound or falcon strayed,

I seek, good faith, a Highland maid,—

Free hadst thou been to come and go;

But secret path marks secret foe.

Nor yet for this, even as a spy,

Hadst thou, unheard, been doomed to die,

Save to fulfil an augury.’

‘Well, let it pass; nor will I now

Fresh cause of enmity avow

To chafe thy mood and cloud thy brow.

Enough, I am by promise tied

To match me with this man of pride:

Twice have I sought Clan-Alpine’s glen

In peace; but when I come again,

I come with banner, brand, and bow,

As leader seeks his mortal foe.

For love-lore swain in lady’s bower

Ne’er panted for the appointed hour

As I, until before me stand

This rebel Chieftain and his band!’

IX

‘Have then thy wish!’—He whistled shrill

And he was answered from the hill;

Wild as the scream of the curlew,

From crag to crag the signal flew.

Instant, through copse and heath, arose

Bonnets and spears and bended bows

On right, on left, above, below,

Sprung up at once the lurking foe;

From shingles gray their lances start,

The bracken bush sends forth the dart,

The rushes and the willow-wand

Are bristling into axe and brand,

And every tuft of broom gives life

‘To plaided warrior armed for strife.

That whistle garrisoned the glen

At once with full five hundred men,

As if the yawning hill to heaven

A subterranean host had given.

Watching their leader’s beck and will,

All silent there they stood and still.

Like the loose crags whose threatening mass

Lay tottering o’er the hollow pass,

As if an infant’s touch could urge

Their headlong passage down the verge,

With step and weapon forward flung,

Upon the mountainside they hung.

The Mountaineer cast glance of pride

Along Benledi’s living side,

Then fixed his eye and sable brow

Full on FitzJames: ‘How say’st thou now?

These are Clan-Alpine’s warriors true;

And, Saxon,—I am Roderick Dhu!’

X

FitzJames was brave:—though to his heart

The lifeblood thrilled with sudden start,

He manned himself with dauntless air,

Returned the Chief his haughty stare,

His back against a rock he bore,

And firmly placed his foot before:—

‘Come one, come all! this rock shall fly

From its firm base as soon as I.’

Sir Roderick marked,—and in his eyes

Respect was mingled with surprise,

And the stern joy which warriors feel

In foeman worthy of their steel.

Short space he stood—then waved his hand:

Down sunk the disappearing band;

Each warrior vanished where he stood,

In broom or bracken, heath or wood;

Sunk brand and spear and bended bow,

In osiers pale and copses low;

It seemed as if their mother Earth

Had swallowed up her warlike birth.

The wind’s last breath had tossed in air

Pennon and plaid and plumage fair,—

The next but swept a lone hillside

Where heath and fern were waving wide:

The sun’s last glance was glinted back

From spear and glaive, from targe and jack,—

The next, all unreflected, shone

On bracken green and cold gray stone.

XI

FitzJames looked round,—yet scarce believed

The witness that his sight received;

Such apparition well might seem

Delusion of a dreadful dream.

Sir Roderick in suspense he eyed,

And to his look the Chief replied:

‘Fear naught—nay, that I need not say

But—doubt not aught from mine array.

Thou art my guest;—I pledged my word

As far as Coilantogle ford:

Nor would I call a clansman’s brand

For aid against one valiant hand,

Though on our strife lay every vale

Rent by the Saxon from the Gael.

So move we on;—I only meant

To show the reed on which you leant,

Deeming this path you might pursue

Without a pass from Roderick Dhu.’

They moved;—I said FitzJames was brave

As ever knight that belted glaive,

Yet dare not say that now his blood

Kept on its wont and tempered flood,

As, following Roderick’s stride, he drew

That seeming lonesome pathway through,

Which yet by fearful proof was rife

With lances, that, to take his life,

Waited but signal from a guide,

So late dishonored and defied.

Ever, by stealth, his eye sought round

The vanished guardians of the ground,

And stir’d from copse and heather deep

Fancy saw spear and broadsword peep,

And in the plover’s shrilly strain

The signal whistle heard again.

Nor breathed he free till far behind

The pass was left; for then they wind

Along a wide and level green,

Where neither tree nor tuft was seen,

Nor rush nor bush of broom was near,

To hide a bonnet or a spear.

XII

The Chief in silence strode before,

And reached that torrent’s sounding shore,

Which, daughter of three mighty lakes,

From Vennachar in silver breaks,

Sweeps through the plain, and ceaseless mines

On Bochastle the mouldering lines,

Where Rome, the Empress of the world,

Of yore her eagle wings unfurled.

And here his course the Chieftain stayed,

Threw down his target and his plaid,

And to the Lowland warrior said:

‘Bold Saxon! to his promise just,

Vich-Alpine has discharged his trust.

This murderous Chief, this ruthless man,

This head of a rebellious clan,

Hath led thee safe, through watch and ward,

Far past Clan-Alpine’s outmost guard.

Now, man to man, and steel to steel,

A Chieftain’s vengeance thou shalt feel.

See, here all vantageless I stand,

Armed like thyself with single brand;

For this is Coilantogle ford,