Part 9 (2/2)

And you, in many a danger true, At Duncan's hest your blades that drew, To arms, and guard that orphan's head! 440 Let babes and women wail the dead.”

Then weapon-clang and martial call Resounded through the funeral hall, While from the walls the attendant band s.n.a.t.c.hed sword and targe, with hurried hand; 445 And short and flitting energy Glanced from the mourner's sunken eye, As if the sounds to warrior dear, Might rouse her Duncan from his bier.

But faded soon that borrowed force; 450 Grief claimed his right, and tears their course.

XIX

Benledi saw the Cross of Fire; It glanced like lightning up Strath-Ire.

O'er dale and hill the summons flew, Nor rest nor pause young Angus knew; 455 The tear that gathered in his eye He left the mountain breeze to dry; Until, where Teith's young waters roll Betwixt him and a wooded knoll That graced the sable strath with green, 460 The chapel of St. Bride was seen.

Swoln was the stream, remote the bridge, But Angus paused not on the edge; Though the dark waves danced dizzily, Though reeled his sympathetic eye, 465 He dashed amid the torrent's roar.

His right hand high the crosslet bore, His left the pole-ax grasped, to guide And stay his footing in the tide.

He stumbled twice--the foam splashed high; 470 With hoa.r.s.er swell the stream raced by; And had he fallen--forever there, Farewell Duncraggan's orphan heir!

But still, as if in parting life, Firmer he grasped the Cross of strife, 475 Until the opposing bank he gained, And up the chapel pathway strained.

XX

A blithesome rout, that morning tide, Had sought the chapel of St. Bride.

Her troth Tombea's Mary gave 480 To Norman, heir of Armandave.

And, issuing from the Gothic arch, The bridal now resumed their march.

In rude, but glad procession, came Bonneted sire and coif-clad dame; 485 And plaided youth, with jest and jeer, Which snooden maiden would not hear: And children, that, unwitting why, Lent the gay shout their shrilly cry; And minstrels, that in measures vied 490 Before the young and bonny bride, Whose downcast eye and cheek disclose The tear and blush of morning rose.

With virgin step, and bashful hand, She held the kerchief's snowy band; 495 The gallant bridegroom, by her side, Beheld his prize with victor's pride, And the glad mother in her ear Was closely whispering word of cheer.

XXI

Who meets them at the churchyard gate? 500 The messenger of fear and fate!

Haste in his hurried accent lies, And grief is swimming in his eyes.

All dripping from the recent flood, Panting and travel-soiled he stood, 505 The fatal sign of fire and sword Held forth, and spoke the appointed word: ”The muster-place is Lanrick mead; Speed forth the signal! Norman, speed!”

And must he change so soon the hand, 510 Just linked to his by holy band, For the fell Cross of blood and brand?

And must the day, so blithe that rose And promised rapture in the close, Before its setting hour, divide 515 The bridegroom from the plighted bride?

O fatal doom!--it must! it must!

Clan-Alpine's cause, her Chieftain's trust, Her summons dread, brook no delay; Stretch to the race--away! away! 520

XXII

Yet slow he laid his plaid aside, And, lingering, eyed his lovely bride, Until he saw the starting tear Speak woe he might not stop to cheer; Then, trusting not a second look, 525 In haste he sped him up the brook, Nor backward glanced, till on the heath Where Lubnaig's lake supplies the Teith.

--What in the racer's bosom stirred?

The sickening pang of hope deferred, 530 And memory, with a torturing train Of all his morning visions vain.

Mingled with love's impatience came The manly thirst for martial fame; The stormy joy of mountaineers, 535 Ere yet they rush upon the spears; And zeal for Clan and Chieftain burning, And hope, from well-fought field returning, With war's red honors on his crest, To clasp his Mary to his breast. 540 Stung by such thoughts, o'er bank and brae, Like fire from flint he glanced away, While high resolve, and feeling strong, Burst into voluntary song.

XXIII

SONG

The heath this night must be my bed, 545 The bracken curtain for my head, My lullaby the warder's tread, Far, far, from love and thee, Mary; To-morrow eve, more stilly laid, My couch may be my b.l.o.o.d.y plaid, 550 My vesper song, thy wail, sweet maid!

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