Time rolls his ceaseless course. The race of yore, Who danced our infancy upon their knee, And told our marvelling boyhood legends store Of their strange ventures happed by land or sea,
How are they blotted from the things that be! How few, all weak and withered of their force, Wait on the verge of dark eternity, Like stranded wrecks, the tide returning hoarse,
To sweep them from out sight! Time rolls his ceaseless course. Yet live there still who can remember well, How, when a mountain chief his bugle blew, Both field and forest, dingle, cliff; and dell,
And solitary heath, the signal knew; And fast the faithful clan around him drew. What time the warning note was keenly wound, What time aloft their kindred banner flew,
While clamorous war-pipes yelled the gathering sound, And while the Fiery Cross glanced like a meteor, round. The Summer dawn's reflected hue To purple changed Loch Katrine blue;
Mildly and soft the western breeze Just kissed the lake, just stirred the trees, And the pleased lake, like maiden coy, Trembled but dimpled not for joy
The mountain-shadows on her breast Were neither broken nor at rest; In bright uncertainty they lie, Like future joys to Fancy's eye.
The water-lily to the light Her chalice reared of silver bright; The doe awoke, and to the lawn, Begemmed with dew-drops, led her fawn;
The gray mist left the mountain-side, The torrent showed its glistening pride; Invisible in flecked sky The lark sent clown her revelry: The blackbird and the speckled thrush
Good-morrow gave from brake and bush; In answer cooed the cushat dove Her notes of peace and rest and love. No thought of peace, no thought of rest,
Assuaged the storm in Roderick's breast. With sheathed broadsword in his hand, Abrupt he paced the islet strand, And eyed the rising sun, and laid
His hand on his impatient blade. Beneath a rock, his vassals’ care Was prompt the ritual to prepare, With deep and deathful meaning fraught;
For such Antiquity had taught Was preface meet, ere yet abroad The Cross of Fire should take its road. The shrinking band stood oft aghast
At the impatient glance he cast;— Such glance the mountain eagle threw, As, from the cliffs of Benvenue, She spread her dark sails on the wind,
And, high in middle heaven reclined, With her broad shadow on the lake, Silenced the warblers of the brake. A heap of withered boughs was piled,
Of juniper and rowan wild, Mingled with shivers from the oak, Rent by the lightning's recent stroke. Brian the Hermit by it stood,
Barefooted, in his frock and hood. His grizzled beard and matted hair Obscured a visage of despair; His naked arms and legs, seamed o'er,
The scars of frantic penance bore. That monk, of savage form and face The impending danger of his race Had drawn from deepest solitude
Far in Benharrow's bosom rude. Not his the mien of Christian priest, But Druid's, from the grave released Whose hardened heart and eye might brook
On human sacrifice to look; And much,‘ t was said, of heathen lore Mixed in the charms he muttered o'er. The hallowed creed gave only worse
And deadlier emphasis of curse. No peasant sought that Hermit's prayer His cave the pilgrim shunned with care, The eager huntsman knew his bound
And in mid chase called off his hound;’ Or if, in lonely glen or strath, The desert-dweller met his path He prayed, and signed the cross between,
While terror took devotion's mien. Of Brian's birth strange tales were told. His mother watched a midnight fold, Built deep within a dreary glen,
Where scattered lay the bones of men In some forgotten battle slain, And bleached by drifting wind and rain. It might have tamed a warrior's heart
To view such mockery of his art! The knot-grass fettered there the hand Which once could burst an iron band; Beneath the broad and ample bone,
That bucklered heart to fear unknown, A feeble and a timorous guest, The fieldfare framed her lowly nest; There the slow blindworm left his slime
On the fleet limbs that mocked at time; And there, too, lay the leader's skull Still wreathed with chaplet, flushed and full, For heath-bell with her purple bloom
Supplied the bonnet and the plume. All night, in this sad glen the maid Sat shrouded in her mantle's shade: She said no shepherd sought her side,
No hunter's hand her snood untied. Yet ne'er again to braid her hair The virgin snood did Alive wear; Gone was her maiden glee and sport,
Her maiden girdle all too short, Nor sought she, from that fatal night, Or holy church or blessed rite But locked her secret in her breast,
And died in travail, unconfessed. Alone, among his young compeers, Was Brian from his infant years; A moody and heart-broken boy,
Estranged from sympathy and joy Bearing each taunt which careless tongue On his mysterious lineage flung. Whole nights he spent by moonlight pale
To wood and stream his teal, to wail, Till, frantic, he as truth received What of his birth the crowd believed, And sought, in mist and meteor fire,
To meet and know his Phantom Sire! In vain, to soothe his wayward fate, The cloister oped her pitying gate; In vain the learning of the age
Unclasped the sable-lettered page; Even in its treasures he could find Food for the fever of his mind. Eager he read whatever tells
Of magic, cabala, and spells, And every dark pursuit allied To curious and presumptuous pride; Till with fired brain and nerves o'erstrung,
And heart with mystic horrors wrung, Desperate he sought Benharrow's den, And hid him from the haunts of men. The desert gave him visions wild,
Such as might suit the spectre's child. Where with black cliffs the torrents toil, He watched the wheeling eddies boil, Jill from their foam his dazzled eyes
Beheld the River Demon rise: The mountain mist took form and limb Of noontide hag or goblin grim; The midnight wind came wild and dread,
Swelled with the voices of the dead; Far on the future battle-heath His eye beheld the ranks of death: Thus the lone Seer, from mankind hurled,
Shaped forth a disembodied world. One lingering sympathy of mind Still bound him to the mortal kind; The only parent he could claim
Of ancient Alpine's lineage came. Late had he heard, in prophet's dream, The fatal Ben-Shie's boding scream; Sounds, too, had come in midnight blast
Of charging steeds, careering fast Along Benharrow's shingly side, Where mortal horseman ne'er might ride; The thunderbolt had split the pine,—
All augured ill to Alpine's line. He girt his loins, and came to show The signals of impending woe, And now stood prompt to bless or ban,
As bade the Chieftain of his clan. ‘ T was all prepared;— and from the rock A goat, the patriarch of the flock, Before the kindling pile was laid,
And pierced by Roderick's ready blade. Patient the sickening victim eyed The life-blood ebb in crimson tide Down his clogged beard and shaggy limb,
Till darkness glazed his eyeballs dim. The grisly priest, with murmuring prayer, A slender crosslet framed with care, A cubit's length in measure due;
The shaft and limbs were rods of yew, Whose parents in Inch-Cailliach wave Their shadows o'er Clan-Alpine's grave, And, answering Lomond's breezes deep,
Soothe many a chieftain's endless sleep. The Cross thus formed he held on high, With wasted hand and haggard eye, And strange and mingled feelings woke,
While his anathema he spoke:— ‘ Woe to the clansman who shall view This symbol of sepulchral yew, Forgetful that its branches grew
Where weep the heavens their holiest dew On Alpine's dwelling low! Deserter of his Chieftain's trust, He ne'er shall mingle with their dust,
But, from his sires and kindred thrust, Each clansman's execration just Shall doom him wrath and woe.’ He paused;— the word the vassals took,
With forward step and fiery look, On high their naked brands they shook, Their clattering targets wildly strook; And first in murmur low,
Then like the billow in his course, That far to seaward finds his source, And flings to shore his mustered force, Burst with loud roar their answer hoarse,
‘ Woe to the traitor, woe!’ Ben-an's gray scalp the accents knew, The joyous wolf from covert drew, The exulting eagle screamed afar,—
They knew the voice of Alpine's war. The shout was hushed on lake and fell, The Monk resumed his muttered spell: Dismal and low its accents came,
The while he scathed the Cross with flame; And the few words that reached the air, Although the holiest name was there, Had more of blasphemy than prayer.
But when he shook above the crowd Its kindled points, he spoke aloud:— ‘ Woe to the wretch who fails to rear At this dread sign the ready spear!
For, as the flames this symbol sear, His home, the refuge of his fear, A kindred fate shall know; Far o'er its roof the volumed flame
Clan-Alpine's vengeance shall proclaim, While maids and matrons on his name Shall call down wretchedness and shame, And infamy and woe.’
Then rose the cry of females, shrill As goshawk's whistle on the hill, Denouncing misery and ill, Mingled with childhood's babbling trill
Of curses stammered slow; Answering with imprecation dread, ‘ Sunk be his home in embers red! And cursed be the meanest shed
That o'er shall hide the houseless head We doom to want and woe!’ A sharp and shrieking echo gave, Coir-Uriskin, thy goblin cave!
And the gray pass where birches wave On Beala-nam-bo. Then deeper paused the priest anew, And hard his laboring breath he drew,
While, with set teeth and clenched hand, And eyes that glowed like fiery brand, He meditated curse more dread, And deadlier, on the clansman's head
Who, summoned to his chieftain's aid, The signal saw and disobeyed. The crosslet's points of sparkling wood He quenched among the bubbling blood.
And, as again the sign he reared, Hollow and hoarse his voice was heard: ‘ When flits this Cross from man to man, Vich-Alpine's summons to his clan,
Burst be the ear that fails to heed! Palsied the foot that shuns to speed! May ravens tear the careless eyes, Wolves make the coward heart their prize!
As sinks that blood-stream in the earth, So may his heart's-blood drench his hearth! As dies in hissing gore the spark, Quench thou his light, Destruction dark!
And be the grace to him denied, Bought by this sign to all beside! He ceased; no echo gave again The murmur of the deep Amen.
Then Roderick with impatient look From Brian's hand the symbol took: ‘ Speed, Malise, speed’ he said, and gave The crosslet to his henchman brave.
‘ The muster-place be Lanrick mead — Instant the time — - speed, Malise, speed!’ Like heath-bird, when the hawks pursue, A barge across Loch Katrine flew:
High stood the henchman on the prow; So rapidly the barge-mall row, The bubbles, where they launched the boat, Were all unbroken and afloat,
Dancing in foam and ripple still, When it had neared the mainland hill; And from the silver beach's side Still was the prow three fathom wide,
When lightly bounded to the land The messenger of blood and brand. Speed, Malise, speed! the dun deer's hide On fleeter foot was never tied.
Speed, Malise, speed! such cause of haste Thine active sinews never braced. Bend‘ gainst the steepy hill thy breast, Burst down like torrent from its crest;
With short and springing footstep pass The trembling bog and false morass; Across the brook like roebuck bound, And thread the brake like questing hound;
The crag is high, the scaur is deep, Yet shrink not from the desperate leap: Parched are thy burning lips and brow, Yet by the fountain pause not now;
Herald of battle, fate, and fear, Stretch onward in thy fleet career! The wounded hind thou track'st not now, Pursuest not maid through greenwood bough,
Nor priest thou now thy flying pace With rivals in the mountain race; But danger, death, and warrior deed Are in thy course — speed, Malise, speed!
Fast as the fatal symbol flies, In arms the huts and hamlets rise; From winding glen, from upland brown, They poured each hardy tenant down.
Nor slacked the messenger his pace; He showed the sign, he named the place, And, pressing forward like the wind, Left clamor and surprise behind.
The fisherman forsook the strand, The swarthy smith took dirk and brand; With changed cheer, the mower blithe Left in the half-cut swath his scythe;
The herds without a keeper strayed, The plough was in mid-furrow staved, The falconer tossed his hawk away, The hunter left the stag at hay;
Prompt at the signal of alarms, Each son of Alpine rushed to arms; So swept the tumult and affray Along the margin of Achray.
Alas, thou lovely lake! that e'er Thy banks should echo sounds of fear! The rocks, the bosky thickets, sleep So stilly on thy bosom deep,
The lark's blithe carol from the cloud Seems for the scene too gayly loud. Speed, Malise, speed! The lake is past, Duncraggan's huts appear at last,
And peep, like moss-grown rocks, half seen Half hidden in the copse so green; There mayst thou rest, thy labor done, Their lord shall speed the signal on.—
As stoops the hawk upon his prey, The henchman shot him down the way. What woful accents load the gale? The funeral yell, the female wail!
A gallant hunter's sport is o'er, A valiant warrior fights no more. Who, in the battle or the chase, At Roderick's side shall fill his place!—
Within the hall, where torch's ray Supplies the excluded beams of day, Lies Duncan on his lowly bier, And o'er him streams his widow's tear.
His stripling son stands mournful by, His youngest weeps, but knows not why; The village maids and matrons round The dismal coronach resound.
He is gone on the mountain, He is lost to the forest, Like a summer-dried fountain, When our need was the sorest.
The font, reappearing, From the rain-drops shall borrow, But to us comes no cheering, To Duncan no morrow!
The hand of the reaper Takes the ears that are hoary, But the voice of the weeper Wails manhood in glory.
The autumn winds rushing Waft the leaves that are searest, But our flower was in flushing, When blighting was nearest.
Fleet foot on the correi, Sage counsel in cumber, Red hand in the foray, How sound is thy slumber!
Like the dew on the mountain, Like the foam on the river, Like the bubble on the fountain, Thou art gone, and forever!
See Stumah, who, the bier beside His master's corpse with wonder eyed, Poor Stumah! whom his least halloo Could send like lightning o'er the dew,
Bristles his crest, and points his ears, As if some stranger step he hears. ‘ T is not a mourner's muffled tread, Who comes to sorrow o'er the dead,
But headlong haste or deadly fear Urge the precipitate career. All stand aghast:— unheeding all, The henchman bursts into the hall;
Before the dead man's bier he stood, Held forth the Cross besmeared with blood; ‘ The muster-place is Lanrick mead; Speed forth the signal! clansmen, speed!’
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