He gave his counsel to the wind,

While Malcolm did, unheeding, bind,

Round dirk and pouch and broadsword rolled, His ample plaid in tightened fold,

And stripped his limbs to such array

As best might suit the watery way,

XXXVII

Then spoke abrupt: 'Farewell to thee,
Pattern of old fidelity!'

The Minstrel's hand he kindly pressed,
'O, could I point a place of rest!
My sovereign holds in ward my land,
My uncle leads my vassal band;
To tame his foes, his friends to aid,
Poor Malcolm has but heart and blade.
Yet, if there be one faithful Græme
Who loves the chieftain of his name,
Not long shall honoured Douglas dwell
Like hunted stag in mountain cell;
Nor, ere yon pride-swollen robber dare,
I may not give the rest to air!

Tell Roderick Dhu I owed him nought,
Not the poor service of a boat,
To waft me to yon mountain-side.'
Then plunged he in the flashing tide.
Bold o'er the flood his head he bore,

--

And stoutly steered him from the shore;
And Allan strained his anxious eye,
Far mid the lake his form to spy,
Darkening across each puny wave,
To which the moon her silver gave.
Fast as the cormorant could skim,
The swimmer plied each active limb;
Then landing in the moonlight dell,
Loud shouted of his weal to tell.
The Minstrel heard the far halloo,
And joyful from the shore withdrew.

CANTO THIRD

THE GATHERING

I

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 our 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.1

1 See Note 29.

II

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 grey mist left the mountain-side,
The torrent showed its glistening pride;
Invisible in flecked sky

The lark sent down 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.

III

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.

IV

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