The murky cavern's heavy air

So well was match'd the tartan screen

smiled;

Then, Maiden hear a maiden's prayer; Mother, list a suppliant child!

Ave Maria!

Ave Maria! stainless styled!

Foul demons of the earth and air, From this their wonted haunt exiled, Shall flee before thy presence fair. We bow us to our lot of care,

Beneath thy guidance reconciled; Hear for a maid a maiden's prayer, And for a father hear a child! Ave Maria!'

XXX.

Died on the harp the closing hymn.
Unmoved in attitude and limb,
As list'ning still, Clan-Alpine's lord
Stood leaning on his heavy sword,
Until the page, with humble sign,
Twice pointed to the sun's decline.
Then while his plaid he round him cast,
'It is the last time, 'tis the last,'

He mutter'd thrice,-'the last time e'er
That angel voice shall Roderick hear!' ¦
It was a goading thought-his stride
Hied hastier down the mountain-side;
Sullen he flung him in the boat,
And instant 'cross the lake it shot.
They landed in that silvery bay,

And eastward held their hasty way,
Till, with the latest beams of light,
The band arrived on Lanrick height,
Where muster'd, in the vale below,
Clan-Alpine's men in martial show.

XXXI.

A various scene the clansmen made; Some sate, some stood, some slowly stray'd;

But most, with mantles folded round, Were couch'd to rest upon the ground, Scarce to be known by curious eye, From the deep heather where they lie, i

green;

Unless where, here and there, a blade, Or lance's point, a glimmer made, Like glow-worm twinkling through the shade.

But when, advancing through the gloom,

They saw the Chieftain's eagle plume,
Their shout of welcome, shrilland wide,
Shook the steep mountain's steady side.
Thrice it arose, and lake and fell
Three times return'd the martial yell;
It died upon Bochastle's plain,
And Silence claim'd her evening reign.

Canto Fourth.

The Prophecy.

I.

'THE rose is fairest when 'tis budding

new.

And hope is brightest when it dawns from fears;

The rose is sweetest wash'd with morning dew,

And love is loveliest when embalm'd

in tears.

O wilding rose, whom fancy thus en

dears,

I bid your blossoms in my bonnet

wave,

Emblem of hope and love through future years!'

Thus spoke young Norman, heir of

Armandave,

What time the sun arose on Vennachar's broad wave.

II.

Such fond conceit, half said, half sung, Love prompted to the bridegroom's tongue.

Then call'd a slumberer by his side, And stirr'd him with his slacken'd

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 foemen?' 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;

slew '

MALISE.

Ah! well the gallant brute I knew! The choicest of the prey we had, When swept our merry-men Gallangad. His hide was snow, his horns were dark, His red eye glow'd like fiery spark; So fierce, so tameless, and so fleet, Sore did he cumber our retreat, And kept our stoutest kernes in awe, Even at the pass of Beal 'maha. But steep and flinty was the road, And sharp the hurrying pikemen's goad,

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

brow.'

V. NORMAN.

'That bull was slain: his reeking hide
They stretch'd 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.
Couch'd on a shelve 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.
Nordistant 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, like a ghost,
That hovers o'er a slaughter'd 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, glean'd 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 endow'd 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 unfurl'd
The curtain of the future world.
Yet-witness every quaking limb,
My sunken pulse, my eyeballs dim,
My soul with harrowing anguish

torn

This for my Chieftain have I borne ! The shapes that sought my fearful couch,

An 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-offer'd 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 down.
-But see who comes his news to show!
Malise what tidings of the foe?'

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-omen'd 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 knowtheir 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.

X.

ELLEN.

'No, Allan, no! Pretext so kind
My wakeful terrors could not blind.
When in such tender tone, yet grave,
Douglas a parting blessing gave,
The tear that glisten'd in his eye
Drown'd not his purpose fix'dand high.
My soul, though feminine and weak,
Can image his; e'en as the lake,
Itself disturb'd by slightest stroke,

Reflects the invulnerable rock.
He hears report of battle rife,
He deems himself the cause of strife.
I saw him redden, when the theme
Turn'd, Allan, on thine idle dream
Of Malcolm Græme in fetters bound,
Which I, thou saidst, about him wound.
Think'st thou he trow'd thine omen
aught?

Oh no! 'twas apprehensive thought For the kind youth,-for Roderick too

(Let me be just) that friend so true; Minstrel, the Douglas dare not pause. In danger both, and in our cause! Why else that solemn warning given, "If not on earth, we meet in heaven!" Why else, to Cambus-kenneth's fane, If eve return him not again,

Am I to hie, and make me known? Alas! he goes to Scotland's throne, Buys his friend's safety with his own; He goes to do—what I had done, Had Douglas' daughter been his son !'

XI.

ALLAN.

Nay, lovely Ellen!-dearest, nay! If aught should his return delay, He only named yon holy fane As fitting place to meet again. Be sure he's safe; and for the Græme,Heaven's blessing on his gallant name! My vision'd sight may yet prove true, Nor bode of ill to him or you.

When did my gifted dream beguile ?
Think of the stranger at the isle,
And think upon the harpings slow,
That presaged this approaching woe!
Sooth was my prophecy of fear;
Believe it when it augurs cheer.
Would we had left this dismal spot!
Ill luck still haunts a fairy grot.
Of such a wondrous tale I know-
Dear lady, change that look of woe,
My harp was wont thy grief to cheer.'

ELLEN.

'Well, be it as thou wilt; I hear, But cannot stop the bursting tear.' The Minstrel tried his simple art, But distant far was Ellen's heart:

XII.

BALLAD.

ALICE BRAND.

Merry it is in the good greenwood, When the mavis and merle are singing,

When the deer sweeps by, and the hounds are in cry,

And the hunter's horn is ringing. 'O Alice Brand, my native land

Is lost for love of you;

And we must hold by wood and wold, As outlaws wont to do.

'O Alice, 'twas all for thy locks so bright,

And 'twas all for thine eyes so blue, That on the night of our luckless flight Thy brother bold I slew.

'Now must I teach to hew the beech

The hand that held the glaive, For leaves to spread our lowly bed,

And stakes to fence our cave. 'And for vest of pall, thy fingers small, That wont on harp to stray,

A cloak must shear from the slaughter'd deer,

To keep the cold away.'

'O Richard! if my brother died, 'Twas but a fatal chance; For darkling was the battle tried, And fortune sped the lance.

'If pall and vair no more I wear,

Nor thou the crimson sheen,
As warm, we 'll say, is the russet grey,
As gay the forest-green.

'And, Richard, if our lot be hard,
And lost thy native land,
Still Alice has her own Richard,
And he his Alice Brand.'

XIII.

'Tis merry, 'tis merry, in good greenwood,

So blithe Lady Alice is singing; On the beech's pride, and oak's brown side,

Lord Richard's axe is ringing.

Up spoke the moody Elfin King,
Who won'd within the hill;
Like wind in the porch of a ruin'd
church,

His voice was ghostly shrill.

'Why sounds yon stroke on beech and oak,

Our moonlight circle's screen?
Or who comes here to chase the deer,
Beloved of our Elfin Queen?

Or who may dare on wold to wear
The fairies' fatal green?

'Up, Urgan, up! to yon mortal hie,

For thou wert christen'd man; For cross or sign thou wilt not fly,

For mutter'd word or ban.

'Lay on him the curse of the wither'd heart,

The curse of the sleepless eye; Till he wish and pray that his life would part,

Nor yet find leave to die.'