'Tis merry, 'tis merry, in good greenwood,
Though the birds have still'd their
singing;
The evening blaze doth Alice raise,
And Richard is fagots bringing.
Up Urgan starts, that hideous dwarf,
Before Lord Richard stands, And, as he cross'd and bless'd himself, 'I fear not sign,' quoth the grisly elf, 'That is made with bloody hands.' But out then spoke she, Alice Brand,
That woman, void of fear,'And if there's blood upon his hand,
'Tis but the blood of deer.'
'Now loud thou liest, thou bold of mood! It cleaves unto his hand, The stain of thine own kindly blood,
The blood of Ethert Brand.'
Then forward stepp'd she, Alice Brand,
And made the holy sign,— 'And if there's blood on Richard's hand, A spotless hand is mine.
'And I conjure thee, Demon elf,
By Him whom Demons fear, To show us whence thou art thyself, And what thine errand here?'
''Tis merry, 'tis merry, in Fairy-land, When fairy birds are singing, When the court doth ride by their monarch's side,
With bit and bridle ringing:
'And gaily shines the Fairy-land—
But all is glistening show,
Like the idle gleam that December's beam
Can dart on ice and snow.
'And fading, like that varied gleam,
Is our inconstant shape,
Who now like knight and lady seem,
And now like dwarf and ape.
When love or honour's weigh'd with As death had scal'd her Malcolm's
Then let me profit by my chance,
And speak my purpose bold at once.
I come to bear thee from a wild,
Where ne'er before such blossom
smiled;
By this soft hand to lead thee far
From frantic scenes of feud and war.
Near Bochastle my horses wait;
They bear us soon to Stirling gate.
I'll place thee in a lovely bower,
I'll guard thee like a tender flower-
'O! hush, Sir Knight! 'twere female art,
To say I do not read thy heart;
Too much, before, my selfish ear
Was idly soothed my praise to hear.
That fatal bait hath lured thee back,
In deathful hour, o'er dangerous track;
And how, O how, can I atone
The wreck my vanity brought on!
One way remains-I'll tell him all ;
Yes! struggling bosom, forth it shall!
Thou, whose light folly bears the blame,
Buy thine own pardon with thy shame!
But first, my father is a man
Outlaw'd and exiled under ban;
The price of blood is on his head;
With me 'twere infamy to wed.
And she sat sorrowing on his tomb.
Hope vanish'd from Fitz-James's eye,
But not with hope fled sympathy.
He proffer'd to attend her side,
As brother would a sister guide.
O little know'st thou Roderick's
heart!
Safer for both we go apart.
O haste thee, and from Allan learn,
If thou may'st trust yon wily kern.'
With hand upon his forehead laid,
The conflict of his mind to shade,
A parting step or two he made;
Then, as some thought had cross'd his
brain,
He paused, and turn'd, and came again.
'Hear, lady, yet, a parting word!
It chanced in fight that my poor sword
Preserved the life of Scotland's lord.
This ring the grateful Monarch gave,
And bade, when I had boon to crave,
To bring it back, and boldly claim
The recompense that I would name.
Ellen, I am no courtly lord,
But one who lives by lance and sword,
Forth at full speed the Clansman flew,
But in his race his bow he drew.
The shaft just grazed Fitz-James's crest,
And thrill'd in Blanche's faded breast!
Murdoch of Alpine! prove thy speed,
For ne'er had Alpine's son such need!
With heart of fire, and foot of wind,
The fierce avenger is behind!
Fate judges of the rapid strife-
The forfeit death-the prize is life!
Thy kindred ambush lies before,
Close couch'd upon the heathery moor;
Them couldst thou reach!-it may
It once was bright and clear as thine, But blood and tears have dimm'd its shine.
I will not tell thee when 'twas shred, Nor from what guiltless victim's head— My brain would turn!—but it shall
Like plumage on thy helmet brave, Till sun and wind shall bleach the stain,
And thou wilt bring it me again.—
I waver still. O God! more bright
Let reason beam her parting light!
O! by thy knighthood's honour'd sign,
'The happy path!—what! said he Still wouldst thou speak? then hear
When love or honour's weigh'd with As death had scal'd her Malcolm's
Then let me profit by my chance,
And speak my purpose bold at once.
I come to bear thee from a wild,
Where ne'er before such blossom
smiled;
By this soft hand to lead thee far
From frantic scenes of feud and war.
Near Bochastle my horses wait;
They bear us soon to Stirling gate.
I'll place thee in a lovely bower,
I'll guard thee like a tender flower'-
'O! hush, Sir Knight! 'twere female art,
To say I do not read thy heart;
Too much, before, my selfish ear
Was idly soothed my praise to hear.
That fatal bait hath lured thee back,
In deathful hour, o'er dangerous track;
And how, O how, can I atone
The wreck my vanity brought on!
One way remains-I'll tell him all ;
Yes! struggling bosom, forth it shall!
Thou, whose light folly bears the blame,
Buy thine own pardon with thy shame!
But first, my father is a man
Outlaw'd and exiled under ban;
The price of blood is on his head;
With me 'twere infamy to wed.
And she sat sorrowing on his tomb. Hope vanish'd from Fitz-James's eye, But not with hope fled sympathy. He proffer'd to attend her side, As brother would a sister guide. 'O little know'st thou Roderick's heart!
Safer for both we go apart.
O haste thee, and from Allan learn,
If thou may'st trust yon wily kern.'
With hand upon his forehead laid,
The conflict of his mind to shade,
A parting step or two he made;
Then, as some thought had cross'd his
brain,
He paused, and turn'd, and came again.
'Hear, lady, yet, a parting word!
It chanced in fight that my poor sword
Preserved the life of Scotland's lord.
This ring the grateful Monarch gave,
And bade, when I had boon to crave,
To bring it back, and boldly claim
The recompense that I would name.
Ellen, I am no courtly lord,
But one who lives by lance and sword,
Whose castle is his helm and shield,
His lordship the embattled field.
What from a prince can I demand,
Who neither reck of state nor land?
Ellen, thy hand-the ring is thine;
Each guard and usher knows the sign.
Seek thou the King without delay;
This signet shall secure thy way;
And claim thy suit, whate'er it be,
As ransom of his pledge to me.'
He placed the golden circlet on,
Paused, kiss'd her hand, and then was
The aged Minstrel stood aghast,
So hastily Fitz-James shot past.
He join'd his guide, and wending down
The ridges of the mountain brown,
Across the stream they took their way,
That joins Loch Katrine to Achray.
All in the Trosachs' glen was still, Noontide was sleeping on the hill: Sudden his guide whoop'd loud and
'Murdoch was that a signal cry?? He stammer'd forth, I shout to scare Yon raven from his dainty fare.' He look'd, he knew the raven's prey— His own brave steed :-'Ah! gallant grey !
For thee, for me perchance, 'twere well We ne'er had seen the Trosachs' dell. Murdoch, move first-but silently; Whistle or whoop, and thou shalt die!' Jealous and sullen, on they fared, Each silent, cach upon his guard.
Now wound the path its dizzy ledge
Around a precipice's edge,
When lo! a wasted female form,
Blighted by wrath of sun and storm,
In tatter'd weeds and wild array,
Stood on a cliff beside the way,
And glancing round her restless eye,
Upon the wood, the rock, the sky,
Seem'd nought to mark, yet all to
Her brow was wreath'd with gaudy broom;
With gesture wild she waved a plume
Of feathers, which the eagles fling
To crag and cliff from dusky wing;
Such spoils her desperate step had
sought,
Where scarce was footing for the goat.
The tartan plaid she first descried,
And shriek'd till all the rocks replied;
As loud she laugh'd when near they
drew,
For then the Lowland garb she knew; And then her hands she wildly wrung, And then she wept, and then she sung. She sung!—the voice, in better time, Perchance to harp or lute might chime; And now, though strain'd and roughen'd, still
Rung wildly sweet to dale and hill:
They bid me sleep, they bid me pray, They say my brain is warp'd and
I cannot sleep on Highland brac,
I cannot pray in Highland tongue. But were I now where Allan glides, Or heard my native Devan's tides, So sweetly would I rest, and pray That Heaven would close my wintry day!
"Twas thus my hair they bade me braid, They made me to the church repair; It was my bridal morn, they said, And my true love would meet me
But woe betide the cruel guile,
That drown'd in blood the morning
And woe betide the fairy dream!
I only waked to sob and scream.'
|