Nor leave him till we pour our verse,
A doleful tribute! o'er his hearse.
Then let me share his captive lot;
It is my right-deny it not!"-
"Little we reck," said John of Brent,
"We southern men, of long descent;
Nor wot we how a name-a word-
Makes clansmen vassals to a lord:
Yet kind my noble landlord's part,
God bless the house of Beaudesert!
And, but I loved to drive the deer,
More than to guide the labouring steer,
I had not dwelt an outcast here.
Come, good old minstrel, follow me;
Thy lord and chieftain shalt thou see."
XII.

Then, from a rusted iron hook,
A bunch of ponderous keys he took,
Lighted a torch, and Allan led
Through grated arch and passage dread.
Portals they passed, where, deep within,
Spoke prisoner's moan, and fetters' din;
Through rugged vaults, where, loosely stored,
Lay wheel, and axe, and headsman's sword,
And many a hideous engine grim,
For wrenching joint, and crushing limb,
By artists formed, who deemed it shame
And sin to give their work a name.
They halted at a low browed porch,
And Brent to Allan gave the torch,
While bolt and chain he backward rolled,
And made the bar unhasp its hold.
They entered:-'twas a prison room
Of stern security and gloom,
Yet not a dungeon; for the day
Through lofty gratings found its way,
And rude and antique garniture
Decked the sad walls and oaken floor;
Such as the rugged days of old
Deemed fit for captive noble's hold.

"Here," said De Brent, "thou mayst remain
Till the leach visit him again.
Strict is his charge, the warders tell,
To tend the noble prisoner well."
Retiring then, the bolt he drew,
And the lock's murmurs growled anew.
Roused at the sound, from lowly bed
A captive feebly raised his head;
The wendering minstrel looked, and knew—
Not his dear lord, but Roderick Dhu!
For, come from where Clan-Alpine fought,
They, erring, deemed the chief he sought.
XIII.

As the tall ship, whose lofty prore
Shall never stem the billows more,
Deserted by her gallant band,
Amid the breakers lies astrand-
So, on his couch, lay Roderick Dhu!
And oft his fevered limbs he threw
In toss abrupt, as when her sides
Lie rocking in the advancing tides,
That shake her frame to ceaseless beat,
Yet cannot heave her from her seat;
O! how unlike her course at sea!
Or his free step on hill and lea!
Soon as the minstrel he could scan,
-"What of thy lady? of my clan?
My mother?-Douglas?-tell me all!
Have they been ruined in my fall?
Ah, yes! or wherefore art thou here?
Yet speak-speak boldly-do not fear."

(For Allan, who his mood well knew,
Was choaked with grief and terror too.)
"Who fought-who fled?--Old man, be brief;
Some might-for they had lost their chief.
Who basely live?-who bravely died?"
"O, calm thee, chief!" the minstrel cried,
"Ellen is safe;"-" For that, thank heaven!"
"And hopes are for the Douglas given;
The lady Margaret too is well,
And, for thy clan-on field or fell,
Has never harp of minstrel told,
Of combat fought so true and bold.
Thy stately pine is yet unbent,
Though many a goodly bow is rent."
XIV.
The chieftain reared his form on high,
And fever's fire was in his eye;
But ghastly, pale, and livid streaks
Chequered his swarthy brow and cheeks.
"lark, minstrel! I have heard thee play,
With measure bold, on festal day,
In yon lone isle-again where ne'er
Shall harper play, or warrior hear!
That stirring air that deals on high,
O'er Dermid's race our victory.

Strike it!3-and then (for well thou canst)
Free from thy minstrel spirit-glanced,
Fling me the picture of the fight,
When met my clan the Saxon might
I'll listen, till my fancy hears

The clang of swords, the crash of spears!
These grates, these walls, shall vanish then,
For the fair field of fighting men,
And my free spirit burst away,

As if it soared from battle fray."

The trembling bard with awe obeyed,-
Slow on the harp his hand he laid;
But soon remembrance of the sight

He witnessed from the mountain's height,
With what old Bertram told at night,
Awakened the full power of song,
And bore him in career along;
As shallop lanched on river's tide,
That slow and fearful leaves the side,
But, when it feels the middle stream,
Drives downward swift as lightning's beam

XV.

BATTLE OF BEAL' AN DUINE, 4 "The minstrel came once more to view The eastern ridge of Ben-venue, For, ere he parted, he would say Farewell to lovely Loch-AchrayWhere shall he find, in foreign land, So loue a lake, so sweet a strand! There is no breeze upon the fern, No ripple on the lake, Upon her eyrie nods the erne,

The deer has sought the brake; The small birds will not sing aloud,

The springing trout lies still,
So darkly glooms yon thunder cloud,
That swathes, as with a purple shroud,
Benledi's distant bill.

Is it the thunder's solemn sound
That mutters deep and dread,
Or echoes from the groaning ground
The warrior's measured tread?
Is it the lightning's quivering glance
That on the thicket streams,
Or do they flash on spear and lance
The sun's retiring beams?

Their banners stream like tattered sail,
That flings its fragments to the gale,
And broken arms and disarray
Marked the fell havoc of the day.

XX.

"Viewing the mountain's ridge askance, The Saxons stood in sullen trance, Till Moray pointed with his lance,

And cried- Behold yon isle!See! none are left to guard its strand, But women weak, that ring the hand: 'Tis there of yore the robber band

Their booty wont to pile; My purse, with bonnet-pieces store, To him will swim a bow-shot o'er, And loose a shallop from the shore. Lightly we'll tame the war-wolf then, Lords of his mate, and brood, and den.'--Forth from the ranks a spearman sprung, On earth his casque and corslet rung, He plunged him in the wave:All saw the deed-the purpose knew, And to their clamours Ben-venue

A mingled echo gave:

The Saxons shout, their mate to cheer,
The helpless females scream for fear,
And yells for rage the mountaineer.
'Twas then, as by the outery riven,
Poured down at once the louring heaven;
A whirlwind swept Loch-Katrine's breast,
Her billows reared their snowy crest,
Well for the swimmer swelled they high,
To mar the highland marksman's eye;
For round him showered, 'mid rain and hail,
The vengeful arrows of the Gael.
In vain. He nears the isle-and lo!
His hand is on a shallop's how.
-Just then a flash of lightning came,
It tinged the waves and strand with flame;
I marked Duncraggan's widowed dame,
Behind an oak 1 saw her stand,
A naked dirk gleamed in her hand:
It darkened-but amid the moan
Of waves I heard a dying groan;-
Another flash!-the spearman floats
A weltering corse beside the boats,
And the stern matron o'er him stood,
Her band and dagger streaming blood.
XXI.

"Revenge! revenge!' the Saxons cried,
The Gaels' exulting shout replied.
Despite the elemental rage,
Again they hurried to engage;
But, ere they closed in desperate fight,
Blondy with spurring came a knight,
Sprung from his horse, and, from a crag,
Waved 'twixt the hosts a milk-white flag.
Clarion and trumpet by his side
Rung forth a truce-note high and wide;
While, in the monarch's name, afar
An herald's voice forbade the war,
For Bothwell's lord, and Roderick bold,
Were both, he said, in captive hold.”—
But here the lay made sudden stand,
The harp escaped the minstrel's hand!
Oft had he stolen a glance, to spy
llow Roderick brooked his minstrelsy:
At first, the chieftain, to the chime,
With lifted hand, kept feeble time;
That motion ceased,-yet feeling strong
Varied his look as changed the song;

At length no more his deafened ear

The minstrel melody can hear:

His face grows sharp, his hands are clenched, As if some pang his heart-strings wrenched; Set are his teeth, his fading eye

Is sternly fixed on vacancy;

Thus, motionless, and moanless, drew
His parting breath, stout Roderick Dhu!
Old Allan-bane looked on aghast,
While grim and still his spirit passed;
But when he saw that life was fled,
He poured his wailing o'er the dead.
XXII.

LAMENT.

"And art thou cold and lowly laid,
Thy foeman's dread, thy people's aid,
Breadalbane's boast, Clan-Alpine's shade!
For thee shall none a requiem say?
-For thee-who loved the minstrel's lay,
For thee, of Bothwell's house the stay,
The shelter of her exiled line-
E'en in this prison-house of thine,
I'll wail for Alpine's honoured pine!
"What groans shall yonder valleys fill!
What shrieks of grief shall rend yon hill!
What tears of burning rage shall thrill,
When mourns thy tribe thy battles done,
Thy fall before the race was won,
Thy sword ungirt ere set of sun!
There breathes not clansman of thy line,
But would have given his life for thine.
O wo for Alpine's honoured pine!
"Sad was thy lot on mortal stage!
The captive thrush may brook the cage,
The prisoned eagle dies for rage.
Brave spirit, do not scorn my strain!
And, when its notes awake again,
E'en she, so long beloved in vain,
Shall with my harp her voice combine,
And mix her wo and tears with mine,
To wail Clan-Alpine's honoured pine."
XXIII.

Ellen, the while, with bursting heart,
Remained in lordly bower apart,
Where played, with many-coloured gleams,
Through storied pane the rising beams.
In vain on gilded roof they fall,
And lightened up a tapestried wall,
And for her use a menial train
A rich collation spread in vain,
The banquet proud, the chamber gay,
Scarce drew one curious glance astray;
Or, if she looked, 'twas but to say,
With better omen dawned the day
In that lone isle, where waved on high
The dun deer's hide for canopy;
Where oft her noble father shared
The simple meal her care prepared,
While Lufra, crouching by her side,
Her station claimed with jealous pride,
And Douglas, bent on woodland game,
Spoke of the chase to Malcolm Græme,
Whose answer, oft at random made,
The wandering of his thoughts betrayed.-
Those who such simple joys have known
Are taught to prize them when they're gone.
But sudden, see, she lifts her head!
The window seeks with cautious tread.
What distant music has the power
To win her in this woful hour!
'Twas from a turret that o'erhung
Her latticed bower, the strain was sung.

XXIV.

LAY OF THE IMPRISONED HUNTSMAN.

"My hawk is tired of perch and hood,
My idle greyhound loathes his food,
My horse is weary of his stall,
And I am sick of captive thrali.
I wish I were as I have been,
Hunting the hart in forest green,
With bended bow and bloodhound free,
For that's the life is meet for me.
"I hate to learn the ebb of time,
From yon dull steeple's drowsy chime,
Or mark it as the sunbeams crawl,
Inch after inch, along the wall.
The lark was wont my matins ring,
The sable rook my vespers sing;

These towers, although a king's they be,
Have not a hall of joy for me.

"No more at dawning morn I rise,
And sun myself in Ellen's eyes,
Drive the fleet deer the forest through,
And homeward wend with evening dew;
A blithsome welcome blithly meet,
And lay my trophies at her feet,
While fled the eve on wing of glee,-
That life is lost to love and me!"

XXV.

The heart-sick lay was hardly said,
The list'ner had not turned her head,
lt trickled still, the starting tear,
When light a footstep struck her ear,
And Snowdoun's graceful knight was near.
She turned the hastier, lest again
The prisoner should renew his strain.
"O welcome, brave Fitz-James!" she said;
"How may an almost orphan maid
Pay the deep debt"-"O say not so!
To me no gratitude you owe.
Not mine, alas! the boon to give,
And bid thy noble father live;
I can but be thy guide, sweet maid,
With Scotland's king thy suit to aid.
No tyrant he, though ire and pride
May lead his better mood aside.
Come, Ellen, come!-'tis more than time,
He holds his court at morning prime."-
With beating heart and bosom wrung,
As to a brother's arm she clung;
Gently he dried the falling tear,
And gently whispered hope and cheer;
Her faltering steps half led, half staid,
Through gallery fair and high arcade,
Till, at his touch, its wings of pride
A portal arch unfolded wide.

XXVI.

Within 'twas brilliant all and light,
A thronging scene of figures bright;
It glowed on Ellen's dazzled sight,
As when the setting sun has given
Ten thousand hues to summer even,
And, from their tissue, fancy frames
Aerial knights and fairy dames.
Still by Fitz-James her footing staid;
A few faint steps she forward made,
Then slow her drooping head she raised,
And fearful round the presence gazed;
For him she sought who owned this state,
The dreaded prince whose will was fate!-
She gazed on many a princely port,
Might well have ruled a royal court;

On many a splendid garb she gazed,-
Then turned bewildered and amazed,
For all stood bare: and, in the room,
Fitz-James alone wore cap and plume.
To him each lady's look was lent;
On him each courtier's eye was bent;
Midst furs and silks and jewels sheen,
He stood, in simple Lincoln green,
The centre of the glittering ring,
And Snowdoun's knight is Scotland's king!"
XXVII.

As wreath of snow, on mountain breast,
Slides from the rock that gave it rest,
Poor Ellen glided from her stay,
And at the monarch's feet she lay;

No word her choking voice commands,-
She showed the ring-she clasped her hands.
O! not a moment could he brook,

The generous prince, that suppliant look!
Gently he raised her,-and, the while,
Checked with a glance the circle's smile;
Graceful, but grave, her brow he kissed,
And bade her terrors be dismissed;-
"Yes, fair, the wandering poor Fitz-James
The fealty of Scotland claims.

To him thy woes, thy wishes, bring;
He will redeem his signet ring.

Ask nought for Douglas:-yester even,
His prince and he have much forgiven:
Wrong hath he had from slanderous tongue!
1, from his rebel kinsman, wrong.
We would not to the vulgar crowd
Yield what they craved with clamour loud,
Calmly we heard and judged his cause,
Our council aided, and our laws.

I stanched thy father's death-feud stern,
With stout De Vaux and gray Glencairn;
And Bothwell's lord henceforth we own
The friend and bulwark of our throne.-
But, lovely infidel, how now?
What clouds thy misbelieving brow?
Lord James of Douglas, lend thine aid;
Thou must confirm this doubting maid.”
XXVIII.

Then forth the noble Douglas sprung,
And on his neck his daughter hung.
The monarch drank, that happy hour,
The sweetest, holiest draught of power-
When it can say, with godlike voice,
Arise, sad virtue, and rejoice!
Yet would not James the general eye
On nature's raptures long should pry;
He stepped between-"Nay, Douglas, nay,
Steal not my proselyte away!
The riddle 'tis my right to read,

That brought this happy chance to speed.-
Yes, Ellen, when disguised 1 stray
In life's more low but happier way,
'Tis under name which veils my power,
Nor falsely veils-for Stirling's tower
Of yore the name of Snowdoun claims,6
And Normans call me James Fitz-James.
Thus watch I o'er insulted laws,
Thus learn to right the injured cause.
Then, in a tone apart and low,

-"Ah, little trait'ress! none must know What idle dream, what lighter thought, What vanity full dearly bought,

Joined to thine eye's dark witchcraft, drew
My spell-bound steps to Ben-venue,
In dangerous hour, and all but gave

Thy monarch's life to mountain glaive!"