The Lady of the Lake. Walter Scott

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!

      XIV.

       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.

      XV.

       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.

      XVI.

       Coronach.

       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!

      XVII.

       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!'

      XVIII,

       Angus, the heir of Duncan's line,

       Sprung forth and seized the fatal sign.

       In haste the stripling to his side

       His father's dirk and broadsword tied;

       But when he saw his mother's eye

       Watch him in speechless agony,

       Back to her opened arms he flew

       Pressed on her lips a fond adieu—

       'Alas' she sobbed—'and yet be gone,

       And speed thee forth, like Duncan's son!'

       One look he cast upon the bier,

       Dashed from his eye the gathering tear,

       Breathed deep to clear his laboring breast,

       And tossed aloft his bonnet crest,

       Then, like the high-bred colt when, freed,

       First he essays his fire and speed,

       He vanished, and o'er moor and moss

       Sped forward with the Fiery Cross.

       Suspended was the widow's tear

       While yet his footsteps she could hear;

       And when she marked the henchman's eye

       Wet with unwonted sympathy,

       'Kinsman,' she said, 'his race is run

       That should have sped thine errand on.

       The oak teas fallen?—the sapling bough