The Lady of the Lake. Walter Scott

Duncraggan's shelter now

       Yet trust I well, his duty done,

       The orphan's God will guard my son.—

       And you, in many a danger true

       At Duncan's hest your blades that drew,

       To arms, and guard that orphan's head!

       Let babes and women wail the dead.'

       Then weapon-clang and martial call

       Resounded through the funeral hall,

       While from the walls the attendant band

       Snatched sword and targe with hurried hand;

       And short and flitting energy

       Glanced from the mourner's sunken eye,

       As if the sounds to warrior dear

       Might rouse her Duncan from his bier.

       But faded soon that borrowed force;

       Grief claimed his right, and tears their course.

      XIX.

       Benledi saw the Cross of Fire,

       It glanced like lightning up Strath-Ire.

       O'er dale and hill the summons flew,

       Nor rest nor pause young Angus knew;

       The tear that gathered in his eye

       He deft the mountain-breeze to dry;

       Until, where Teith's young waters roll

       Betwixt him and a wooded knoll

       That graced the sable strath with green,

       The chapel of Saint Bride was seen.

       Swoln was the stream, remote the bridge,

       But Angus paused not on the edge;

       Though the clerk waves danced dizzily,

       Though reeled his sympathetic eye,

       He dashed amid the torrent's roar:

       His right hand high the crosslet bore,

       His left the pole-axe grasped, to guide

       And stay his footing in the tide.

       He stumbled twice—the foam splashed high,

       With hoarser swell the stream raced by;

       And had he fallen—forever there,

       Farewell Duncraggan's orphan heir!

       But still, as if in parting life,

       Firmer he grasped the Cross of strife,

       Until the opposing bank he gained,

       And up the chapel pathway strained.

       A blithesome rout that morning-tide

       Had sought the chapel of Saint Bride.

       Her troth Tombea's Mary gave

       To Norman, heir of Armandave,

       And, issuing from the Gothic arch,

       The bridal now resumed their march.

       In rude but glad procession came

       Bonneted sire and coif-clad dame;

       And plaided youth, with jest and jeer

       Which snooded maiden would not hear:

       And children, that, unwitting why,

       Lent the gay shout their shrilly cry;

       And minstrels, that in measures vied

       Before the young and bonny bride,

       Whose downcast eye and cheek disclose

       The tear and blush of morning rose.

       With virgin step and bashful hand

       She held the kerchief's snowy band.

       The gallant bridegroom by her side

       Beheld his prize with victor's pride.

       And the glad mother in her ear

       Was closely whispering word of cheer.

      XXI.

       Who meets them at the churchyard gate?

       The messenger of fear and fate!

       Haste in his hurried accent lies,

       And grief is swimming in his eyes.

       All dripping from the recent flood,

       Panting and travel-soiled he stood,

       The fatal sign of fire and sword

       Held forth, and spoke the appointed word:

       'The muster-place is Lanrick mead;

       Speed forth the signal! Norman, speed!'

       And must he change so soon the hand

       Just linked to his by holy band,

       For the fell Cross of blood and brand?

       And must the day so blithe that rose,

       And promised rapture in the close,

       Before its setting hour, divide

       The bridegroom from the plighted bride?

       O fatal doom'—it must! it must!

       Clan-Alpine's cause, her Chieftain's trust,

       Her summons dread, brook no delay;

       Stretch to the race—away! away!

      XXII.

       Yet slow he laid his plaid aside,

       And lingering eyed his lovely bride,

       Until he saw the starting tear

       Speak woe he might not stop to cheer:

       Then, trusting not a second look,

       In haste he sped hind up the brook,

       Nor backward glanced till on the heath

       Where Lubnaig's lake supplies the Teith—

       What in the racer's bosom stirred?

       The sickening pang of hope deferred,

       And memory with a torturing train

       Of all his morning visions vain.

       Mingled with love's impatience, came

       The manly thirst for martial fame;

       The stormy joy of mountaineers

       Ere yet they rush upon the spears;

       And zeal for Clan and Chieftain burning,

       And hope, from well-fought field returning,

       With war's red honors on his crest,

       To clasp his Mary to his breast.

       Stung by such thoughts, o'er bank and brae,

       Like fire from flint he glanced away,

       While high resolve and feeling strong

       Burst into voluntary song.

      XXIII.

       Song.

       The heath this night must be my bed,

       The bracken curtain for my head,

       My lullaby the warder's tread,

       Far, far, from love and thee, Mary;

       To-morrow eve, more stilly laid,

       My couch may be my bloody plaid,

       My vesper song thy wail, sweet maid!

       It will not waken me, Mary!

       I may not, dare not, fancy now

       The grief that clouds thy lovely brow,

       I dare not think upon thy vow,

       And all it promised me, Mary.

       No fond regret must Norman