Lady of the Lake

by Walter Scott

  And darkened brow, where wounded pride

  With ire and disappointment vied,

  Seemed, by the torch's gloomy light,

  Like the ill Demon of the night,

  Stooping his pinions' shadowy sway

  Upon the knighted pilgrim's way.

  But, unrequited Love! thy dart

  Plunged deepest its envenomed smart,

  And Roderick, with thine anguish stung,

  At length the hand of Douglas wrung,

  While eyes, that mocked at tears before,

  With bitter drops were running o'er.

  The death-pangs of long-cherished hope

  Scarce in that ample breast had scope,

  But, struggling with his spirit proud,

  Convulsive heaved its checkered shroud,

  While every sob—so mute were all—

  Was heard distinctly through the hall.

  The son's despair, the mother's look,

  Ill might the gentle Ellen brook;

  She rose, and to her side there came,

  To aid her parting steps, the Graeme.

  XXXIV

  Then Roderick from the Douglas broke—

  As flashes flame through sable smoke,

  Kindling its wreaths, long, dark, and low,

  To one broad blaze of ruddy glow,

  So the deep anguish of despair

  Burst, in fierce jealousy, to air.

  With stalwart grasp his hand he laid

  On Malcolm's breast and belted plaid:

  "Back, beardless boy!" he sternly said,

  "Back, minion! hold'st thou thus at naught

  The lesson I so lately taught?

  This roof, the Douglas, and that maid,

  Thank thou for punishment delayed."

  Eager as a greyhound on his game

  Fiercely with Roderick grappled Graeme.

  "Perish my name, if aught afford

  Its Chieftain's safety save his sword!"

  Thus as they strove, their desperate hand

  Griped to the dagger or the brand,

  And death had been—but Douglas rose,

  And thrust between the struggling foes

  His giant strength: "Chieftains, forego!

  I hold the first who strikes, my foe.

  Madmen, forbear your frantic jar!

  What! is the Douglas fallen so far,

  His daughter's hand is deemed the spoil

  Of such dishonorable broil!"

  Sullen and slowly they unclasp,

  As struck with shame, their desperate grasp,

  And each upon his rival glared,

  With foot advanced, and blade half bared.

  XXXV

  Ere yet the brands aloft were flung

  Margaret on Roderick's mantle hung,

  And Malcolm heard his Ellen's scream,

  As faltered through terrific dream.

  Then Roderick plunged in sheath his sword

  And veiled his wrath in scornful word:

  "Rest safe till morning; pity 'twere

  Such cheek should feel the midnight air!

  Then mayest thou to James Stuart tell,

  Roderick will keep the lake and fell,

  Nor lackey, with his freeborn clan,

  The pageant pomp of earthly man.

  More would he of Clan-Alpine know,

  Thou canst our strength and passes show.

  Malise, what ho!"—his henchman came;

  "Give our safe-conduct to the Graeme."

  Young Malcolm answered, calm and bold,

  "Fear nothing for thy favorite hold;

  The spot, an angel deigned to grace,

  Is blessed, though robbers haunt the place.

  Thy churlish courtesy for those

  Reserve, who fear to be thy foes.

  As safe to me the mountain way

  At midnight as in blaze of day,

  Though with his boldest at his back

  Even Roderick Dhu beset the track.—

  Brave Douglas—lovely Ellen—nay,

  Nought here of parting will I say.

  Earth does not hold a lonesome glen

  So secret but we meet again.—

  Chieftain! we too shall find an hour,"

  He said, and left the silvan bower.

  XXXVI

  Old Allan followed to the strand—

  Such was the Douglas's command—

  And anxious told, how, on the morn,

  The stern Sir Roderick deep had sworn

  The Fiery Cross should circle o'er

  Dale, glen, and valley, down, and moor.

  Much were the peril to the Graeme

  From those who to the signal came;

  Far up the lake 'twere safest land,

  Himself would row him to the strand.

  He gave his counsel to the wind,

  While Malcolm did, unheeding, bind,

  Round dirk and pouch and broadsword rolled,

  His ample plaid in tightened fold,

  And stripped his limbs to such array,

  As best might suit the watery way—

  XXXVII

  Then spoke abrupt: "Farewell to thee,

  Pattern of old fidelity!"

  The Minstrel's hand he kindly pressed—

  "Oh, could I point a place of rest!

  My sovereign holds in ward my land,

  My uncle leads my vassal band;

  To tame his foes, his friends to aid,

  Poor Malcolm has but heart and blade.

  Yet, if there be one faithful Graeme,

  Who loves the chieftain of his name,

  Not long shall honored Douglas dwell

  Like hunted stag in mountain cell;

  Nor, ere yon pride-swoll'n robber dare,

  I might not give the rest to air!

  Tell Roderick Dhu, I owed him nought,

  Not the poor service of a boat,

  To waft me to yon mountain-side."

  Then plunged he in the flashing tide.

  Bold o'er the flood his head he bore,

  And stoutly steered him from the shore;

  And Allan strained his anxious eye,

  Far mid the lake his form to spy,

  Darkening across each puny wave,

  To which the moon her silver gave,

  Fast as the cormorant could skim,

  The swimmer plied each active limb;

  Then landing in the moonlight dell,

  Loud shouted of his weal to tell.

  The Minstrel heard the far halloo,

  And joyful from the shore withdrew.

  CANTO THIRD

  THE GATHERING

  I

  Time rolls his ceaseless course. The race of yore,

  Who danced our infancy upon their knee,

  And told our marveling boyhood legends store

  Of their strange ventures happed by land or sea,

  How are they blotted from the things that be!

  How few, all weak and withered of their force,

  Wait on the verge of dark eternity,

  Like stranded wrecks, the tide returning hoarse,

  To sweep them from our sight! Time rolls his ceaseless course.

  Yet live there still who can remember well,

  How, when a mountain chief his bugle blew,

  Both field and forest, dingle, cliff, and dell,

  And solitary heath, the signal knew;

  And fast the faithful clan around him drew,

  What time the warning note was keenly wound,

  What time aloft their kindred banner flew,

  While clamorous war-pipes yelled the gathering sound,

  And while the Fiery Cross glanced, like a meteor, round.

  II

  The summer dawn's reflected hue

  To purple changed Loch Katrine blue;

  Mildly and soft the western breeze

  Just kissed the lake, just stirred the trees,

  And the pleased lake, like maiden coy,

  Trembled
but dimpled not for joy;

  The mountain-shadows on her breast

  Were neither broken nor at rest;

  In bright uncertainty they lie,

  Like future joys to Fancy's eye.

  The water-lily to the light

  Her chalice reared of silver bright;

  The doe awoke, and to the lawn,

  Begemmed with dew-drops, led her fawn;

  The gray mist left the mountain side,

  The torrent showed its glistening pride;

  Invisible in fleckéd sky,

  The lark sent down her revelry;

  The blackbird and the speckled thrush,

  Good-morrow gave from brake and bush;

  In answer cooed the cushat dove

  Her notes of peace, and rest, and love.

  III

  No thought of peace, no thought of rest,

  Assuaged the storm in Roderick's breast.

  With sheathéd broadsword in his hand,

  Abrupt he paced the islet strand,

  And eyed the rising sun, and laid

  His hand on his impatient blade.

  Beneath a rock, his vassals' care

  Was prompt the ritual to prepare,

  With deep and deathful meaning fraught;

  For such Antiquity had taught

  Was preface meet, ere yet abroad

  The Cross of Fire should take its road.

  The shrinking band stood oft aghast

  At the impatient glance he cast—

  Such glance the mountain eagle threw,

  As, from the cliffs of Benvenue,

  She spread her dark sails on the wind,

  And, high in middle heaven reclined,

  With her broad shadow on the lake,

  Silenced the warblers of the brake.

  IV

  A heap of withered boughs was piled,

  Of juniper and rowan wild,

  Mingled with shivers from the oak,

  Rent by the lightning's recent stroke.

  Brian, the Hermit, by it stood,

  Barefooted, in his frock and hood.

  His grizzled beard and matted hair

  Obscured a visage of despair;

  His naked arms and legs, seamed o'er,

  The scars of frantic penance bore.

  That monk, of savage form and face,

  The impending danger of his race

  Had drawn from deepest solitude,

  Far in Benharrow's bosom rude.

  Not his the mien of Christian priest,

  But Druid's, from the grave released,

  Whose hardened heart and eye might brook

  On human sacrifice to look;

  And much, 'twas said, of heathen lore

  Mixed in the charms he muttered o'er.

  The hallowed creed gave only worse

  And deadlier emphasis of curse;

  No peasant sought that Hermit's prayer,

  His cave the pilgrim shunned with care,

  The eager huntsman knew his bound,

  And in mid chase called off his hound;

  Or if, in lonely glen or strath,

  The desert-dweller met his path,

  He prayed, and signed the cross between,

  While terror took devotion's mien.

  V

  Of Brian's birth strange tales were told.

  His mother watched a midnight fold,

  Built deep within a dreary glen,

  Where scattered lay the bones of men

  In some forgotten battle slain,

  And bleached by drifting wind and rain.

  It might have tamed a warrior's heart,

  To view such mockery of his art!

  The knot-grass fettered there the hand

  Which once could burst an iron band;

  Beneath the broad and ample bone,

  That bucklered heart to fear unknown,

  A feeble and a timorous guest,

  The fieldfare framed her lowly nest;

  There the slow blindworm left his slime

  On the fleet limbs that mocked at time;

  And there, too, lay the leader's skull,

  Still wreathed with chaplet, flushed and full,

  For heath-bell with her purple bloom

  Supplied the bonnet and the plume.

  All night, in this sad glen, the maid

  Sat, shrouded in her mantle's shade:

  She said no shepherd sought her side,

  No hunter's hand her snood untied;

  Yet ne'er again to braid her hair

  The virgin snood did Alice wear;

  Gone was her maiden glee and sport,

  Her maiden girdle all too short,

  Nor sought she, from that fatal night,

  Or holy church or blessed rite,

  But locked her secret in her breast,

  And died in travail, unconfessed.

  VI

  Alone, among his young compeers,

  Was Brian from his infant years;

  A moody and heartbroken boy,

  Estranged from sympathy and joy,

  Bearing each taunt with careless tongue

  On his mysterious lineage flung.

  Whole nights he spent by moonlight pale,

  To wood and stream his hap to wail,

  Till, frantic, he as truth received

  What of his birth the crowd believed,

  And sought, in mist and meteor fire,

  To meet and know his Phantom Sire!

  In vain, to soothe his wayward fate,

  The cloister oped her pitying gate;

  In vain, the learning of the age

  Unclasped the sable-lettered page;

  Even in its treasures he could find

  Food for the fever of his mind.

  Eager he read whatever tells

  Of magic, cabala, and spells,

  And every dark pursuit allied

  To curious and presumptuous pride;

  Till with fired brain and nerves o'erstrung,

  And heart with mystic horrors wrung,

  Desperate he sought Benharrow's den,

  And hid him from the haunts of men.

  VII

  The desert gave him visions wild,

  Such as might suit the specter's child.

  Where with black cliffs the torrents toil,

  He watched the wheeling eddies boil,

  Till, from their foam, his dazzled eyes

  Beheld the River Demon rise;

  The mountain mist took form and limb,

  Of noontide hag, or goblin grim;

  The midnight wind came wild and dread,

  Swelled with the voices of the dead;

  Far on the future battle-heath

  His eyes beheld the ranks of death.

  Thus the lone Seer, from mankind hurled,

  Shaped forth a disembodied world.

  One lingering sympathy of mind

  Still bound him to the mortal kind;

  The only parent he could claim

  Of ancient Alpine lineage came.

  Late had he heard, in prophet's dream,

  The fatal Ben-Shie's boding scream;

  Sounds, too, had come in midnight blast,

  Of charging steeds, careering fast

  Along Benharrow's shingly side,

  Where mortal horseman ne'er might ride;

  The thunderbolt had split the pine—

  All augured ill to Alpine's line.

  He girt his loins, and came to show

  The signals of impending woe,

  And now stood prompt to bless or ban,

  As bade the Chieftain of his clan.

  VIII

  'Twas all prepared—and from the rock,

  A goat, the patriarch of the flock,

  Before the kindling pile was laid,

  And pierced by Roderick's ready blade.

  Patient the sickening victim eyed

  The life-blood ebb in crimson tide,

  Down his clogged beard and shaggy limb,

  Til
l darkness glazed his eyeballs dim.

  The grisly priest, with murmuring prayer,

  A slender crosslet formed with care,

  A cubit's length in measure due;

  The shaft and limbs were rods of yew,

  Whose parents in Inch-Cailliach wave

  Their shadows o'er Clan-Alpine's grave,

  And, answering Lomond's breezes deep,

  Soothe many a chieftain's endless sleep.

  The Cross, thus formed, he held on high,

  With wasted hand and haggard eye,

  And strange and mingled feelings woke;

  While his anathema he spoke.

  IX

  "Woe to the clansman, who shall view

  This symbol of sepulchral yew,

  Forgetful that its branches grew

  Where weep the heavens their holiest dew

  On Alpine's dwelling low!

  Deserter of his Chieftain's trust,

  He ne'er shall mingle with their dust,

  But, from his sires and kindred thrust,

  Each clansman's execration just

  Shall doom him wrath and woe."

  He paused—the word the vassals took,

  With forward step and fiery look,

  On high their naked brands they shook,

  Their clattering targets wildly strook;

  And first in murmur low,

  Then, like the billow in his course,

  That far to seaward finds his source,

  And flings to shore his mustered force,

  Burst, with loud roar, their answer hoarse,

  "Woe to the traitor, woe!"