Canto Fourth: The Prophecy IV

''T is well advised,--the Chieftain's planBespeaks the father of his clan.But wherefore sleeps Sir Roderick DhuApart from all his followers true?''It is because last evening-tideBrian an augury hath tried,Of that dread kind which must not beUnless in dread extremity,The Taghairm called; by which, afar,Our sires foresaw the events of war.Duncraggan's milk-white bull they slew,'--

'Ah! well the gallant brute I knew!The choicest of the prey we hadWhen swept our merrymen Gallangad.His hide was snow, his horns were dark,His red eye glowed like fiery spark;So fierce, so tameless, and so fleet,Sore did he cumber our retreat,And kept our stoutest kerns in awe,Even at the pass of Beal 'maha.But steep and flinty was the road,And sharp the hurrying pikeman's goad,And when we came to Dennan's RowA child might scathless stroke his brow.'

'That bull was slain; his reeking hideThey stretched the cataract beside,Whose waters their wild tumult tossAdown the black and craggy bossOf that huge cliff whose ample vergeTradition calls the Hero's Targe.Couched on a shelf beneath its brink,Close where the thundering torrents sink,Rocking beneath their headlong sway,And drizzled by the ceaseless spray,Midst groan of rock and roar of stream,The wizard waits prophetic dream.Nor distant rests the Chief;--but hush!See, gliding slow through mist and bush,The hermit gains yon rock, and standsTo gaze upon our slumbering bands.Seems he not, Malise, dike a ghost,That hovers o'er a slaughtered host?Or raven on the blasted oak,That, watching while the deer is broke,His morsel claims with sullen croak?'

'Peace! peace! to other than to meThy words were evil augury;But still I hold Sir Roderick's bladeClan-Alpine's omen and her aid,Not aught that, gleaned from heaven or hell,Yon fiend-begotten Monk can tell.The Chieftain joins him, see--and nowTogether they descend the brow.'

And, as they came, with Alpine's LordThe Hermit Monk held solemn word:--.'Roderick! it is a fearful strife,For man endowed with mortal lifeWhose shroud of sentient clay can stillFeel feverish pang and fainting chill,Whose eye can stare in stony tranceWhose hair can rouse like warrior's lance,'Tis hard for such to view, unfurled,The curtain of the future world.Yet, witness every quaking limb,My sunken pulse, mine eyeballs dim,My soul with harrowing anguish torn,This for my Chieftain have I borne!--The shapes that sought my fearful couchA human tongue may ne'er avouch;No mortal man--save he, who, bredBetween the living and the dead,Is gifted beyond nature's lawHad e'er survived to say he saw.At length the fateful answer cameIn characters of living flame!Not spoke in word, nor blazed in scroll,But borne and branded on my soul:--

'Thanks, Brian, for thy zeal and care!Good is thine augury, and fair.Clan-Alpine ne'er in battle stoodBut first our broadswords tasted blood.A surer victim still I know,Self-offered to the auspicious blow:A spy has sought my land this morn,--No eve shall witness his return!My followers guard each pass's mouth,To east, to westward, and to south;Red Murdoch, bribed to be his guide,Has charge to lead his steps aside,Till in deep path or dingle brownHe light on those shall bring him clown.But see, who comes his news to show!Malise! what tidings of the foe?'

'At Doune, o'er many a spear and glaiveTwo Barons proud their banners wave.I saw the Moray's silver star,And marked the sable pale of Mar.''By Alpine's soul, high tidings those!I love to hear of worthy foes.When move they on?' 'To-morrow's noonWill see them here for battle boune.''Then shall it see a meeting stern!But, for the place,--say, couldst thou learnNought of the friendly clans of Earn?Strengthened by them, we well might bideThe battle on Benledi's side.Thou couldst not?--well! Clan-Alpine's menShall man the Trosachs' shaggy glen;Within Loch Katrine's gorge we'll fight,All in our maids' and matrons' sight,Each for his hearth and household fire,Father for child, and son for sire Loverfor maid beloved!--But whyIs it the breeze affects mine eye?Or dost thou come, ill-omened tear!A messenger of doubt or fear?No! sooner may the Saxon lanceUnfix Benledi from his stance,Than doubt or terror can pierce throughThe unyielding heart of Roderick Dhu!'tis stubborn as his trusty targe.Each to his post!--all know their charge.'The pibroch sounds, the bands advance,The broadswords gleam, the banners dance'Obedient to the Chieftain's glance.--I turn me from the martial roarAnd seek Coir-Uriskin once more.

Where is the Douglas?--he is gone;And Ellen sits on the gray stoneFast by the cave, and makes her moan,While vainly Allan's words of cheerAre poured on her unheeding ear.'He will return--dear lady, trust!--With joy return;--he will--he must.Well was it time to seek afarSome refuge from impending war,When e'en Clan-Alpine's rugged swarmAre cowed by the approaching storm.I saw their boats with many a light,Floating the livelong yesternight,Shifting like flashes darted forthBy the red streamers of the north;I marked at morn how close they ride,Thick moored by the lone islet's side,Like wild ducks couching in the fenWhen stoops the hawk upon the glen.Since this rude race dare not abideThe peril on the mainland side,Shall not thy noble father's careSome safe retreat for thee prepare?'

'No, Allan, no' Pretext so kindMy wakeful terrors could not blind.When in such tender tone, yet grave,Douglas a parting blessing gave,The tear that glistened in his eyeDrowned not his purpose fixed and high.My soul, though feminine and weak,Can image his; e'en as the lake,Itself disturbed by slightest stroke.Reflects the invulnerable rock.He hears report of battle rife,He deems himself the cause of strife.I saw him redden when the themeTurned, Allan, on thine idle dreamOf Malcolm Graeme in fetters bound,Which I, thou saidst, about him wound.Think'st thou he bowed thine omen aught?O no' 't was apprehensive thoughtFor the kind youth,--for Roderick too--Let me be just--that friend so true;In danger both, and in our cause!Minstrel, the Douglas dare not pause.Why else that solemn warning given,'If not on earth, we meet in heaven!'Why else, to Cambus-kenneth's fane,If eve return him not again,Am I to hie and make me known?Alas! he goes to Scotland's throne,Buys his friends' safety with his own;He goes to do--what I had done,Had Douglas' daughter been his son!'

'Nay, lovely Ellen!--dearest, nay!If aught should his return delay,He only named yon holy faneAs fitting place to meet again.Be sure he's safe; and for the Graeme,--Heaven's blessing on his gallant name!--My visioned sight may yet prove true,Nor bode of ill to him or you.When did my gifted dream beguile?Think of the stranger at the isle,And think upon the harpings slowThat presaged this approaching woe!Sooth was my prophecy of fear;Believe it when it augurs cheer.Would we had left this dismal spot!Ill luck still haunts a fairy spot!Of such a wondrous tale I know--Dear lady, change that look of woe,My harp was wont thy grief to cheer.'

'Well, be it as thou wilt;I hear, But cannot stop the bursting tear.'The Minstrel tried his simple art,Rut distant far was Ellen's heart.

Merry it is in the good greenwood,When the mavis and merle are singing,When the deer sweeps by, and the hounds are in cry,And the hunter's horn is ringing.

'O Alice Brand, my native landIs lost for love of you;And we must hold by wood and word,As outlaws wont to do.

'O Alice, 't was all for thy locks so bright,And 't was all for thine eyes so blue,That on the night of our luckless flightThy brother bold I slew.

'Now must I teach to hew the beechThe hand that held the glaive,For leaves to spread our lowly bed,And stakes to fence our cave.

'And for vest of pall, thy fingers small,That wont on harp to stray,A cloak must shear from the slaughtered deer,To keep the cold away.'

'O Richard! if my brother died,'T was but a fatal chance;For darkling was the battle tried,And fortune sped the lance.

'If pall and vair no more I wear,Nor thou the crimson sheenAs warm, we'll say, is the russet gray,As gay the forest-green.

'And, Richard, if our lot be hard,And lost thy native land,Still Alice has her own Richard,And he his Alice Brand.'

'tis merry, 'tis merry, in good greenwood;So blithe Lady Alice is singing;On the beech's pride, and oak's brown side,Lord Richard's axe is ringing.

Up spoke the moody Elfin King,Who woned within the hill,--Like wind in the porch of a ruined church,His voice was ghostly shrill.

'Why sounds yon stroke on beech and oak,Our moonlight circle's screen?Or who comes here to chase the deer,Beloved of our Elfin Queen?Or who may dare on wold to wearThe fairies' fatal green?

'Up, Urgan, up! to yon mortal hie,For thou wert christened man;For cross or sign thou wilt not fly,For muttered word or ban.

'Lay on him the curse of the withered heart,The curse of the sleepless eye;Till he wish and pray that his life would part,Nor yet find leave to die.'

'Tis merry, 'tis merry, in good greenwood,Though the birds have stilled their singing;The evening blaze cloth Alice raise,And Richard is fagots bringing.

Up Urgan starts, that hideous dwarf,Before Lord Richard stands,And, as he crossed and blessed 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 stepped 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 cloth ride by their monarch's side,With bit and bridle ringing:

'And gayly shines the Fairy-land--But all is glistening show,Like the idle gleam that December's beamCan 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.

'It was between the night and day,When the Fairy King has power,That I sunk down in a sinful fray,And 'twixt life and death was snatched awayTo the joyless Elfin bower.

'But wist I of a woman bold,Who thrice my brow durst sign,I might regain my mortal mould,As fair a form as thine.'

She crossed him once--she crossed him twice--That lady was so brave;The fouler grew his goblin hue,The darker grew the cave.

She crossed him thrice, that lady bold;He rose beneath her handThe fairest knight on Scottish mould,Her brother, Ethert Brand!

Merry it is in good greenwood,When the mavis and merle are singing,But merrier were they in Dunfermline gray,When all the bells were ringing.

Just as the minstrel sounds were stayed,A stranger climbed the steepy glade;His martial step, his stately mien,His hunting-suit of Lincoln green,His eagle glance, remembrance claims--'Tis Snowdoun's Knight, 'tis James Fitz-James.Ellen beheld as in a dream,Then, starting, scarce suppressed a scream:'O stranger! in such hour of fearWhat evil hap has brought thee here?''An evil hap how can it beThat bids me look again on thee?By promise bound, my former guideMet me betimes this morning-tide,And marshalled over bank and bourneThe happy path of my return.''The happy path!--what! said he naughtOf war, of battle to be fought,Of guarded pass?' 'No, by my faith!Nor saw I aught could augur scathe.''O haste thee, Allan, to the kern:Yonder his tartars I discern;Learn thou his purpose, and conjureThat he will guide the stranger sure!--What prompted thee, unhappy man?The meanest serf in Roderick's clanHad not been bribed, by love or fear,Unknown to him to guide thee here.'

'Sweet Ellen, dear my life must be,Since it is worthy care from thee;Yet life I hold but idle breathWhen love or honor's weighed with death.Then let me profit by my chance,And speak my purpose bold at once.I come to bear thee from a wildWhere ne'er before such blossom smiled,By this soft hand to lead thee farFrom 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! 't were female art,To say I do not read thy heart;Too much, before, my selfish earWas 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 atoneThe 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 manOutlawed and exiled, under ban;The price of blood is on his head,With me 't were infamy to wed.Still wouldst thou speak?--then hear the truth!Fitz-James, there is a noble youth--If yet he is!--exposed for meAnd mine to dread extremity--Thou hast the secret of my bears;Forgive, be generous, and depart!'

Fitz-James knew every wily trainA lady's fickle heart to gain,But here he knew and felt them vain.There shot no glance from Ellen's eye,To give her steadfast speech the lie;In maiden confidence she stood,Though mantled in her cheek the bloodAnd told her love with such a sighOf deep and hopeless agony,As death had sealed her Malcolm's doomAnd she sat sorrowing on his tomb.Hope vanished from Fitz-James's eye,But not with hope fled sympathy.He proffered 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 learnIf thou mayst 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 crossed his brainHe paused, and turned, and came again.

'Hear, lady, yet a parting word!--It chanced in fight that my poor swordPreserved 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 claimThe 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--kissed her hand--and then was gone.The aged Minstrel stood aghast,So hastily Fitz-James shot past.He joined his guide, and wending downThe ridges of the mountain brown,Across the stream they took their wayThat joins Loch Katrine to Achray.

All in the Trosachs' glen was still,Noontide was sleeping on the hill:Sudden his guide whooped loud and high--'Murdoch! was that a signal cry?'--He stammered forth, 'I shout to scareYon raven from his dainty fare.'He looked--he knew the raven's prey,His own brave steed: 'Ah! gallant gray!For thee--for me, perchance--'t were wellWe 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, each upon his guard.

Now wound the path its dizzy ledgeAround a precipice's edge,When lo! a wasted female form,Blighted by wrath of sun and storm,In tattered weeds and wild array,Stood on a cliff beside the way,And glancing round her restless eye,Upon the wood, the rock, the sky,Seemed naught to mark, yet all to spy.Her brow was wreathed with gaudy broom;With gesture wild she waved a plumeOf feathers, which the eagles flingTo 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 shrieked till all the rocks replied;As loud she laughed 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 strained and roughened, stillRung wildly sweet to dale and hill.

They bid me sleep, they bid me pray,They say my brain is warped and wrung--I cannot sleep on Highland brae,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 prayThat 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 there.But woe betide the cruel guileThat drowned in blood the morning smile!And woe betide the fairy dream!I only waked to sob and scream.