<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=519708" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Lord of the Isles: Canto III.</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I. <br>Hast thou not mark'd, when o'er thy startled head<br>Sudden and deep the thunder-peal has roll'd,<br>How when its echoes fell, a silence dead<br>Sunk on the wood, the meadow, and the wold?<br>The rye-glass shakes not on the sod-built fold,<br>The rustling aspen's leaves are mute and still,<br>The wall-flower waves not on the ruin'd hold,<br>Till, murmuring distant first, then near and shrill,<br>The savage whirlwind wakes, and sweeps the groaning hill.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">II.<br>Artornish! such a silence sunk<br>Upon thy halls, when that grey Monk<br>His prophet-speech had spoke;<br>And his obedient brethren's sail<br>Was stretch'd to meet the southern gale<br>Before a whisper woke.<br>Then murmuring sounds of doubt and fear,<br>Close pour'd in many an anxious ear,<br>The solemn stillness broke;<br>And still they gazed with eager guess,<br>Where, in an oriel's deep recess,<br>The Island Prince seem'd bent to press<br>What Lorn, by his impatient cheer,<br>And gesture fierce, scarce deign'd to hear.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">III.<br>Starting at length with frowning look,<br>His hand he clench'd, his head he shook,<br>And sternly flung apart;-<br>'And deem'st thou me so mean of mood,<br>As to forget the mortal feud, <br>And clasp the hand with blood inbrued<br>From my dear Kinsman's heart?<br>Is this thy rede? - a due return<br>For ancient league and friendship sworn!<br>But well our mountain proverb shows<br>The faith of Islesmen ebbs and flows.<br>Be it even so - believe, ere long,<br>He that now bears shall wreak the wrong.-<br>Call Edith - call the Maid of Lorn!<br>My sister, slaves! - for further scorn,<br>Be sure nor she nor I will stay.-<br>Away, De Argentine, away! -<br>We nor ally nor brother know,<br>In Bruce's friend, or England's foe.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">IV. <br>But who the Chieftain's rage can tell,<br>When, sought from lowest dungeon cell<br>To highest tower the castle round,<br>No Lady Edith was there found!<br>He shouted - 'Falsehood! - treachery! - <br>Revenge and blood! - a lordly meed<br>To him that will avenge the deed!<br>A Baron's lands!' - His frantic mood<br>Was scarcely by the news withstood,<br>That Morag shared his sister's flight,<br>And that, in hurry of the night,<br>'Scaped noteless, and without remark,<br>Two strangers sought the Abott's bark.-<br>'Man every galley! - fly - pursue!<br>The priest his treachery shall rue!<br>Ay, and the time shall quickly come,<br>When we shall hear the thanks that Rome<br>Will pay his feigned prophecy!'<br>Such was fierce Lorn's indignant cry;<br>And Cormac Doil in haste obey'd,<br>Hoisted his sail, his anchor weigh'd,<br>(For, glad of each pretext for spoil,<br>A pirate sworn was Cormac Doil).<br>But others, lingering, spoke apart,-<br>'The maid has given her maiden heart<br>To Ronald of the Isles,<br>And, fearful lest her brother's word<br>Bestow her on that English Lord,<br>She seeks Iona's piles,<br>And wisely deems it best to dwell<br>A votaress in the holy cell,<br>Until these feuds so fierce and fell<br>The Abbot reconciles.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">V.<br>As, impotent of ire, the hall<br>Echoed to Lorn's impatient call -<br>'My horse, my mantle, and my train!<br>Let none who honours Lorn remain!'-<br>Courteous, but stern, a bold request<br>To Bruce De Argentine express'd: -<br>'Lord Earl,' he said, - 'I cannot chuse<br>But yield such title to the Bruce,<br>Though name and earldom both are gone,<br>Since he braced rebel's armour on -<br>But, Earl or Serf - rude phrase was thine<br>Of late, and launch'd at Argentine;<br>Such as compels me to demand<br>Redress of honour at thy hand.<br>We need not to each other tell,<br>That both can wield their weapons well;<br>Then do me but the soldier grace,<br>This glove upon thy helm to place<br>Where we may meet in fight;<br>And I will say, as still I've said,<br>Though by ambition far misled,<br>Thou art a noble knight.'-</div><div style="margin:10px 0">VI.<br>'And I,' the princely Bruce replied,<br>'Might term it stain on knighthood's pride,<br>That the bright sword of Argentine<br>Should in a tyrant's quarrel shine; <br>But, for your brave request,<br>Be sure the honour'd pledge you gave<br>In every battle-field shall wave<br>Upon my helmet-crest;<br>Believe, that if my hasty tongue<br>Hath done thine honour causeless wrong,<br>It shall be well redress'd.<br>Not dearer to my soul was glove,<br>Bestow'd in youth by lady's love,<br>Than this which thou hast given! <br>Thus, then, my noble foe I greet; <br>Health and high fortune till we meet,<br>And then - what pleases Heaven.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">VII.<br>Thus parted they - for now, with sound<br>Like waves roll'd back from rocky ground,<br>The friends of Lorn retire;<br>Each mainland chieftain, with his train,<br>Draws to his mountain towers again,<br>Pondering how mortal schemes prove vain,<br>And mortal hopes expire.<br>But through the castle double guard,<br>By Ronald's charge, kept wakeful ward,<br>Wicket and gate were trebly barr'd,<br>By beam and bolt and chain:<br>Then of the guests, in courteous sort,<br>He pray'd excuse for mirth broke short,<br>And bade them in Artornish fort<br>In confidence remain.<br>Now torch and menial tendance led<br>Chieftains and knight to bower and bed,<br>And beads were told, and Aves said,<br>And soon they sunk away<br>Into such sleep as wont to shed<br>Oblivion on the weary head,<br>After a toilsome day.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">VIII.<br>But soon uproused, the Monarch cried<br>To Edward slumbering by his side,<br>'Awake, or sleep for aye!<br>Even now there jarr'd a secret door -<br>A taper-light gleams on the floor - <br>Up, Edward! up, I say!<br>Some one glides in like midnight ghost -<br>Nay, strike not! 'tis our noble Host.'<br>Advancing then his taper's flame,<br>Ronald stept forth, and with him came<br>Dunvegan's chief - each bent the knee<br>To Bruce in sign of fealty,<br>And proffer'd him his sword,<br>And hail'd him in a monarch's style,<br>As king of mainland and of isle,<br>And Scotland's rightful lord.<br>'And O,' said Ronald, 'Own'd of Heaven!<br>Say, is my erring youth forgiven,<br>By falsehood's arts from duty driven,<br>Who rebel falchion drew,<br>Yet ever to thy deeds of fame,<br>Even while I strove against thy claim,<br>Paid homage just and true?'-<br>'Alas! dear youth, the unhappy time,'<br>Answer'd the Bruce, 'must bear the crime,<br>Since, guiltier far than you,<br>Even I' - he paused; for Falkirk's woes,<br>Upon his conscious soul arose.<br>The Chieftain to his breast he press'd,<br>And in a sigh conceal'd the rest.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">IX.<br>They proffer'd aid, by arms and might,<br>To repossess him in his right;<br>But well their counsels must be weigh'd,<br>Ere banners raised and musters made,<br>For English hire and Lorn's intrigues<br>Bound many chiefs in southern leagues.<br>In answer, Bruce his purpose bold<br>To his new vassals frankly told:-<br>'The winter worn in exile o'er,<br>I long'd for Carrick's kindred shore.<br>I thought upon my native Ayr,<br>And long'd to see the burly fare<br>That Clifford makes, whose lordly call<br>Now echoes through my father's hall.<br>But first my course to Arran led,<br>Where valiant Lennox gathers head,<br>And on the sea, by tempest toss'd,<br>Our barks dispersed, our purpose cross'd,<br>Mine own, a hostile sail to shun,<br>When that wise will, which masters ours,<br>Compell'd us to your friendly towers.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">X.<br>Then Torquil spoke:- 'The time craves speed!<br>We must not linger in our deed,<br>But instant pray our Sovereign Liege,<br>To shun the perils of a siege.<br>The vengeful Lorn, with all his powers,<br>Lies but too near Artornish towers,<br>And England's light-arm'd vessels ride,<br>Not distant far, the waves of Clyde,<br>Prompt at these tidings to unmoor,<br>And sweep each strait, and guard each shore.<br>Then, till this fresh alarm pass by,<br>Secret and safe my Liege must lie<br>In the far bounds of friendly Skye,<br>Torquil thy pilot and thy guide.'-<br>'Not so, brave Chieftain,' Ronald cried;<br>'Myself will on my Sovereign wait,<br>And raise in arms the men of Sleate,<br>Whilst thou, renown'd where chiefs debate,<br>Shalt sway them by thy locks of age.'<br>-'And if my words in weight shall fail,<br>This ponderous sword shall turn the scale.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XI. <br>'The scheme,' said Bruce, 'contents me well;<br>Meantime, 'twere best that Isabel,<br>For safety, with my bark and crew,<br>Again to friendly Erin drew.<br>There Edward, too, shall with her wend,<br>In need to cheer her and defend,<br>And muster up each scatter'd friend.'-<br>Here seem'd it as Lord Ronald's ear<br>Would other counsel gladlier hear;<br>But, all achieved as soon as plann'd,<br>Both barks, in secret arm'd and mann'd,<br>From out the haven bore;<br>On different voyage forth they ply,<br>This for the coast of winged Skye,<br>And that for Erin's shore.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XII. <br>With Bruce and Ronald bides the tale.-<br>To favouring winds they gave the sail,<br>Till Mull's dark headlands scarce they knew,<br>And Ardnamurchan's hills were blue.<br>But then the squalls blew close and hard,<br>And, fain to strike the galley's yard,<br>With these rude seas, in weary plight,<br>They strove the livelong day and night,<br>Nor till the dawning had a sight<br>Of Skye's romantic shore.<br>Where Coolin stoops him to the west,<br>They saw upon his shiver'd crest<br>The sun's arising gleam; <br>But such the labour and delay,<br>Ere they were moor'd in Scavigh bay,<br>(For calmer Heaven compell'd to stay),<br>He shot a western beam.<br>Then Ronald said, 'If true mine eye,<br>These are the savage wilds that lie <br>North of Strathnardill and Dunskye;<br>No human foot comes here,<br>And, since these adverse breezes blow,<br>If my good Liege love hunter's bow,<br>What hinders that on land we go,<br>And strike a mountain-deer?<br>Allan, my page, shall with us wend;<br>And, if we meet a herd, may send<br>A shaft shall mend our cheer.'<br>Then each took bow and bolts in hand,<br>Their row-boat launch'd and leapt to land,<br>And left their skiff and train,<br>Where a wild stream with headlong shock,<br>Came brawling down its bed of rock,<br>To mingle with the main.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XIII.<br>A while their route they silent made,<br>As men who stalk for mountain-deer,<br>Till the good Bruce to Ronald said, -<br>'Saint Mary! what a scene is here!<br>I've traversed many a mountain-strand,<br>Abroad in my native land,<br>And it has been my lot to tread<br>Where safety more than pleasure led;<br>Thus, many a waste I've wander'd o'er,<br>Clombe many a crag, cross'd many a moor,<br>But, by my halidome,<br>A scene so rude, so wild as this,<br>Yet so sublime in barrenness,<br>Ne'er did my wandering footsteps press,<br>Where'er I happ'd to roam.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XIV.<br>No marvel thus the Monarch spake;<br>For rarely human eye has known<br>A scene so stern as that dread lake, <br>With its dark ledge of barren stone.<br>Seems that primeval earthquake's sway<br>Hath rent a strange and shatter'd way<br>Through the rude bosom of the hill,<br>And that each naked precipice,<br>Sable ravine, and dark abyss,<br>Tells of the outrage still.<br>The wildest glen, but this, can show<br>Some touch of Nature's genial glow;<br>On high Benmore green mosses grow, <br>And heath-bells bud in deep Glencroe,<br>And copse on Cruchan-Ben;<br>But here, -above, around, below,<br>On mountain or in glen,<br>Nor tree, nor shrub, nor plant, nor flower,<br>Nor aught of vegetative power,<br>The weary eye may ken.<br>For all is rocks at random thrown,<br>Black waves, bare crags, and banks of stone,<br>As if were here denied<br>The summer sun, the spring's sweet dew,<br>That clothe with many a varied hue<br>The bleakest mountain-side.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XV.<br>And wilder, forward as they wound,<br>Were the proud cliffs and lake profound,<br>Huge terraces of granite black<br>Afforded rude and cumber'd track;<br>For from the mountain hoar,<br>Hurl'd headlong in some night of fear,<br>When yell'd the wolf and fled the deer,<br>Loose crags had toppled o'er;<br>And some, chance-poised and balanced, lay,<br>So that a stripling arm might sway<br>A mass no host could raise,<br>In Nature's rage at random thrown,<br>Yet trembling like the Druid's stone<br>On its precarious base.<br>The evening mists, with ceaseless change,<br>Now clothed the mountains' lofty range,<br>Now left their foreheads bare,<br>And round the skirts their mantle furl'd,<br>Or on the sable waters curl'd, <br>Or on the eddying breezes whirl'd, <br>Dispersed in middle air.<br>And oft, condensed, at once they lower,<br>When, brief and fierce, the mountain shower<br>Pours like a torrent down,<br>And when return the sun's glad beams,<br>Whiten'd with foam a thousand streams<br>Leap from the mountain's crown.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XVI.<br>'This lake,' said Bruce, 'whose barriers drear<br>Are precipice sharp and sheer,<br>Yielding no track for goat or deer,<br>Save the black shelves we tread,<br>How term you its dark waves? and how<br>Yon northern mountain's pathless brow,<br>And yonder peak of dread,<br>That to the evening sun uplifts<br>The griesly gulfs and slaty rifts,<br>Which seam its shiver'd head?' -<br>'Coriskin call the dark lake's name,<br>Coolin the ridge, as bards proclaim,<br>From old Cuchullin, chief of flame.<br>But bards, familiar in our isles<br>Rather with Nature's frowns than smiles,<br>Full oft their careless humours please<br>By sportive names from scenes like these.<br>I would old Torquil were to show<br>His maidens with their breasts of snow,<br>Or that my noble Liege were nigh<br>To hear his Nurse sing lullaby!<br>(The Maids - tall cliffs with breakers white,<br>The Nurse - a torrent's roaring might), <br>Or that your eye could see the mood<br>Of Corryvrekin's whirlpool rude,<br>When dons the Hag her whiten'd hood -<br>'Tis thus our Islesmen's fancy frames,<br>For scenes so stern, fantastic names.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XVII.<br>Answer'd the Bruce, 'And musing mind<br>Might here a graver moral find.<br>These mighty cliffs, that heave on high<br>Their naked brows to middle sky,<br>Indifferent to the sun or snow,<br>Where nought can fade, and nought can blow,<br>May they not mark a Monarch's fate, -<br>Raised high 'mid storms of strife and state,<br>Beyond life's lowlier pleasures placed,<br>His soul a rock, his heart a waste?<br>O'er hope and love and fear aloft<br>High rears his crowned head - But soft!<br>Look, underneath yon jutting crag<br>Are hunters and a slaughter'd stag.<br>Who may they be? But late you said<br>No steps these desert regions tread?'-</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XVIII.<br>'So said I - and believed in sooth,'<br>Ronald replied, 'I spoke the truth.<br>Yet now I spy, by yonder stone,<br>Five men - they mark us, and come on;<br>And by their badge on bonnet borne,<br>I guess them on the land of Lorn,<br>Foes to my Liege.' - 'So let it be;<br>I've faced worse odds than five to three-<br>-But the poor page can little aid;<br>Then be our battle thus array'd,<br>If our free passage they contest;<br>Cope thou with two, I'll match the rest.'-<br>'Not so, my Liege - for, by my life,<br>This sword shall meet the treble strife;<br>My strength, my skill in arms, more small,<br>And less the loss should Ronald fall.<br>But islesmen soon to soldiers grow,<br>Allan has sword as well as bow,<br>And were my Monarch's order given,<br>Two shafts should make our number even.'-<br>'No! not to save my life!' he said; <br>'Enough of blood rests on my head,<br>Too rashly spill'd - we soon shall know,<br>Whether they come as friend or foe.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XIX.<br>Nigh came the strangers, and more nigh;-<br>Still less they pleased the Monarch's eye.<br>Men were they all of evil mien, <br>Down-look'd, unwilling to be seen;<br>They moved with half-resolved pace,<br>And bent on earth each gloomy face.<br>The foremost two were fair array'd,<br>With brogue and bonnet, trews and plaid,<br>And bore the arms of mountaineers,<br>Daggers and broadswords, bows and spears,<br>The three, that lagg'd small space behind,<br>Seem'd serfs of more degraded kind;<br>Goat-skins or deer-hides o'er them cast,<br>Made a rude fence against the blast;<br>Matted their beards, unshorn their hair;<br>For arms, the caitiffs bore in hand,<br>A club, an axe, a rusty brand.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XX.<br>Onward still mute, they kept the track;-<br>'Tell who ye be, or else stand back,'<br>Said Bruce; 'In deserts when they meet,<br>Men pass not as in peaceful street.'<br>Still, at his stern command, they stood,<br>And proferr'd greeting brief and rude,<br>But acted courtesy so ill,<br>As seem'd of fear, and not of will.<br>'Wanderers we are, as you may be;<br>Men hither driven by wind and sea,<br>Who, if you list to taste our cheer,<br>Will share with you this fallow deer.'-<br>'If from the sea, where lies your bark?'-<br>'Ten fathom deep in ocean dark!<br>Wreck'd yesternight: but we are men,<br>Who little sense of peril ken.<br>The shades come down - the day is shut -<br>Will you go with us to our hut?'-<br>'Our vessel waits us in the bay;<br>Thanks for your proffer - have good-day.'-<br>'Was that your galley, then, which rode<br>Not far from shore when evening glow'd?'-<br>'It was.' - 'Then spare your needless pain,<br>There will she now be sought in vain.<br>We saw her from the mountain head,<br>When, with St. George's blazon red<br>A southern vessel bore in sight,<br>And yours raised sail, and took to flight.'-</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXI.<br>'Now, by the rood, unwelcome news!'<br>Thus with Lord Ronald communed Bruce;<br>'Nor rests there light enough to show<br>If this their tale be true or no. <br>The men seem bred of churlish kind,<br>Yet mellow nuts have hardest rind;<br>We will go with them - food and fire<br>And sheltering roof our wants require.<br>Sure guard 'gainst treachery will we keep,<br>And watch by turns our comrades' sleep.-<br>Good fellows, thanks; your guests we'll be, <br>And well will pay the courtesy.<br>Come, lead us where your lodging lies,-<br>- Nay, soft! we mix not companies.-<br>Show us the path o'er crag and stone, <br>And we will follow you; - lead on.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXII.<br>They reach'd the dreary cabin, made<br>Of sails against a rock display'd,<br>And there on entering, found<br>A slender boy, whose form and mien<br>Ill suited with such savage scene,<br>In cap and cloak of velvet green,<br>Low seated on the ground.<br>His garb was such as minstrels wear,<br>Dark was his hue, and dark his hair,<br>His youthful cheek was marr'd by care,<br>His eyes in sorrow drown'd.<br>'Whence this poor boy?' - As Ronald spoke,<br>The voice his trance of anguish broke;<br>As if awaked from ghastly dream,<br>He raised his head with start and scream,<br>And wildly gazed around;<br>Then to the wall his face he turn'd, <br>And his dark neck with blushes burn'd.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXIII.<br>'Whose is the boy?' again he said.<br>'By chance of war our captive made;<br>He may be yours, if you should hold<br>That music has more charms than gold;<br>For, though from earliest childhood mute,<br>The lad can deftly touch the lute,<br>And on the rote and viol play,<br>And well can drive the time away<br>For those who love such glee;<br>For me, the favouring breeze, when loud<br>It pipes upon the galley's shroud,<br>Makes blither melody.'-<br>'Hath he, then, sense of spoken sound?'-<br>'Aye; so his mother bade us know,<br>A crone in our late shipwreck drown'd,<br>And hence the silly stripling's woe.<br>More of the youth I cannot say,<br>Our captive but since yesterday;<br>When wind and weather wax'd so grim,<br>We little listed think of him.-<br>But why waste time in idle words?<br>Sit to your cheer - unbelt your swords.'<br>Sudden the captive turn'd his head,<br>And one quick glance to Ronald sped.<br>It was a keen and warning look,<br>And well the Chief the signal took.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXIV.<br>'Kind host,' he said, 'our needs require<br>A separate board and separate fire;<br>Wend I, my comrade, and this page.<br>And, sworn to vigil and to fast,<br>Long as this hallow'd task shall last,<br>We never doff the plaid or sword,<br>Or feast us at a stranger's board;<br>And never share one common sleep,<br>But one must still his vigil keep.<br>Thus, for our separate use, good friend,<br>We'll hold this hut's remoter end.'-<br>'A churlish vow,' the elder said,<br>'And hard, methinks, to be obey'd.<br>How say you, if, to wreak the scorn<br>That pays our kindness harsh return,<br>'Then say we, that our swords are steel!<br>And our vow binds us not to fast,<br>Where gold or force may buy repast.'-<br>Their host's dark brow grew keen and fell,<br>His teeth are clench'd, his features swell;<br>Yet sunk the felon's moody ire<br>Before Lord Ronald's glance of fire,<br>Nor could his craven courage brook<br>The Monarch's calm and dauntless look.<br>With laugh constrain'd - 'Let every man<br>Follow the fashion of his clan!<br>Each to his separate quarters keep,<br>And feed or fast, or wake or sleep.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXV.<br>Their fire at separate distance burns,<br>By turns they eat, keep guard by turns;<br>For evil seem'd that old man's eye,<br>Dark and designing, fierce yet shy.<br>Still he avoided forward look,<br>But slow, and circumspectly took<br>A circling, never-ceasing glance,<br>By doubt and cunning mark'd at once,<br>Which shot a mischief-boding ray,<br>From under eyebrows shagg'd and grey.<br>The younger, too, who seem'd his son,<br>Had that dark look to the timid shun; <br>The half-clad serfs behind them sate,<br>And scowl'd a glare 'twixt fear and hate-<br>Till all, as darkness onward crept,<br>Couch'd down, and seem'd to sleep, or slept.<br>Nor he, that boy, whose powerless tongue<br>Must trust his eyes to wail his wrong,<br>A longer watch of sorrow made,<br>But stretch'd his limbs to slumber laid.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXVI.<br>Not in his dangerous host confides<br>The King, but wary watch provides.<br>Ronald keeps ward till midnight past,<br>Then wakes the King, young Allan last;<br>Thus rank'd, to give the youthful page<br>The rest required by tender age.<br>What is Lord Ronald's wakeful thought,<br>To chase the languor toil had brought?-<br>(For deem not that he deign'd to throw<br>Much care upon such coward foe),-<br>He thinks of lovely Isabel,<br>When at her foeman's feet she fell,<br>Nor less when, placed in princely selle,<br>She glanced on him with favouring eyes,<br>At Woodstocke when he won the prize.<br>Nor, fair in joy, in sorrow fair,<br>In pride of place as 'mid despair,<br>Must she alone engross his care.<br>His thoughts to his betrothed bride,<br>To Edith, turn - O how decide,<br>When here his love and heart are given,<br>And there his faith stands plight to Heaven!<br>No drowsy ward 'tis his to keep,<br>For seldom lovers long for sleep.<br>Till sung his midnight hymn the owl,<br>Answer'd the dog-fox with his howl,<br>Then waked the King - at his request,<br>Lord Ronald stretch'd himself to rest.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXVII.<br>What spell was good King Robert's, say,<br>To drive the weary night away?<br>His was the patriot's burning thought,<br>Of Freedom's battle bravely fought,<br>Of castles storm'd, of cities freed,<br>Of deep design and daring deed,<br>Of England's roses reft and torn,<br>And Scotland's cross in triumph worn,<br>Of rout and rally, war and truce,-<br>As heroes think, so thought the Bruce.<br>No marvel, 'mid such musings high,<br>Sleep shunn'd the Monarch's thoughtful eye.<br>Now over Coolin's eastern head<br>The greyish light begins to spread,<br>The otter to his cavern drew,<br>And clamour'd shrill the wakening mew;<br>Then watch'd the Page - to needful rest<br>The King resigned his anxious breast.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXVIII.<br>To Allan's eyes was harder task,<br>The weary watch their safeties ask.<br>He trimm'd the fire, and gave to shine<br>With bickering light the splinter'd pine;<br>Then gazed a while, where silent laid<br>Their hosts were shrouded by the plaid.<br>But little fear waked in his mind,<br>For he was bred of martial kind,<br>And, if to manhood he arrive,<br>May match the boldest knight alive.<br>Then thought he of his mother's tower,<br>His little sisters' greenwood bower,<br>How there the Easter-gambols pass,<br>And of Dan Joseph's lengthen'd mass.<br>But still before his weary eye<br>In rays prolong'd the blazes die -<br>Again he roused him - on the lake<br>Look'd forth, where now the twilight-flake<br>Of pale cold dawn began to wake.<br>On Coolin's cliffs the mist lay furl'd,<br>The morning breeze the lake had curl'd,<br>The short dark waves, heaved to the land,<br>With ceaseless plash kiss'd cliff or sand;-<br>It was a slumbrous sound - he turn'd <br>To tales at which his youth had burn'd,<br>Of pilgrim's path by demon cross'd,<br>Of sprightly elf or yelling ghost,<br>Of the wild witch's baneful cot, <br>And mermaid's alabaster grot,<br>Who bathes her limbs in sunless well<br>Deep in Strathaird's enchanted cell.<br>Thither in fancy rapt he flies,<br>And on his sight the vaults arise;<br>That hut's dark walls he sees no more,<br>His foot is on the marble floor,<br>And o'er his head the dazzling spars<br>Gleam like a firmament of stars!<br>-Hark! hears he not the sea-nymph speak<br>Her anger in that thrilling shriek!-<br>No! all too late, with Allan's dream<br>Mingled the captive's warning scream.<br>As from the ground he strives to start,<br>A ruffian's dagger finds his heart!<br>Upwards he cast his dizzy eyes,…<br>Murmurs his master's name,…and dies!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXIX.<br>Not so awoke the King! his hand<br>Snatch'd from the flame a knotted brand,<br>The nearest weapon on his wrath;<br>With this he cross'd the murderer's path.<br>And venged young Allan well!<br>The spatter'd brain and bubbling blood<br>Hiss'd on the half-extinguish'd wood,<br>The miscreant gasp'd and fell!<br>Nor rose in peace the Island Lord;<br>One caitiff died upon his sword,<br>And one beneath his grasp lies prone,<br>And one beneath his grasp lies prone,<br>In mortal grapple overthrown.<br>But while Lord Ronald's dagger drank<br>The life-blood from his panting flank,<br>The Father-ruffian of the band<br>Behind him rears a coward hand!<br>- O for a moment's aid,<br>Till Bruce, who deals no double blow,<br>Dash to the earth another foe,<br>Above his comrade laid!-<br>And it is gain'd - the captive sprung<br>On the raised arm, and closely clung,<br>And, ere he shook him loose,<br>The master'd felon press'd the ground,<br>And gasp'd beneath a mortal wound,<br>While o'er him stands the Bruce.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXX.<br>'Miscreant! while lasts thy flitting spark,<br>Give me to know the purpose dark,<br>That arm'd thy hand with murderous knife,<br>Against offenceless stranger's life?' -<br>- 'No stranger thou!' with accent fell,<br>Murmur'd the wretch; 'I know thee well;<br>And know thee for the foeman sworn<br>Of my high Chief, the mighty Lorn.'-<br>'Speak yet again, and speak the truth<br>For thy soul's sake! - from whence this youth?<br>His country, birth, and name declare,<br>And thus one evil deed repair.'-<br>'Vex me no more!…my blood runs cold…<br>No more I know than I have told.<br>We found him in a bark we sought<br>With different purpose…and I thought'…<br>Fate cut him short; in blood and broil,<br>As he had lived, died Cormac Doil.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXXI.<br>The resting on his bloody blade,<br>The valiant Bruce to Ronald said, -<br>'Now shame upon us both! - that boy <br>Lifts his mute face to heaven,<br>And clasps his hands, to testify<br>His gratitude to God on high,<br>For strange deliverance given.<br>His speechless gesture thanks hath paid.<br>Which our free tongues have left unsaid!'<br>He raised the youth with kindly word,<br>But mark'd him shudder at the sword:<br>He cleansed it from its hue of death,<br>And plunged the weapon in its sheath.<br>'Alas, poor child! unfitting part<br>Fate doom'd, when with so soft a heart,<br>And form so slight as thine,<br>She made thee first a pirate's slave,<br>Then, in his stead, a patron gave<br>Of wayward lot like mine;<br>A landless prince, whose wandering life<br>Is but one scene of blood and strife-<br>Yet scant of friends the Bruce shall be,<br>But he'll find resting-place for thee.-<br>Come, noble Ronald! o'er the dead<br>Enough thy generous grief is paid,<br>And well has Allen's fate been wroke;<br>Come, wend we hence - the day has broke.<br>Seek we our bark - I trust the tale<br>Was false, that she had hoisted sail.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXXII.<br>Yet, ere they left that charnel-cell,<br>The Island Lord bade sad farewell<br>To Allan: - 'Who shall tell this tale,'<br>He said, 'in halls of Donagaile!<br>Oh, who his widow'd mother tell,<br>That, ere his bloom, her fairest fell!-<br>Rest thee, poor youth! and trust my care<br>For mass and knell and funeral prayer;<br>While o'er those caitiffs, where they lie,<br>The wolf shall snarl, the raven cry!'-<br>And now the eastern mountain's head<br>On the dark lake threw lustre red;<br>Bright gleams of gold and purple streak<br>Ravine and precipice and peak -<br>(So earthly power at distance shows;<br>Reveals his splendour, hides his woes).<br>O'er sheets of granite, dark and broad,<br>Rent and unequal, lay the road.<br>In sad discourse the warriors wind,<br>And the mute captive moves behind.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Sir+Walter+Scott">Sir Walter Scott</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=519708" data-title="The Lord of the Isles: Canto III. de Sir Walter Scott" data-description="I. Hast thou not mark'd, when o'er thy startled head Sudden and deep the thunder-peal has roll'd, How when its echoes fell, a silence dead Sunk on the wood, the meadow, and the wold? The rye-glass shakes not on the sod-built fold, The rustling as..."></div> </div> </div>

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