THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. Walter Scott

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       That whistle garrisoned the glen

       At once with full five hundred men,

       As if the yawning hill to heaven

       A subterranean host had given.

       Watching their leader’s beck and will,

       All silent there they stood and still.

       Like the loose crags whose threatening mass

       Lay tottering o’er the hollow pass,

       As if an infant’s touch could urge

       Their headlong passage down the verge,

       With step and weapon forward flung,

       Upon the mountainside they hung.

       The Mountaineer cast glance of pride

       Along Benledi’s living side,

       Then fixed his eye and sable brow

       Full on FitzJames: ‘How say’st thou now?

       These are Clan-Alpine’s warriors true;

       And, Saxon,—I am Roderick Dhu!’

       X

      FitzJames was brave:—though to his heart

       The lifeblood thrilled with sudden start,

       He manned himself with dauntless air,

       Returned the Chief his haughty stare,

       His back against a rock he bore,

       And firmly placed his foot before:—

       ‘Come one, come all! this rock shall fly

       From its firm base as soon as I.’

       Sir Roderick marked,—and in his eyes

       Respect was mingled with surprise,

       And the stern joy which warriors feel

       In foeman worthy of their steel.

       Short space he stood—then waved his hand:

       Down sunk the disappearing band;

       Each warrior vanished where he stood,

       In broom or bracken, heath or wood;

       Sunk brand and spear and bended bow,

       In osiers pale and copses low;

       It seemed as if their mother Earth

       Had swallowed up her warlike birth.

       The wind’s last breath had tossed in air

       Pennon and plaid and plumage fair,—

       The next but swept a lone hillside

       Where heath and fern were waving wide:

       The sun’s last glance was glinted back

       From spear and glaive, from targe and jack,—

       The next, all unreflected, shone

       On bracken green and cold gray stone.

       XI

      FitzJames looked round,—yet scarce believed

       The witness that his sight received;

       Such apparition well might seem

       Delusion of a dreadful dream.

       Sir Roderick in suspense he eyed,

       And to his look the Chief replied:

       ‘Fear naught—nay, that I need not say

       But—doubt not aught from mine array.

       Thou art my guest;—I pledged my word

       As far as Coilantogle ford:

       Nor would I call a clansman’s brand

       For aid against one valiant hand,

       Though on our strife lay every vale

       Rent by the Saxon from the Gael.

       So move we on;—I only meant

       To show the reed on which you leant,

       Deeming this path you might pursue

       Without a pass from Roderick Dhu.’

       They moved;—I said FitzJames was brave

       As ever knight that belted glaive,

       Yet dare not say that now his blood

       Kept on its wont and tempered flood,

       As, following Roderick’s stride, he drew

       That seeming lonesome pathway through,

       Which yet by fearful proof was rife

       With lances, that, to take his life,

       Waited but signal from a guide,

       So late dishonored and defied.

       Ever, by stealth, his eye sought round

       The vanished guardians of the ground,

       And stir’d from copse and heather deep

       Fancy saw spear and broadsword peep,

       And in the plover’s shrilly strain

       The signal whistle heard again.

       Nor breathed he free till far behind

       The pass was left; for then they wind

       Along a wide and level green,

       Where neither tree nor tuft was seen,

       Nor rush nor bush of broom was near,

       To hide a bonnet or a spear.

       XII

      The Chief in silence strode before,

       And reached that torrent’s sounding shore,

       Which, daughter of three mighty lakes,

       From Vennachar in silver breaks,

       Sweeps through the plain, and ceaseless mines

       On Bochastle the mouldering lines,

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