THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. Walter Scott

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СКАЧАТЬ 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;

       Tomorrow 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 know;

       When bursts Clan-Alpine on the foe,

       His heart must be like bended bow,

       His foot like arrow free, Mary.

      A time will come with feeling fraught,

       For, if I fall in battle fought,

       Thy hapless lover’s dying thought

       Shall be a thought on thee, Mary.

       And if returned from conquered foes,

       How blithely will the evening close,

       How sweet the linnet sing repose,

       To my young bride and me, Mary!

       XXIV

      Not faster o’er thy heathery braes

       Balquidder, speeds the midnight blaze,

       Rushing in conflagration strong

       Thy deep ravines and dells along,

       Wrapping thy cliffs in purple glow,

       And reddening the dark lakes below;

       Nor faster speeds it, nor so far,

       As o’er thy heaths the voice of war.

       The signal roused to martial coil

       The sullen margin of Loch Voil,

       Waked still Loch Doine, and to the source

       Alarmed, Balvaig, thy swampy course;

       Thence southward turned its rapid road

       Adown Strath-Gartney’s valley broad

       Till rose in arms each man might claim

       A portion in Clan-Alpine’s name,

       From the gray sire, whose trembling hand

       Could hardly buckle on his brand,

       To the raw boy, whose shaft and bow

       Were yet scarce terror to the crow.

       Each valley, each sequestered glen,

       Mustered its little horde of men

       That met as torrents from the height

       In Highland dales their streams unite

       Still gathering, as they pour along,

       A voice more loud, a tide more strong,

       Till at the rendezvous they stood

       By hundreds prompt for blows and blood,

       Each trained to arms since life began,

       Owning no tie but to his clan,

       No oath but by his chieftain’s hand,

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