THE COMBAT. I. Fair as the earliest beam of eastern light, When first, by the bewilder’d pilgrim spied, It smiles upon the dreary brow of night, And silvers o’er the torrent’s foaming tide, And lights the fearful path on mountain side;— Fair as that beam, although the fairest far, Giving to horror grace, to danger pride, Shine martial Faith, and Courtesy’s bright star, Through all the wreckful storms that cloud the brow of War. II. That early beam, so fair and sheen, Was twinkling through the hazel screen, When, rousing at its glimmer red, The warriors left their lowly bed, Look’d out upon the dappled sky, Mutter’d their soldier matins by, And then awaked their fire, to steal, [276]As short and rude, their soldier meal. That o’er, the Gael around him threw His graceful plaid of varied hue, And, true to promise, led the way, By thicket green and mountain gray. A wildering path!—they winded now Along the precipice’s brow, Commanding the rich scenes beneath, The windings of the Forth and Teith, And all the vales beneath that lie, Till Stirling’s turrets melt in sky; Then, sunk in copse, their farthest glance Gain’d not the length of horseman’s lance ’Twas oft so steep, the foot was fain Assistance from the hand to gain; So tangled oft, that, bursting through, Each hawthorn shed her showers of dew,— That diamond dew, so pure and clear, It rivals all but Beauty’s tear!
III. At length they came where, stern and steep, The hill sinks down upon the deep. Here Vennachar in silver flows, There, ridge on ridge, Benledi rose; Ever the hollow path twined on, Beneath steep bank and threatening stone; An hundred men might hold the post With hardihood against a host. The rugged mountain’s scanty cloak Was dwarfish shrubs of birch and oak, With shingles [277] bare, and cliffs between, And patches bright of bracken green, And heather black, that waved so high, It held the copse in rivalry. But where the lake slept deep and still, Dank [278] osiers fringed the swamp and hill; And oft both path and hill were torn, Where wintry torrent down had borne, And heap’d upon the cumber’d land Its wreck of gravel, rocks, and sand. So toilsome was the road to trace, The guide, abating of his pace, Led slowly through the pass’s jaws, And ask’d Fitz-James, by what strange cause He sought these wilds, traversed by few, Without a pass from Roderick Dhu. IV. “Brave Gael, my pass in danger tried, Hangs in my belt, and by my side; Yet, sooth to tell,” the Saxon said, “I dreamt not now to claim its aid. When here, but three days since, I came, Bewilder’d in pursuit of game, All seem’d as peaceful and as still As the mist slumbering on yon hill; Thy dangerous Chief was then afar, Nor soon expected back from war. Thus said, at least, my mountain guide, Though deep, perchance, the villain lied.”— “Yet why a second venture try?”— “A warrior thou, and ask me why!— Moves our free course by such fix’d cause As gives the poor mechanic laws? Enough, I sought to drive away The lazy hours of peaceful day; Slight cause will then suffice to guide A Knight’s free footsteps far and wide,— A falcon flown, a greyhound stray’d, The merry glance of mountain maid: Or, if a path be dangerous known, The danger’s self is lure alone.”— V. “Thy secret keep, I urge thee not;— Yet, ere again ye sought this spot, Say, heard ye naught of Lowland war, Against Clan-Alpine, raised by Mar?” —“No, by my word;—of bands prepared To guard King James’s sports I heard; Nor doubt I aught, but, when they hear This muster of the mountaineer, Their pennons will abroad be flung, Which else in Doune had peaceful hung.”— “Free be they flung!—for we were loth Their silken folds should feast the moth. Free be they flung!—as free shall wave Clan-Alpine’s pine in banner brave. But, Stranger, peaceful since you came, Bewilder’d in the mountain game, Whence the bold boast by which you show [279]Vich-Alpine’s vow’d and mortal foe?”— “Warrior, but yester-morn, I knew Naught of thy Chieftain, Roderick Dhu, Save as an outlaw’d desperate man, The chief of a rebellious clan, Who, in the Regent’s [280] court and sight, With ruffian dagger stabb’d a knight: Yet this alone might from his part Sever each true and loyal heart.” VI. Wrothful at such arraignment foul, Dark lower’d the clansman’s sable scowl. A space he paused, then sternly said, “And heardst thou why he drew his blade? Heardst thou, that shameful word and blow Brought Roderick’s vengeance on his foe? What reck’d the Chieftain if he stood On Highland heath, or Holy-Rood? He rights such wrong where it is given, If it were in the court of heaven.”— “Still was it outrage;—yet, ’tis true, Not then claim’d sovereignty his due; While Albany, with feeble hand, Held borrow’d truncheon of command, The young King, mew’d [281] in Stirling tower, Was stranger to respect and power. [282] But then, thy Chieftain’s robber life!— Winning mean prey by causeless strife, Wrenching from ruin’d Lowland swain His herds and harvest rear’d in vain.— Methinks a soul, like thine, should scorn The spoils from such foul foray borne.” VII. The Gael beheld him grim the while, And answer’d with disdainful smile,— “Saxon, from yonder mountain high, I mark’d thee send delighted eye, Far to the south and east, where lay, Extended in succession gay, Deep waving fields and pastures green, With gentle slopes and groves between:— These fertile plains, that soften’d vale, Were once the birthright of the Gael; The stranger came with iron hand, And from our fathers reft [283] the land. Where dwell we now? See, rudely swell Crag over crag, and fell o’er fell. Ask we this savage hill we tread, For fatten’d steer or household bread; Ask we for flocks these shingles dry,— And well the mountain might reply, ‘To you, as to your sires of yore, Belong the target and claymore! I give you shelter in my breast, Your own good blades must win the rest.’ Pent in this fortress of the north, Thinkst thou we will not sally forth, To spoil the spoiler as we may, And from the robber rend the prey? Ay, by my soul!—While on yon plain The Saxon rears one shock of grain; While, of ten thousand herds, there strays But one along yon river’s maze,— The Gael, of plain and river heir, Shall, with strong hand, redeem his share. Where live the mountain Chiefs who hold, That plundering Lowland field and fold Is aught but retribution true? Seek other cause ’gainst Roderick Dhu.”— VIII. Answer’d Fitz-James,—“And, if I sought, Thinkst thou no other could be brought? What deem ye of my path waylaid? My life given o’er to ambuscade?”— “As of a meed to rashness due: Hadst thou sent warning fair and true,— I seek my hound, or falcon stray’d, I seek, good faith, [284] a Highland maid,— Free hadst thou been to come and go; But secret path marks secret foe. Nor yet, for this, even as a spy, Hadst thou, unheard, been doom’d to die, Save to fulfill an augury.”— “Well, let it pass; nor will I now Fresh cause of enmity avow, To chafe thy mood and cloud thy brow. Enough, I am by promise tied To match me with this man of pride: Twice have I sought Clan-Alpine’s glen In peace; but when I come agen, I come with banner, brand, and bow, As leader seeks his mortal foe. For lovelorn swain, in lady’s bower, Ne’er panted for the appointed hour, As I, until before me stand This rebel Chieftain and his band!”— IX. “Have, then, thy wish!”—He whistled shrill, And he was answer’d from the hill; Wild as the scream of the curlew, From crag to crag the signal flew. Instant, through copse and heath, arose Bonnets and spears and bended bows; On right, on left, above, below, Sprung up at once the lurking foe; From shingles gray their lances start, The bracken bush sends forth the dart, The rushes and the willow wand Are bristling into ax and brand, And every tuft of broom gives life To plaided warrior arm’d for strife. That whistle garrison’d 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 mountain side they hung. The Mountaineer cast glance of pride Along Benledi’s living side, Then fix’d his eye and sable brow Full on Fitz-James—“How say’st thou now? These are Clan-Alpine’s warriors true; And, Saxon,—I am Roderick Dhu!” X. Fitz-James was brave:—Though to his heart The lifeblood thrill’d with sudden start, He mann’d himself with dauntless air, Return’d 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 mark’d—and in his eyes Respect was mingled with surprise, And the stern joy which warriors feel In foemen worthy of their steel. Short space he stood—then waved his hand: Down sunk the disappearing band; Each warrior vanish’d where he stood, In broom or bracken, heath or wood; Sunk brand and spear and bended bow, In osiers pale and copses low; It seem’d as if their mother Earth Had swallowed up her warlike birth. The wind’s last breath had toss’d 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 [285] back, From spear and glaive, from targe and jack,— The next, all unreflected, shone On bracken green, and cold gray stone.
XI. Fitz-James look’d 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 mov’d:—I said Fitz-James was brave, As ever knight that belted glaive; Yet dare not say, that now his blood Kept on its wont and temper’d flood, [286]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 dishonor’d and defied. Ever, by stealth, his eye sought round The vanish’d guardians of the ground, And still, 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 reach’d that torrent’s sounding shore, Which, daughter of three mighty lakes, [287]From Vennachar in silver breaks, Sweeps through the plain, and ceaseless mines On Bochastle the moldering lines, Where Rome, the Empress of the world, Of yore her eagle [288] wings unfurl’d. And here his course the Chieftain stayed, Threw down his target and his plaid, And to the Lowland warrior said,— “Bold Saxon! to his promise just, Vich-Alpine has discharged his trust. This murderous Chief, this ruthless man, This head of a rebellious clan, Hath led thee safe, through watch and ward, Far past Clan-Alpine’s outmost guard. Now, man to man, and steel to steel, A Chieftain’s vengeance thou shalt feel. See here, all vantageless [289] I stand, Arm’d, like thyself, with single brand: For this is Coilantogle ford, And thou must keep thee with thy sword.” XIII. The Saxon paused:—“I ne’er delay’d When foeman bade me draw my blade; Nay, more, brave Chief, I vow’d thy death: Yet sure thy fair and generous faith, And my deep debt for life preserv’d, A better meed have well deserv’d: Can naught but blood our feud atone? Are there no means?”—“No, Stranger, none! And hear,—to fire thy flagging zeal,— The Saxon cause rests on thy steel; For thus spoke Fate, by prophet bred Between the living and the dead: ‘Who spills the foremost foeman’s life, His party conquers in the strife.’”— “Then, by my word,” the Saxon said, “The riddle is already read. Seek yonder brake beneath the cliff,— There lies Red Murdoch, stark and stiff. Thus Fate hath solved her prophecy, Then yield to Fate, and not to me. To James, at Stirling, let us go, When, if thou wilt be still his foe, Or if the King shall not agree To grant thee grace and favor free, [290]I plight mine honor, oath, and word, That, to thy native strengths [291] restored, With each advantage shalt thou stand, That aids thee now to guard thy land.”
XIV. Dark lightning flash’d from Roderick’s eye— “Soars thy presumption, then, so high, Because a wretched kern ye slew, Homage to name to Roderick Dhu? He yields not, he, to man nor Fate! Thou add’st but fuel to my hate:— My clansman’s blood demands revenge. Not yet prepared?—By Heaven, I change My thought, and hold thy valor light As that of some vain carpet knight, Who ill deserved my courteous care, And whose best boast is but to wear A braid of his fair lady’s hair.”— “I thank thee, Roderick, for the word! It nerves my heart, it steels my sword; For I have sworn this braid to stain In the best blood that warms thy vein. Now, truce, farewell! and, ruth, begone!— Yet think not that by thee alone, Proud Chief! can courtesy be shown; Though not from copse, or heath, or cairn, Start at my whistle clansmen stern, Of this small horn one feeble blast Would fearful odds against thee cast. But fear not—doubt not—which thou wilt— We try this quarrel hilt to hilt.”— Then each at once his falchion drew, Each on the ground his scabbard threw, Each look’d to sun, and stream, and plain, As what they ne’er might see again; Then foot, and point, and eye opposed, In dubious strife they darkly closed.
XV. Ill fared it then with Roderick Dhu, That on the field his targe he threw, Whose brazen studs and tough bull hide Had death so often dash’d aside; For, train’d abroad [292] his arms to wield, Fitz-James’s blade was sword and shield. He practiced every pass and ward, To thrust, to strike, to feint, to guard; While less expert, though stronger far, The Gael maintain’d unequal war. Three times in closing strife they stood, And thrice the Saxon blade drank blood; No stinted draught, no scanty tide, The gushing flood the tartans dyed. Fierce Roderick felt the fatal drain, And shower’d his blows like wintry rain; And, as firm rock, or castle roof, Against the winter shower is proof, The foe, invulnerable still, Foil’d his wild rage by steady skill; Till, at advantage ta’en, his brand Forced Roderick’s weapon from his hand, And backward borne upon the lea, Brought the proud Chieftain to his knee. XVI. “Now, yield thee, or by Him who made The world, thy heart’s blood dyes my blade!”— “Thy threats, thy mercy, I defy! Let recreant yield, who fears to die.” —Like adder darting from his coil, Like wolf that dashes through the toil, Like mountain cat who guards her young, Full at Fitz-James’s throat he sprung; Received, but reck’d not of a wound, And lock’d his arms his foeman round.— Now, gallant Saxon, hold thine own! No maiden’s hand is round thee thrown! That desperate grasp thy frame might feel, Through bars of brass and triple steel!— They tug, they strain! down, down they go, The Gael above, Fitz-James below. The Chieftain’s gripe his throat compress’d, His knee was planted in his breast; His clotted locks he backward threw, Across his brow his hand he drew, From blood and mist to clear his sight, Then gleam’d aloft his dagger bright!— —But hate and fury ill supplied The stream of life’s exhausted tide, And all too late the advantage came, To turn the odds of deadly game; For, while the dagger gleam’d on high, Reel’d soul and sense, reel’d brain and eye. Down came the blow! but in the heath The erring blade found bloodless sheath. The struggling foe may now unclasp The fainting Chief’s relaxing grasp; Unwounded from the dreadful close, But breathless all, Fitz-James arose. XVII. He falter’d thanks to Heaven for life, Redeem’d, unhoped, from desperate strife; Next on his foe his look he cast, Whose every gasp appear’d his last; In Roderick’s gore he dipt the braid,— “Poor Blanche! thy wrongs are dearly paid: Yet with thy foe must die, or live, The praise that Faith and Valor give.” With that he blew a bugle note, Undid the collar from his throat, Unbonneted, and by the wave Sate down his brow and hands to lave. Then faint afar are heard the feet Of rushing steeds in gallop fleet; The sounds increase, and now are seen Four mounted squires in Lincoln green; Two who bear lance, and two who lead, By loosen’d rein, a saddled steed; Each onward held his headlong course, And by Fitz-James rein’d up his horse,— With wonder view’d the bloody spot— “Exclaim not, gallants! question not.— You, Herbert and Luffness, alight, And bind the wounds of yonder knight; Let the gray palfrey bear his weight, We destined for a fairer freight, And bring him on to Stirling straight; I will before at better speed, To seek fresh horse and fitting weed. The sun rides high;—I must be boune, To see the archer game at noon; But lightly Bayard clears the lea.— De Vaux and Herries, follow me.” XVIII. “Stand, Bayard, stand!”—the steed obey’d, With arching neck and bended head, And glancing eye and quivering ear, As if he loved his lord to hear. No foot Fitz-James in stirrup stayed, No grasp upon the saddle laid, But wreath’d his left hand in the mane, And lightly bounded from the plain, Turn’d on the horse his armed heel, And stirr’d his courage with the steel. [293]Bounded the fiery steed in air, The rider sate erect and fair, Then like a bolt from steel crossbow Forth launch’d, along the plain they go. They dash’d that rapid torrent through, And up Carhonie’s [294] hill they flew; Still at the gallop prick’d [295] the Knight, His merry-men follow’d as they might. Along thy banks, swift Teith! they ride, And in the race they mock thy tide; Torry and Lendrick now are past, And Deanstown lies behind them cast; They rise, the banner’d towers of Doune, They sink in distant woodland soon; Blair-Drummond sees the hoofs strike fire, They sweep like breeze through Ochtertyre; They mark just glance and disappear The lofty brow of ancient Kier; They bathe their coursers’ sweltering sides, Dark Forth! amid thy sluggish tides, And on the opposing shore take ground, With plash, with scramble, and with bound. Right-hand they leave thy cliffs, Craig-Forth! And soon the bulwark of the North, Gray Stirling, with her towers and town, Upon their fleet career look’d down.
XIX. As up the flinty path they strain’d, Sudden his steed the leader rein’d; A signal to his squire he flung, Who instant to his stirrup sprung:— “Seest thou, De Vaux, yon woodsman gray, Who townward holds the rocky way, Of stature tall and poor array? Mark’st thou the firm, yet active stride, With which he scales the mountain side? Know’st thou from whence he comes, or whom?”— “No, by my word;—a burly groom He seems, who in the field or chase A baron’s train would nobly grace.”— “Out, out, De Vaux! can fear supply, And jealousy, no sharper eye? Afar, ere to the hill he drew, That stately form and step I knew; Like form in Scotland is not seen, Treads not such step on Scottish green. ’Tis James of Douglas, by St. Serle! The uncle of the banish’d Earl. Away, away, to court, to show The near approach of dreaded foe: The King must stand upon his guard; Douglas and he must meet prepared.” Then right-hand wheel’d their steeds, and straight They won the Castle’s postern gate. XX. The Douglas, who had bent his way From Cambus-kenneth’s Abbey gray, Now, as he climb’d the rocky shelf, Held sad communion with himself:— “Yes! all is true my fears could frame; A prisoner lies the noble GrÆme, And fiery Roderick soon will feel The vengeance of the royal steel. I, only I, can ward their fate,— God grant the ransom come not late! The Abbess hath her promise given, My child shall be the bride of Heaven; [296]— —Be pardon’d one repining tear! For He, who gave her, knows how dear, How excellent! but that is by, And now my business is—to die. —Ye towers! within whose circuit dread A Douglas [297] by his sovereign bled; And thou, O sad and fatal mound! [298]That oft hast heard the death-ax sound, As on the noblest of the land Fell the stern headsman’s bloody hand,— The dungeon, block, and nameless tomb Prepare—for Douglas seeks his doom!— —But hark! what blithe and jolly peal Makes the Franciscan [299] steeple reel? And see! upon the crowded street, In motley groups what maskers meet! Banner and pageant, pipe and drum, And merry morris dancers [300] come. I guess, by all this quaint array, The burghers hold their sports to-day.[301] James will be there; he loves such show, Where the good yeoman bends his bow, And the tough wrestler foils his foe, As well as where, in proud career, The high-born tilter shivers spear. I’ll follow to the Castle-park, And play my prize;—King James shall mark, If age has tamed these sinews stark, [302]Whose force so oft, in happier days, His boyish wonder loved to praise.” XXI.
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