THE PROPHECY. I. “The rose is fairest when ’tis budding new, And hope is brightest when it dawns from fears; The rose is sweetest wash’d with morning dew, And love is loveliest when embalm’d in tears. O wilding [221] rose, whom fancy thus endears, I bid your blossoms in my bonnet wave, Emblem of hope and love through future years!”— Thus spoke young Norman, heir of Armandave, What time the sun arose on Vennachar’s broad wave.
II. Such fond conceit, half said, half sung, Love prompted to the bridegroom’s tongue, All while he stripp’d the wild-rose spray. His ax and bow beside him lay, For on a pass ’twixt lake and wood, A wakeful sentinel he stood. Hark! on the rock a footstep rung, And instant to his arms he sprung. “Stand, or thou diest!—What, Malise?—soon Art thou return’d from Braes of Doune. By thy keen step and glance I know, Thou bring’st us tidings of the foe.”— (For while the Fiery Cross hied on, On distant scout had Malise gone.) “Where sleeps the Chief?” the henchman said.— "Apart, in yonder misty glade; To his lone couch I’ll be your guide."— Then call’d a slumberer by his side, And stirr’d him with his slacken’d bow— “Up, up, Glentarkin! rouse thee, ho! We seek the Chieftain; on the track, Keep eagle watch till I come back.” III. Together up the pass they sped: “What of the foemen?” Norman said.— “Varying reports from near and far; This certain,—that a band of war Has for two days been ready boune, [222]At prompt command, to march from Doune; King James, the while, with princely powers, Holds revelry in Stirling towers. Soon will this dark and gathering cloud Speak on our glens in thunder loud. Inured to bide such bitter bout, The warrior’s plaid may bear it out; [223]But, Norman, how wilt thou provide A shelter for thy bonny bride?”— “What! know ye not that Roderick’s care To the lone isle hath caused repair Each maid and matron of the clan, And every child and aged man Unfit for arms; and given his charge, [224]Nor skiff nor shallop, boat nor barge, Upon these lakes shall float at large, But all beside the islet moor, That such dear pledge may rest secure?”— IV. “’Tis well advised—the Chieftain’s plan Bespeaks the father of his clan. But wherefore sleeps Sir Roderick Dhu Apart from all his followers true?”— “It is, because last evening-tide Brian an augury hath tried, Of that dread kind which must not be Unless in dread extremity; The Taghairm [225] call’d; by which, afar, Our sires foresaw the events of war. Duncraggan’s milk-white bull they slew.” MALISE. “Ah! well the gallant brute I knew! The choicest of the prey we had, When swept our merry men Gallangad. [226]His hide was snow, his horns were dark, His red eye glow’d like fiery spark; So fierce, so tameless, and so fleet, Sore did he cumber our retreat, And kept our stoutest kernes [227] 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 Row, A child might scathless [228] stroke his brow.” V. NORMAN. “That bull was slain: his reeking hide They stretch’d the cataract beside, Whose waters their wild tumult toss Adown the black and craggy boss Of that huge cliff, whose ample verge Tradition calls the Hero’s Targe. Couch’d on a shelve 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 stands To gaze upon our slumbering bands. Seems he not, Malise, like a ghost, That hovers o’er a slaughter’d host? Or raven on the blasted oak, That, watching while the deer is broke, [229]His morsel claims with sullen croak?" MALISE. —“Peace! peace! to other than to me, Thy words were evil augury; But still I hold Sir Roderick’s blade Clan-Alpine’s omen and her aid, Not aught that, glean’d from heaven or hell, Yon fiend-begotten monk can tell. The Chieftain joins him, see—and now, Together they descend the brow.” VI. And, as they came, with Alpine’s lord The Hermit Monk held solemn word:— “Roderick! it is a fearful strife, For man endowed with mortal life, Whose shroud of sentient clay can still Feel feverish pang and fainting chill, Whose eye can stare in stony trance, Whose hair can rouse like warrior’s lance,— ’Tis hard for such to view, unfurl’d, The curtain of the future world. Yet, witness every quaking limb, My sunken pulse, my eyeballs dim, My soul with harrowing anguish torn, This for my Chieftain have I borne!— The shapes that sought my fearful couch, A human tongue may ne’er avouch; No mortal man,—save he, who, bred Between the living and the dead, Is gifted beyond nature’s law,— Had e’er survived to say he saw. At length the fateful answer came, In characters of living flame! Not spoke in word, nor blazed [230] in scroll, But borne and branded on my soul;— Which spills the foremost foeman’s life, That party conquers in the strife.”— VII.
VIII. “At Doune, o’er many a spear and glaive [231]Two Barons proud their banners wave. I saw the Moray’s silver star, And mark’d the sable pale [232] of Mar.”— “By Alpine’s soul, high tidings those! I love to hear of worthy foes. When move they on?”—“To-morrow’s noon Will see them here for battle boune.”— “Then shall it see a meeting stern!— But, for the place—say, couldst thou learn Naught of the friendly clans of Earn? [233]Strengthened by them, we well might bide The battle on Benledi’s side. Thou couldst not?—Well! Clan-Alpine’s men Shall 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, Lover for maid beloved!—But why— Is it the breeze affects mine eye? Or dost thou come, ill-omened tear! A messenger of doubt or fear? No! sooner may the Saxon lance Unfix Benledi from his stance, [234]Than doubt or terror can pierce through The 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 roar, And seek Coir-Uriskin once more. IX. Where is the Douglas?—he is gone; And Ellen sits on the gray stone Fast by the cave, and makes her moan; While vainly Allan’s words of cheer Are pour’d on her unheeding ear.— “He will return—Dear lady, trust!— With joy return;—he will—he must. Well was it time to seek, afar, Some refuge from impending war, When e’en Clan-Alpine’s rugged swarm Are cow’d by the approaching storm. I saw their boats, with many a light, Floating the livelong yesternight, Shifting like flashes darted forth By the red streamers of the north; [235]I mark’d at morn how close they ride, Thick moor’d by the lone islet’s side, Like wild ducks couching in the fen, When stoops the hawk upon the glen. Since this rude race dare not abide The peril on the mainland side, Shall not thy noble father’s care Some safe retreat for thee prepare?”— X. ELLEN. “No, Allan, no! Pretext so kind My wakeful terrors could not blind. When in such tender tone, yet grave, Douglas a parting blessing gave, The tear that glisten’d in his eye Drown’d not his purpose fix’d and high. My soul, though feminine and weak, Can image his; e’en as the lake, Itself disturb’d 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 theme Turn’d, Allan, on thine idle dream Of Malcolm GrÆme in fetters bound, Which I, thou saidst, about him wound. Think’st thou he trow’d [236] thine omen aught? Oh no! ’twas apprehensive thought For 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, [237]If eve return him not again, Am I to hie, and make me known? Alas! he goes to Scotland’s throne, Buys his friend’s safety with his own; He goes to do—what I had done, Had Douglas’ daughter been his son!”— XI. “Nay, lovely Ellen!—dearest, nay! If aught should his return delay, He only named yon holy fane As fitting place to meet again. Be sure he’s safe; and for the GrÆme,— Heaven’s blessing on his gallant name!— My vision’d sight may yet prove true, Nor bode [238] of ill to him or you. Think of the stranger at the isle, And think upon the harpings slow, That 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 grot. Of such a wondrous tale I know— Dear lady, change that look of woe, My harp was wont thy grief to cheer.”— ELLEN. “Well, be it as thou wilt; I hear, But cannot stop the bursting tear.” The Minstrel tried his simple art, But distant far was Ellen’s heart. XII. BALLAD. Alice Brand. Merry it is in the good greenwood, When the deer sweeps by, and the hounds are in cry, And the hunter’s horn is ringing. “O Alice Brand, my native land Is lost for love of you; And we must hold by wood and wold, [243]As outlaws wont to do. “O Alice, ’twas all for thy locks so bright, And ’twas all for thine eyes so blue, That on the night of our luckless flight, Thy brother bold I slew. “Now must I teach to hew the beech The hand that held the glaive, For leaves to spread our lowly bed, And stakes to fence our cave. “And for vest of pall, [244] thy finger small, That wont on harp to stray, A cloak must shear from the slaughter’d deer, To keep the cold away.”— “O Richard! if my brother died, ’Twas but a fatal chance; For darkling [245] was the battle tried, And fortune sped the lance. “If pall and vair [246] no more I wear, Nor thou the crimson sheen, As warm, we’ll say, is the russet [247] gray, As gay the forest-green. [248] “And, Richard, if our lot be hard, And lost thy native land, Still Alice has her own Richard, And he his Alice Brand.” XIII. BALLAD CONTINUED. ’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 ax is ringing. Up spoke the moody Elfin King, Who won’d [249] within the hill,— Like wind in the porch of a ruin’d 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 wear The fairies’ fatal green! “Up, Urgan, up! to yon mortal hie, For thou wert christen’d man; For cross or sign thou wilt not fly, For mutter’d word or ban. "Lay on him the curse of the wither’d heart, The curse of the sleepless eye; Till he wish and pray that his life would part, Nor yet find leave to die.”
XIV. BALLAD CONTINUED. ’Tis merry, ’tis merry, in good greenwood, Though the birds have still’d their singing! The evening blaze doth Alice raise, And Richard is fagots bringing. Up Urgan starts, that hideous dwarf, Before Lord Richard stands, And, as he cross’d and bless’d 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 [250] blood, The blood of Ethert Brand.” Then forward stepp’d 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?”
XV. BALLAD CONTINUED. “’Tis merry, ’tis merry, in Fairyland, When fairy birds are singing, When the court doth ride by their monarch’s side, With bit and bridle ringing: “And gayly shines the Fairyland— But all is glistening show, Like the idle gleam that December’s beam Can 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 away To the joyless Elfin bower. “But wist [251] I of a woman bold, Who thrice my brow durst sign, I might regain my mortal mold, As fair a form as thine.” She cross’d him once—she cross’d him twice— That lady was so brave; The fouler grew his goblin hue, The darker grew the cave. She cross’d him thrice, that lady bold; He rose beneath her hand The fairest knight on Scottish mold, Her brother, Ethert Brand! Merry it is in good greenwood, When the mavis and merle are singing, But merrier were they in Dunfermline [252] gray, When all the bells were ringing. XVI. Just as the minstrel sounds were stayed, A stranger climb’d 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 suppress’d a scream: “O stranger! in such hour of fear, What evil hap has brought thee here?”— “An evil hap how can it be, That bids me look again on thee? By promise bound, my former guide Met me betimes this morning tide, And marshal’d, over bank and bourne, [253]The happy path of my return.”— “The happy path!—what! said he naught Of war, of battle to be fought, Of guarded pass?”—“No, by my faith! Nor saw I aught could augur scathe.” [254]— “Oh haste thee, Allan, to the kern,[255] —Yonder his tartans I discern; Learn thou his purpose, and conjure That he will guide the stranger sure!— What prompted thee, unhappy man? The meanest serf in Roderick’s clan Had not been bribed by love or fear, Unknown to him to guide thee here.” XVII. “Sweet Ellen, dear my life must be, Since it is worthy care from thee; Yet life I hold but idle breath, When love or honor’s weigh’d with death. Then let me profit by my chance, And speak my purpose bold at once. I come to bear thee from a wild, Where ne’er before such blossom smiled; By this soft hand to lead thee far From 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”— “Oh! hush, Sir Knight! ’twere female art, To say I do not read thy heart; Too much, before, my selfish ear Was idly soothed my praise to hear. That fatal bait hath lured thee back, In deathful hour, o’er dangerous track; And how, oh how, can I atone The 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 man Outlaw’d and exiled, under ban; The price of blood is on his head, With me ’twere infamy to wed.— Still wouldst thou speak?—then hear the truth! Fitz-James, there is a noble youth,— If yet he is!—exposed for me And mine to dread extremity [256]— Thou hast the secret of my heart; Forgive, be generous, and depart!” XVIII. Fitz-James knew every wily train [257]A 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 blood, And told her love with such a sigh Of deep and hopeless agony, As [258] death had seal’d her Malcolm’s doom, And she sat sorrowing on his tomb. Hope vanish’d from Fitz-James’s eye, But not with hope fled sympathy. He proffer’d to attend her side, As brother would a sister guide.— “Oh! little know’st thou Roderick’s heart! Safer for both we go apart. Oh haste thee, and from Allan learn, If 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 cross’d his brain, He paused, and turn’d, and came again. XIX. “Hear, lady, yet, a parting word!— It chanced in fight that my poor sword Preserved 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 claim The 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 [259] 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—kiss’d her hand—and then was gone. The aged Minstrel stood aghast, So hastily Fitz-James shot past. He join’d his guide, and wending down The ridges of the mountain brown, Across the stream they took their way, That joins Loch Katrine to Achray. XX. All in the Trosachs’ glen was still, Noontide was sleeping on the hill: Sudden his guide whoop’d loud and high— “Murdoch! was that a signal cry?”— He stammer’d forth—“I shout to scare Yon raven from his dainty fare.” He look’d—he knew the raven’s prey, His own brave steed:—“Ah! gallant gray! For thee—for me, perchance—’twere well We 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. XXI. Now wound the path its dizzy ledge Around a precipice’s edge, When lo! a wasted female form, Blighted by wrath of sun and storm, In tatter’d weeds [260] and wild array, Stood on a cliff beside the way, And glancing round her restless eye, Upon the wood, the rock, the sky, Seem’d naught to mark, yet all to spy. Her brow was wreath’d with gaudy broom; With gesture wild she waved a plume Of feathers, which the eagles fling To 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 shriek’d till all the rocks replied; As loud she laugh’d 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 strain’d and roughen’d, still Rung wildly sweet to dale and hill. XXII. SONG. They bid me sleep, they bid me pray, They say my brain is warp’d [261] and wrung— I cannot sleep on Highland brae, I cannot pray in Highland tongue. But were I now where Allan [262] glides, Or heard my native Devan’s [263] tides, So sweetly would I rest, and pray That 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 guile, That drown’d in blood the morning smile! And woe betide the fairy dream! I only waked to sob and scream.
XXIII. “Who is this maid? what means her lay? She hovers o’er the hollow way, And flutters wide her mantle gray, As the lone heron spreads his wing, By twilight, o’er a haunted spring.”— “’Tis Blanche of Devan,” Murdoch said, “A crazed and captive Lowland maid, Ta’en on the morn she was a bride, When Roderick foray’d Devan-side; The gay bridegroom resistance made, And felt our Chief’s unconquer’d blade. I marvel she is now at large, But oft she ’scapes from Maudlin’s charge.— Hence, brain-sick fool!”—He raised his bow:— “Now, if thou strikest her but one blow, I’ll pitch thee from the cliff as far As ever peasant pitch’d a bar!” [264]— “Thanks, champion, thanks!” the maniac cried, And press’d her to Fitz-James’s side. “See the gray pennons I prepare, To seek my true love through the air! I will not lend that savage groom, To break his fall, one downy plume! No!—deep amid disjointed stones, The wolves shall batten [265] on his bones, And then shall his detested plaid, By bush and brier in mid air stayed, Wave forth a banner fair and free, Meet signal for their revelry.”—
XXIV. “Hush thee, poor maiden, and be still!”— “Oh! thou look’st kindly, and I will.— Mine eye has dried and wasted been, But still it loves the Lincoln green; And, though mine ear is all unstrung, Still, still it loves the Lowland tongue. “For oh my sweet William was forester true, He stole poor Blanche’s heart away! His coat it was all of the greenwood hue, And so blithely he trill’d the Lowland lay! “It was not that I meant to tell ... But thou art wise, and guessest well.” Then, in a low and broken tone, And hurried note, the song went on. Still on the Clansman, fearfully, She fixed her apprehensive eye; Then turn’d it on the Knight, and then Her look glanced wildly o’er the glen. XXV. “The toils are pitch’d, and the stakes are set, Ever sing merrily, merrily; The bows they bend, and the knives they whet, Hunters live so cheerily. “It was a stag, a stag of ten, [266]Bearing its branches sturdily; He came stately down the glen, Ever sing hardily, hardily. “It was there he met with a wounded doe, She was bleeding deathfully; She warn’d him of the toils below, Oh, so faithfully, faithfully! “He had an eye, and he could heed, Ever sing warily, warily; He had a foot, and he could speed— Hunters watch so narrowly.” [267] XXVI. Fitz-James’s mind was passion-toss’d, When Ellen’s hints and fears were lost; But Murdoch’s shout suspicion wrought, And Blanche’s song conviction brought.— Not like a stag that spies the snare, But lion of the hunt aware, He waved at once his blade on high, “Disclose thy treachery, or die!” Forth at full speed the Clansman flew, But in his race his bow he drew. The shaft just grazed Fitz-James’s crest, And thrill’d in Blanche’s faded breast.— Murdoch of Alpine! prove thy speed, For ne’er had Alpine’s son such need! With heart of fire, and foot of wind, The fierce avenger is behind! Fate judges of the rapid strife— The forfeit [268] death—the prize is life! Thy kindred ambush lies before, Close couch’d upon the heathery moor; Them couldst thou reach!—it may not be— Thine ambush’d kin thou ne’er shalt see, The fiery Saxon gains on thee! —Resistless speeds the deadly thrust, As lightning strikes the pine to dust; With foot and hand Fitz-James must strain, Ere he can win his blade again. Bent o’er the fall’n, with falcon eye, He grimly smiled to see him die; Then slower wended back his way, Where the poor maiden bleeding lay. XXVII. She sate beneath the birchen tree, Her elbow resting on her knee; She had withdrawn the fatal shaft, And gazed on it, and feebly laugh’d; Her wreath of broom and feathers gray, Daggled [269] with blood, beside her lay. The Knight to stanch the life-stream tried,— “Stranger, it is in vain!” she cried. “This hour of death has given me more Of reason’s power than years before; For, as these ebbing veins decay, My frenzied visions fade away. A helpless injured wretch I die, And something tells me in thine eye, That thou wert mine avenger born.— Seest thou this tress?—Oh! still I’ve worn This little tress of yellow hair, Through danger, frenzy, and despair! It once was bright and clear as thine, But blood and tears have dimm’d its shine. I will not tell thee when ’twas shred, Nor from what guiltless victim’s head— My brain would turn!—but it shall wave Like plumage on thy helmet brave, Till sun and wind shall bleach the stain, And thou wilt bring it me again.— I waver still.—O God! more bright Let reason beam her parting light!— Oh! by thy knighthood’s honor’d sign, And for thy life preserved by mine, When thou shalt see a darksome man, Who boasts him Chief of Alpine’s Clan, With tartans broad, and shadowy plume, And hand of blood, and brow of gloom, Be thy heart bold, thy weapon strong, And wreak [270] poor Blanche of Devan’s wrong! They watch for thee by pass and fell ... Avoid the path ... O God!... farewell.” XXVIII. A kindly heart had brave Fitz-James; Fast pour’d his eyes at pity’s claims; And now with mingled grief and ire, He saw the murder’d maid expire. “God, in my need, be my relief, As I wreak this on yonder Chief!” A lock from Blanche’s tresses fair He blended with her bridegroom’s hair; The mingled braid in blood he dyed, And placed it on his bonnet-side: “By Him whose word is truth! I swear, No other favor will I wear, Till this sad token I imbrue In the best blood of Roderick Dhu. —But hark! what means yon faint halloo? The chase is up,—but they shall know, The stag at bay’s a dangerous foe.” Barr’d from the known but guarded way, Through copse and cliffs Fitz-James must stray, And oft must change his desperate track, By stream and precipice turn’d back. Heartless, fatigued, and faint, at length, From lack of food and loss of strength, He couch’d him in a thicket hoar, And thought his toils and perils o’er:— “Of all my rash adventures past, This frantic feat must prove the last! Who e’er so mad but might have guess’d, That all this Highland hornet’s nest Would muster up in swarms so soon As e’er they heard of bands [271] at Doune? Like bloodhounds now they search me out,— Hark, to the whistle and the shout!— If farther through the wilds I go, I only fall upon the foe: I’ll couch me here till evening gray, Then darkling try my dangerous way.” XXIX. The shades of eve come slowly down, The woods are wrapt in deeper brown, The owl awakens from her dell, The fox is heard upon the fell; Enough remains of glimmering light To guide the wanderer’s steps aright, Yet not enough from far to show His figure to the watchful foe. With cautious step, and ear awake, He climbs the crag and threads the brake; And not the summer solstice, [272] there, Temper’d the midnight mountain air, But every breeze, that swept the wold, Benumb’d his drenched limbs with cold. In dread, in danger, and alone, Famish’d and chill’d, through ways unknown, Tangled and steep, he journey’d on; Till, as a rock’s huge point he turn’d, A watch fire close before him burn’d. XXX.
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