  THE ISLAND. I.At morn the blackcock trims his jetty wing, ’Tis morning prompts the linnet’s All Nature’s children feel the matin Of life reviving, with reviving day; And while yon little bark glides down the bay, Wafting the stranger on his way again, Morn’s genial influence roused a minstrel gray, And sweetly o’er the lake was heard thy strain, Mix’d with the sounding harp, O white-hair’d Allan-Bane! II.SONG. “Not faster yonder rowers’ might Flings from their oars the spray, Not faster yonder rippling bright, That tracks the shallop’s course in light, Melts in the lake away, Than men from memory erase The benefits of former days; Then, stranger, go! good speed the while, Nor think again of the lonely isle. “High place to thee in royal court, High place in battled Good hawk and hound for silvan sport, Where beauty sees the brave resort, The honor’d meed True be thy sword, thy friend sincere, Thy lady constant, kind, and dear, And lost in love’s and friendship’s smile Be memory of the lonely isle. III.SONG CONTINUED. “But if beneath yon southern sky A plaided stranger roam, Whose drooping crest and stifled sigh, And sunken cheek and heavy eye, Pine for his Highland home; Then, warrior, then be thine to show The care that soothes a wanderer’s woe; Remember then thy hap erewhile, A stranger in the lonely isle. “Or if on life’s uncertain main Mishap shall mar thy sail; If faithful, wise, and brave in vain, Woe, want, and exile thou sustain Beneath the fickle gale; Waste not a sigh on fortune changed, On thankless courts, or friends estranged, But come where kindred worth shall smile, To greet thee in the lonely isle.” IV.As died the sounds upon the tide, The shallop reach’d the mainland side, And ere his onward way he took, The stranger cast a lingering look, Where easily his eye might reach The Harper on the islet beach, Reclined against a blighted tree, As wasted, gray, and worn as he. To minstrel meditation given, His reverend brow was raised to heaven, As from the rising sun to claim A sparkle of inspiring flame. His hand, reclined upon the wire, Seem’d watching the awakening fire; So still he sate, as those who wait Till judgment speak the doom of fate; So still, as if no breeze might dare To lift one lock of hoary hair; So still, as life itself were fled, In the last sound his harp had sped. V.Upon a rock with lichens wild, Beside him Ellen sate and smiled.— Smiled she to see the stately drake Lead forth his fleet While her vex’d spaniel, from the beach, Bay’d at the prize beyond his reach? Yet tell me, then, the maid who knows, Why deepen’d on her cheek the rose?— Forgive, forgive, Fidelity! Perchance the maiden smiled to see Yon parting lingerer wave adieu, And stop and turn to wave anew; And, lovely ladies, ere your ire Condemn the heroine of my lyre, Show me the fair would scorn to spy, And prize such conquest of her eye! VI.While yet he loiter’d on the spot, It seem’d as Ellen mark’d him not; But when he turn’d him to the glade, One courteous parting sign she made; And after, oft the Knight would say, That not, when prize of festal day Was dealt him by the brightest fair Who e’er wore jewel in her hair, So highly did his bosom swell, As at that simple mute farewell. Now with a trusty mountain guide, And his dark staghounds by his side, He parts—the maid, unconscious still, Watch’d him wind slowly round the hill; But when his stately form was hid, The guardian in her bosom chid— “Thy Malcolm! vain and selfish maid!” ’Twas thus upbraiding conscience said,— “Not so had Malcolm idly hung On the smooth phrase of southern tongue; Not so had Malcolm strain’d his eye, Another step than thine to spy.— Wake, Allan-Bane," aloud she cried, To the old Minstrel by her side,— “Arouse thee from thy moody dream! I’ll give thy harp heroic theme, And warm thee with a noble name; Pour forth the glory of the GrÆme!” Scarce from her lip the word had rush’d, When deep the conscious maiden blush’d; For of his clan, in hall and bower, Young Malcolm GrÆme was held the flower. VII.The Minstrel waked his harp—three times Arose the well-known martial chimes, And thrice their high heroic pride In melancholy murmurs died. “Vainly thou bidst, O noble maid,” Clasping his wither’d hands, he said, “Vainly thou bidst me wake the strain, Though all unwont to bid in vain. Alas! than mine a mightier hand Has tuned my harp, my strings has spann’d! I touch the chords of joy, but low And mournful answer notes of woe; And the proud march, which victors tread, Sinks in the wailing for the dead. Oh, well for me, if mine alone That dirge’s deep prophetic tone! If, as my tuneful fathers said, Can thus its master’s fate foretell, Then welcome be the Minstrel’s knell!” VIII.“But ah! dear lady, thus it sigh’d The eve thy sainted mother died; And such the sounds which, while I strove To wake a lay of war or love, Came marring all the festal mirth, Appalling me who gave them birth, And, disobedient to my call, Wail’d loud through Bothwell’s Ere Douglases, to ruin driven, Were exiled from their native heaven.— Oh! if yet worse mishap and woe My master’s house must undergo, Or aught but weal to Ellen fair Brood in these accents of despair, No future bard, sad Harp! shall fling Triumph or rapture from thy string; One short, one final strain shall flow, Fraught with unutterable woe, Then shiver’d shall thy fragments lie, Thy master cast him down and die!” IX.Soothing she answer’d him—"Assuage, Mine honor’d friend, the fears of age; All melodies to thee are known, That harp has rung or pipe In Lowland vale or Highland glen, From Tweed to Spey At times, unbidden notes should rise, Confusedly bound in memory’s ties, Entangling, as they rush along, The war march with the funeral song?— Small ground is now for boding fear; Obscure, but safe, we rest us here. My sire, in native virtue great, Resigning lordship, lands, and state, Not then to fortune more resign’d, Than yonder oak might give the wind; The graceful foliage storms may reave, The noble stem they cannot grieve. For me,“—she stoop’d, and, looking round, Pluck’d a blue harebell from the ground,— “For me, whose memory scarce conveys An image of more splendid days, This little flower, that loves the lea, May well my simple emblem be; It drinks heaven’s dew as blithe as rose That in the King’s own garden grows; And when I place it in my hair, Allan, a bard is bound to swear He ne’er saw coronet so fair.” Then playfully the chaplet wild She wreath’d in her dark locks, and smiled. X.Her smile, her speech, with winning sway, Wiled With such a look as hermits throw, When angels stoop to soothe their woe, He gazed, till fond regret and pride Thrill’d to a tear, then thus replied: “Loveliest and best! thou little know’st The rank, the honors, thou hast lost! Oh, might I live to see thee grace, In Scotland’s court, thy birthright place, To see my favorite’s step advance, The lightest in the courtly dance, The cause of every gallant’s sigh, And leading star of every eye, And theme of every minstrel’s art, The Lady of the Bleeding Heart!” XI.“Fair dreams are these,” the maiden cried, (Light was her accent, yet she sigh’d;) “Yet is this mossy rock to me Worth splendid chair and canopy; Nor would my footsteps spring more gay In courtly dance than blithe strathspey, Nor half so pleased mine ear incline To royal minstrel’s lay as thine. And then for suitors proud and high, To bend before my conquering eye,— Thou, flattering bard! thyself wilt say, That grim Sir Roderick owns its sway. The terror of Loch Lomond’s side, Would, at my suit, thou know’st, delay A Lennox XII.The ancient bard his glee repress’d: “I’ll hast thou chosen theme for jest! For who, through all this western wild, Named Black In Holy-Rood I saw, when back the dirk he drew, Courtiers give place before the stride Of the undaunted homicide; And since, though outlaw’d, Full sternly kept his mountain land. Who else dared give—ah! woe the day That I such hated truth should say— The Douglas, like a stricken deer, Disown’d by every noble peer, Even the rude refuge we have here? Alas! this wild marauding Chief Alone might hazard our relief, And, now thy maiden charms expand, Looks for his guerdon Full soon may dispensation To back his suit, from Rome be brought. Then, though an exile on the hill, Thy father, as the Douglas, still Be held in reverence and fear; And though to Roderick thou’rt so dear, That thou mightst guide with silken thread, Slave of thy will, this Chieftain dread, Yet, O loved maid, thy mirth refrain! Thy hand is on a lion’s mane.” XIII.“Minstrel,” the maid replied, and high Her father’s soul glanced from her eye, “My debts to Roderick’s house I know: All that a mother could bestow, To Lady Margaret’s care I owe, Since first an orphan in the wild She sorrow’d o’er her sister’s child; To her brave chieftain son, from ire Of Scotland’s King who shrouds A deeper, holier debt is owed; And, could I pay it with my blood, Allan! Sir Roderick should command My blood, my life,—but not my hand. Rather will Ellen Douglas dwell A votaress in Maronnan’s Rather through realms beyond the sea, Seeking the world’s cold charity, Where ne’er was spoke a Scottish word, And ne’er the name of Douglas heard, An outcast pilgrim will she rove, Than wed the man she cannot love.” XIV.“Thou shakest, good friend, thy tresses gray,— That pleading look, what can it say But what I own?—I grant him And generous—save Or jealous transport, chafe his blood: I grant him true to friendly band, As his claymore is to his hand; But oh! that very blade of steel More mercy for a foe would feel: I grant him liberal, to fling Among his clan the wealth they bring, When back by lake and glen they wind, And in the Lowland leave behind, Where once some pleasant hamlet stood, A mass of ashes slaked The hand that for my father fought I honor, as his daughter ought; But can I clasp it reeking red, From peasants slaughter’d in their shed? No! wildly while his virtues gleam, They make his passions darker seem, And flash along his spirit high, Like lightning o’er the midnight sky. While yet a child,—and children know, Instinctive taught, the friend and foe,— I shudder’d at his brow of gloom, His shadowy plaid, and sable plume; A maiden grown, I ill could bear His haughty mien and lordly air: But, if thou join’st a suitor’s claim, In serious mood, to Roderick’s name, I thrill with anguish! or, if e’er A Douglas knew the word, with fear. To change such odious theme were best,— What thinkst thou of our stranger guest?” XV.“What think I of him? Woe the while That brought such wanderer to our isle! Thy father’s battle brand, of yore For Tine-man What time he leagued, no longer foes, His Border spears with Hotspur’s bows, Did, self-unscabbarded, foreshow The footstep of a secret foe. If courtly spy hath harbor’d here, What may we for the Douglas fear? What for this island, deem’d of old Clan-Alpine’s last and surest hold? If neither spy nor foe, I pray What yet may jealous Roderick say? —Nay, wave not thy disdainful head, Bethink thee of the discord dread That kindled, when at Beltane Thou ledst the dance with Malcolm GrÆme; Still, though thy sire the peace renew’d, Smolders in Roderick’s breast the feud. Beware!—But hark, what sounds are these? My dull ears catch no faltering breeze; No weeping birch, nor aspens wake, Nor breath is dimpling in the lake; Still is the canna’s Yet, by my minstrel faith, I heard— And hark again! some pipe of war Sends the bold pibroch from afar.” XVI.Far up the lengthen’d lake were spied Four darkening specks upon the tide, That, slow enlarging on the view, Four mann’d and masted barges grew, And, bearing downwards from Glengyle, Steer’d full upon the lonely isle; The point of Brianchoil And, to the windward as they cast, Against the sun they gave to shine The bold Sir Roderick’s banner’d Pine. Nearer and nearer as they bear, Spears, pikes, and axes flash in air. Now might you see the tartans brave, And plaids and plumage dance and wave: Now see the bonnets As his tough oar the rower plies; See, flashing at each sturdy stroke, The wave ascending into smoke; See the proud pipers on the bow, And mark the gaudy streamers From their loud chanters down, and sweep The furrow’d bosom of the deep, As, rushing through the lake amain, They plied the ancient Highland strain. XVII.Ever, as on they bore, more loud And louder rung the pibroch proud. At first the sound, by distance tame, Mellow’d along the waters came, And, lingering long by cape and bay, Wail’d every harsher note away; Then, bursting bolder on the ear, The clan’s shrill Gathering they could hear; Those thrilling sounds, that call the might Of old Clan-Alpine to the fight. Thick beat the rapid notes, as when The mustering hundreds shake the glen, And, hurrying at the signal dread, The batter’d earth returns their tread. Then prelude light, of livelier tone, Express’d their merry marching on, Ere peal of closing battle rose, With mingled outcry, shrieks, and blows; And mimic din of stroke and ward, As broadsword upon target jarr’d; And groaning pause, ere yet again, Condensed, the battle yell’d amain; The rapid charge, the rallying shout, Retreat borne headlong into rout, And bursts of triumph, to declare Clan-Alpine’s conquests—all were there. Nor ended thus the strain; but slow, Sunk in a moan prolong’d and low, And changed the conquering clarion swell, For wild lament o’er those that fell. XVIII.The war pipes ceased; but lake and hill Were busy with their echoes still; And, when they slept, a vocal strain Bade their hoarse chorus wake again, While loud a hundred clansmen raise Their voices in their Chieftain’s praise. Each boatman, bending to his oar, With measured sweep the burden In such wild cadence as the breeze Makes through December’s leafless trees. The chorus first could Allan know, “Roderick Vich Alpine, ho! iro!” And near, and nearer as they row’d, Distinct the martial ditty flow’d. XIX.BOAT SONG. Hail to the Chief who in triumph advances! Honor’d and bless’d be the ever-green Pine! Long may the tree, in his banner that glances, Flourish, the shelter and grace of our line! Heaven send it happy dew, Earth lend it sap anew, Gayly to bourgeon, While every Highland glen Sends our shout back agen, “Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, Ours is no sapling, chance-sown by the fountain, Blooming at Beltane, in winter to fade; When the whirlwind has stripp’d every leaf on the mountain, The more shall Clan-Alpine exult in her shade. Moor’d in the rifted rock, Proof to the tempest’s shock, Firmer he roots him the ruder it blow; Menteith and Breadalbane, Echo his praise agen, “Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!” XX.Proudly our pibroch has thrill’d in Glen Fruin, And the best of Loch Lomond lie dead on her side. Widow and Saxon maid Long shall lament our raid, Think of Clan-Alpine with fear and with woe; Lennox and Leven-glen Shake when they hear agen, “Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!” Row, vassals, row, for the pride of the Highlands! Stretch to your oars, for the ever-green Pine! Oh that the rosebud that graces yon islands Were wreathed in a garland around him to twine! Oh that some seedling gem, Worthy such noble stem, Honor’d and bless’d in their shadow might grow! Loud should Clan-Alpine then Ring from her deepmost glen, "Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!" XXI.With all her joyful female band, Had Lady Margaret sought the strand. Loose on the breeze their tresses flew, And high their snowy arms they threw, As echoing back with shrill acclaim, And chorus wild, the Chieftain’s name; While prompt to please, with mother’s art, The darling passion of his heart, The Dame call’d Ellen to the strand, To greet her kinsman ere he land: “Come, loiterer, come! a Douglas thou, And shun to wreathe a victor’s brow?” Reluctantly and slow, the maid The unwelcome summoning obey’d, And, when a distant bugle rung, In the mid-path aside she sprung:— “List, Allan-Bane! From mainland cast, I hear my father’s signal blast. Be ours," she cried, "the skiff to guide, And waft him from the mountain side.” Then, like a sunbeam, swift and bright, She darted to her shallop light, And, eagerly while Roderick scann’d, For her dear form, his mother’s band, The islet far behind her lay, And she had landed in the bay. XXII.Some feelings are to mortals given, With less of earth in them than heaven: And if there be a human tear From passion’s dross refined and clear, A tear so limpid and so meek, It would not stain an angel’s cheek, ’Tis that which pious fathers shed Upon a duteous daughter’s head! And as the Douglas to his breast His darling Ellen closely press’d, Such holy drops her tresses steep’d, Though ’twas an hero’s eye that weep’d. Nor while on Ellen’s faltering tongue Her filial welcomes crowded hung, Mark’d she, that fear (affection’s proof) Still held a graceful youth aloof; No! not till Douglas named his name, Although the youth was Malcolm GrÆme. XXIII.Allan, with wistful look the while, Mark’d Roderick landing on the isle; His master piteously he eyed, Then gazed upon the Chieftain’s pride, Then dash’d, with hasty hand, away From his dimm’d eye the gathering spray; And Douglas, as his hand he laid On Malcolm’s shoulder, kindly said, “Canst thou, young friend, no meaning spy In my poor follower’s glistening eye? I’ll tell thee:—he recalls the day When in my praise he led the lay O’er the arch’d gate of Bothwell proud, While many a minstrel answer’d loud, When Percy’s Norman pennon, In bloody field, before me shone, And twice ten knights, the least a name As mighty as yon Chief may claim, Gracing my pomp, behind me came. Yet trust me, Malcolm, not so proud Was I of all that marshal’d crowd, Though the waned crescent And in my train troop’d lord and knight, Though Blantyre And Bothwell’s bards flung back my praise, As when this old man’s silent tear, And this poor maid’s affection dear, A welcome give more kind and true, Than aught my better fortunes knew. Forgive, my friend, a father’s boast, Oh! it out-beggars XXIV.Delightful praise!—Like summer rose, That brighter in the dewdrop glows, The bashful maiden’s cheek appear’d, For Douglas spoke, and Malcolm heard. The flush of shamefaced joy to hide, The hounds, the hawk, her cares divide; The loved caresses of the maid The dogs with crouch and whimper paid; And, at her whistle, on her hand The falcon took his favorite stand, Closed his dark wing, relax’d his eye, Nor, though unhooded, And, trust, while in such guise she stood, Like fabled goddess That if a father’s partial thought O’erweigh’d her worth and beauty aught, Well might the lover’s judgment fail To balance with a juster scale; For with each secret glance he stole, The fond enthusiast sent his soul. XXV.Of stature tall, and slender frame, But firmly knit, was Malcolm GrÆme. The belted plaid and tartan hose Did ne’er more graceful limbs disclose; His flaxen hair, of sunny hue, Curl’d closely round his bonnet blue. Train’d to the chase, his eagle eye The ptarmigan in snow could spy: Each pass, by mountain, lake, and heath, He knew, through Lennox and Menteith; Vain was the bound of dark-brown doe When Malcolm bent his sounding bow; And scarce that doe, though wing’d with fear, Outstripp’d in speed the mountaineer: Right up Ben-Lomond could he press, And not a sob his toil confess. His form accorded with a mind Lively and ardent, frank and kind; A blither heart, till Ellen came, Did never love nor sorrow tame; It danced as lightsome in his breast, As play’d the feather on his crest. Yet friends, who nearest knew the youth, His scorn of wrong, his zeal for truth, And bards, who saw his features bold, When kindled by the tales of old, Said, were that youth to manhood grown, Not long should Roderick Dhu’s renown Be foremost voiced by mountain fame, But quail to that of Malcolm GrÆme. XXVI.XXXVII.Then spoke abrupt: “Farewell to thee, Pattern of old fidelity!” The Minstrel’s hand he kindly press’d,— “Oh! could I point a place of rest! My sovereign holds in ward my land, My uncle leads my vassal band; To tame his foes, his friends to aid, Poor Malcolm has but heart and blade. Yet, if there be one faithful GrÆme Who loves the Chieftain of his name, Not long shall honor’d Douglas dwell, Like hunted stag, in mountain cell; Nor, ere yon pride-swoll’n robber dare,— I may not give the rest to air! Tell Roderick Dhu, I owed him naught, Not the poor service of a boat, To waft me to yon mountain side.” Then plunged he in the flashing tide. Bold o’er the flood his head he bore, And stoutly steer’d him from the shore; And Allan strain’d his anxious eye, Far ’mid the lake his form to spy, Darkening across each puny wave, To which the moon her silver gave. Fast as the cormorant could skim, The swimmer plied each active limb; Then landing in the moonlight dell, Loud shouted, of his weal to tell. The Minstrel heard the far halloo, And joyful from the shore withdrew. |
|
