Lady of the Lake

Before the kindling pile was laid,
And pierced by Roderick's ready blade.

Patient the sickening victim eyed
The life-blood ebb in crimson tide, 
Down his clogged beard and shaggy limb,
Till darkness glazed his eyeballs dim.

The grisly priest, with murmuring prayer,
A slender crosslet formed with care,
A cubit's length in measure due; 
The shaft and limbs were rods of yew,
Whose parents in Inch-Cailliach wave
Their shadows o'er Clan-Alpine's grave,
And, answering Lomond's breezes deep,
Soothe many a chieftain's endless sleep. 

The Cross, thus formed, he held on high,
With wasted hand and haggard eye,
And strange and mingled feelings woke;
While his anathema he spoke.

IX

'Woe to the clansman, who shall view
This symbol of sepulchral yew,
Forgetful that its branches grew
Where weep the heavens their holiest dew
On Alpine's dwelling low!
Deserter of his Chieftain's trust, 
He ne'er shall mingle with their dust,
But, from his sires and kindred thrust,
Each clansman's execration just
Shall doom him wrath and woe.'

He paused—the word the vassals took, 
With forward step and fiery look,
On high their naked brands they shook,
Their clattering targets wildly strook;
And first in murmur low,
Then, like the billow in his course, 
That far to seaward finds his source,
And flings to shore his mustered force,
Burst, with loud roar, their answer hoarse,
'Woe to the traitor, woe!'

Ben-an's grey scalp the accents knew, 
The joyous wolf from cover drew,
The exulting eagle screamed afar—
They knew the voice of Alpine's war.

X

The shout was hushed on lake and fell,
The Monk resumed his muttered spell; 
Dismal and low its accents came,
The while he scathed the Cross with flame:
And the few words that reached the air,
Although the holiest name was there,
Had more of blasphemy than prayer. 

But when he shook above the crowd
Its kindled points, he spoke aloud:
'Woe to the wretch, who fails to rear
At this dread sign the ready spear!
For, as the flames this symbol sear, 
His home, the refuge of his fear,
A kindred fate shall know;

Far o'er its roof the volumed flame
Clan-Alpine's vengeance shall proclaim,
While maids and matrons on his name 
Shall call down wretchedness and shame,
And infamy and woe.'
Then rose the cry of females, shrill
As goshawk's whistle on the hill,
Denouncing misery and ill, 
Mingled with childhood's babbling trill
Of curses stammered slow;