One look he cast upon the bier, Dashed from his eye the gathering tear, Breathed deep to clear his laboring breast, And tossed aloft his bonnet crest, Then, like the high-bred colt, when, freed, First he essays his fire and speed, He vanished, and o'er moor and moss Sped forward with the Fiery Cross. Suspended was the widow's tear, While yet his footsteps she could hear; And when she marked the henchman's eye Wet with unwonted sympathy, 'Kinsman,' she said, 'his race is run, That should have sped thine errand on; The oak has fallen—the sapling bough Is all Duncraggan's shelter now. Yet trust I well, his duty done, The orphan's God will guard my son. And you, in many a danger true, At Duncan's hest your blades that drew, To arms, and guard that orphan's head! Let babes and women wail the dead.' Then weapon-clang and martial call Resounded through the funeral hall, While from the walls the attendant band Snatched sword and targe, with hurried hand; And short and flitting energy Glanced from the mourner's sunken eye, As if the sounds to warrior dear, Might rouse her Duncan from his bier. But faded soon that borrowed force; Grief claimed his right, and tears their course.
XIX
Benledi saw the Cross of Fire; It glanced like lightning up Strath-Ire. O'er dale and hill the summons flew, Nor rest nor pause young Angus knew; The tear that gathered in his eye He left the mountain breeze to dry; Until, where Teith's young waters roll Betwixt him and a wooded knoll That graced the sable strath with green, The chapel of St. Bride was seen. Swoln was the stream, remote the bridge, But Angus paused not on the edge; Though the dark waves danced dizzily, Though reeled his sympathetic eye, He dashed amid the torrent's roar. His right hand high the crosslet bore, His left the pole-ax grasped, to guide And stay his footing in the tide. He stumbled twice—the foam splashed high; With hoarser swell the stream raced by; And had he fallen—forever there, Farewell Duncraggan's orphan heir! But still, as if in parting life, Firmer he grasped the Cross of strife, Until the opposing bank he gained, And up the chapel pathway strained.
XX
A blithesome rout, that morning tide, Had sought the chapel of St. Bride. Her troth Tombea's Mary gave To Norman, heir of Armandave. And, issuing from the Gothic arch,
