Lady of the Lake

These are Clan-Alpine's warriors true;
And, Saxon—I am Roderick Dhu!'

X

Fitz-James was brave. Though to his heart
The life-blood thrilled with sudden start, 
He manned himself with dauntless air,
Returned 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 marked—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 vanished where he stood,
In broom or bracken, heath or wood;

Sunk brand and spear and bended bow, 
In osiers pale and copses low;
It seemed as if their mother Earth
Had swallowed up her warlike birth.

The wind's last breath had tossed in air,
Pennon, and plaid, and plumage fair; 
The next but swept a lone hill-side,
Where heath and fern were waving wide.

The sun's last glance was glinted back,
From spear and glaive, from targe and jack,
The next, all unreflected, shone 
On bracken green, and cold gray stone.

XI

Fitz-James looked 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 moved—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 tempered flood,
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 dishonored and defied.

Ever, by stealth, his eye sought round