With measure bold, on festal day, In yon lone isle, ... again where ne'er Shall harper play, or warrior hear!... That stirring air that peals on high, O'er Dermid's race our victory. Strike it!—and then—for well thou canst— Free from thy minstrel spirit glanced, Fling me the picture of the fight, When met my clan the Saxon might. I'll listen, till my fancy hears The clang of swords, the crash of spears! These grates, these walls, shall vanish then, For the fair field of fighting men, And my free spirit burst away, As if it soared from battle fray.' The trembling Bard with awe obeyed— Slow on the harp his hand he laid; But soon remembrance of the sight He witnessed from the mountain's height, With what old Bertram told at night, Awakened the full power of song, And bore him in career along; As shallop launched on river's side, That slow and fearful leaves the side, But, when it feels the middle stream, Drives downward swift as lightning's beam.
XV
BATTLE OF BEAL' AN DUINE'The Minstrel came once more to view The eastern ridge of Benvenue, For ere he parted, he would say Farewell to lovely Loch Achray— Where shall he find in foreign land, So lone a lake, so sweet a strand!There is no breeze upon the fern, Nor ripple on the lake, Upon her eyry nods the erne, The deer has sought the brake; The small birds will not sing aloud, The springing trout lies still, So darkly glooms yon thunder cloud, That swathes, as with a purple shroud, Benledi's distant hill. Is it the thunder's solemn sound That mutters deep and dread, Or echoes from the groaning ground The warrior's measured tread? Is it the lightning's quivering glance That on the thicket streams, Or do they flash on spear and lance The sun's retiring beams? —I see the dagger-crest of Mar, I see the Moray's silver star, Wave o'er the cloud of Saxon war, That up the lake comes winding far! To hero boune for battle-strife, Or bard of martial lay, 'Twere worth ten years of peaceful life, One glance at their array!
XVI
'Their light-armed archers far and near Surveyed the tangled ground, Their center ranks, with pike and spear, A twilight forest frowned, Their barded horsemen, in the rear, The stern battalia crowned. No cymbal clashed, no clarion rang, Still were the pipe and drum; Save heavy tread, and armor's clang, The sullen march was dumb.
