The horsemen dashed among the rout, As deer break through the broom; Their steeds are stout, their swords are out, They soon make lightsome room. Clan-Alpine's best are backward borne— Where, where was Roderick then! One blast upon his bugle-horn Were worth a thousand men. And refluent through the pass of fear The battle's tide was poured; Vanished the Saxon's struggling spear, Vanished the mountain-sword. As Bracklinn's chasm, so black and steep, Receives her roaring linn, As the dark caverns of the deep Suck the wild whirlpool in, So did the deep and darksome pass Devour the battle's mingled mass; None linger now upon the plain, Save those who ne'er shall fight again.
XIX
'Now westward rolls the battle's din, That deep and doubling pass within.— Minstrel, away! the work of fate Is bearing on; its issue wait, Where the rude Trossachs' dread defile Opens on Katrine's lake and isle.— Gray Benvenue I soon repassed, Loch Katrine lay beneath me cast. The sun is set, the clouds are met, The lowering scowl of heaven An inky hue of livid blue To the deep lake has given; Strange gusts of wind from mountain-glen Swept o'er the lake, then sunk again. I heeded not the eddying surge, Mine eye but saw the Trossachs' gorge, Mine ear but heard the sullen sound, Which like an earthquake shook the ground, And spoke the stern and desperate strife That parts not but with parting life, Seeming, to minstrel ear, to toll The dirge of many a passing soul. Nearer it comes—the dim-wood glen The martial flood disgorged again, But not in mingled tide; The plaided warriors of the North High on the mountain thunder forth And overhang its side; While by the lake below appears The dark'ning cloud of Saxon spears. At weary bay each shattered band, Eyeing their foemen, sternly stand; Their banners stream like tattered sail, That flings its fragments to the gale, And broken arms and disarray Marked the fell havoc of the day.
XX
'Viewing the mountain's ridge askance, The Saxon stood in sullen trance, Till Moray pointed with his lance, And cried—'Behold yon isle! See! none are left to guard its strand, But women weak, that wring the hand; 'Tis there of yore the robber band Their booty wont to pile.
