At once there rose so wild a yell
  Within that dark and narrow dell. 
  As all the fiends, from heaven that fell,
  Had pealed the banner cry of hell! 
  Forth from the pass in tumult driven,
  Like chaff before the winds of heaven,
    The archery appear: 
  For life! for life! their flight they ply—­
  And shriek, and shout, and battle-cry,
  And plaids and bonnets waving high,
  And broadswords flashing to the sky,
    Are maddening in the rear. 
  Onward they drive, in dreadful race,
    Pursuers and pursued;
  Before that tide of flight and chase,
  How shall it keep its rooted place,
    The spearmen’s twilight wood? 
  —­“Down, down,” cried Mar, “your lances down! 
    Bear back both friend and foe!”
  Like reeds before the tempest’s frown,
  That serried grove of lances brown
    At once lay levelled low;
  And closely shouldering side to side,
  The bristling ranks the onset bide.—­
  —­“We’ll quell the savage mountaineer,
    As their Tinchel[A] cows the game;
  They come as fleet as forest deer,
    We’ll drive them back as tame.”

  Bearing before them, in their course,
  The relics of the archer force,
  Like wave with crest of sparkling foam,
  Right onward did Clan-Alpine come. 
  Above the tide, each broadsword bright
  Was brandishing like beam of light,
    Each targe was dark below;
  And with the ocean’s mighty swing,
  When heaving to the tempest’s wing,
    They hurled them on the foe.

  I heard the lance’s shivering crash,
  As when the whirlwind rends the ash;
  I heard the broadsword’s deadly clang,
  As if a hundred anvils rang! 
  But Moray wheeled his rearward flank—­
  Of horsemen on Clan-Alpine’s flank—­
    “My bannerman, advance! 
  I see,” he cried, “their columns shake. 
  Now, gallants! for your ladies’ sake,
    Upon them with the lance!”
  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.

[Footnote A:  A circle of sportsmen, surrounding the deer.]

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

* * * * *

PIBROCH OF DONUIL DHU.[A]