Time rolls his ceaseless course.  The race of yore,
     Who danced our infancy upon their knee,
And told our marvelling boyhood legends store
     Of their strange ventures happed by land or sea,
How are they blotted from the things that be! 
     How few, all weak and withered of their force,
Wait on the verge of dark eternity,
     Like stranded wrecks, the tide returning hoarse,
To sweep them from out sight!  Time rolls his ceaseless course.

Yet live there still who can remember well,
     How, when a mountain chief his bugle blew,
Both field and forest, dingle, cliff; and dell,
     And solitary heath, the signal knew;
And fast the faithful clan around him drew. 
     What time the warning note was keenly wound,
What time aloft their kindred banner flew,
     While clamorous war-pipes yelled the gathering sound,
And while the Fiery Cross glanced like a meteor, round.

II.

The Summer dawn’s reflected hue
To purple changed Loch Katrine blue;
Mildly and soft the western breeze
Just kissed the lake, just stirred the trees,
And the pleased lake, like maiden coy,
Trembled but dimpled not for joy
The mountain-shadows on her breast
Were neither broken nor at rest;
In bright uncertainty they lie,
Like future joys to Fancy’s eye. 
The water-lily to the light
Her chalice reared of silver bright;
The doe awoke, and to the lawn,
Begemmed with dew-drops, led her fawn;
The gray mist left the mountain-side,
The torrent showed its glistening pride;
Invisible in flecked sky The lark sent clown her revelry: 
The blackbird and the speckled thrush
Good-morrow gave from brake and bush;
In answer cooed the cushat dove
Her notes of peace and rest and love.

III.

No thought of peace, no thought of rest,
Assuaged the storm in Roderick’s breast. 
With sheathed broadsword in his hand,
Abrupt he paced the islet strand,
And eyed the rising sun, and laid
His hand on his impatient blade. 
Beneath a rock, his vassals’ care
Was prompt the ritual to prepare,
With deep and deathful meaning fraught;
For such Antiquity had taught
Was preface meet, ere yet abroad
The Cross of Fire should take its road. 
The shrinking band stood oft aghast
At the impatient glance he cast;—­
Such glance the mountain eagle threw,
As, from the cliffs of Benvenue,
She spread her dark sails on the wind,
And, high in middle heaven reclined,
With her broad shadow on the lake,
Silenced the warblers of the brake.

IV.