The Lady of the Lake eBook

This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 305 pages of information about The Lady of the Lake.
Palsied the foot that shuns to speed! 
May ravens tear the careless eyes,
Wolves make the coward heart their prize! 
As sinks that blood-stream in the earth,
So may his heart’s-blood drench his hearth! 
As dies in hissing gore the spark,
Quench thou his light, Destruction dark! 
And be the grace to him denied,
Bought by this sign to all beside! 
He ceased; no echo gave again
The murmur of the deep Amen.


Then Roderick with impatient look
From Brian’s hand the symbol took: 
‘Speed, Malise, speed’ he said, and gave
The crosslet to his henchman brave. 
’The muster-place be Lanrick mead—­
Instant the time—–­speed, Malise, speed!’
Like heath-bird, when the hawks pursue,
A barge across Loch Katrine flew: 
High stood the henchman on the prow;
So rapidly the barge-mall row,
The bubbles, where they launched the boat,
Were all unbroken and afloat,
Dancing in foam and ripple still,
When it had neared the mainland hill;
And from the silver beach’s side
Still was the prow three fathom wide,
When lightly bounded to the land
The messenger of blood and brand.


Speed, Malise, speed! the dun deer’s hide
On fleeter foot was never tied. 
Speed, Malise, speed! such cause of haste
Thine active sinews never braced. 
Bend ’gainst the steepy hill thy breast,
Burst down like torrent from its crest;
With short and springing footstep pass
The trembling bog and false morass;
Across the brook like roebuck bound,
And thread the brake like questing hound;
The crag is high, the scaur is deep,
Yet shrink not from the desperate leap: 
Parched are thy burning lips and brow,
Yet by the fountain pause not now;
Herald of battle, fate, and fear,
Stretch onward in thy fleet career! 
The wounded hind thou track’st not now,
Pursuest not maid through greenwood bough,
Nor priest thou now thy flying pace
With rivals in the mountain race;
But danger, death, and warrior deed
Are in thy course—­speed, Malise, speed!


Fast as the fatal symbol flies,
In arms the huts and hamlets rise;
From winding glen, from upland brown,
They poured each hardy tenant down. 
 Nor slacked the messenger his pace;
He showed the sign, he named the place,
And, pressing forward like the wind,
Left clamor and surprise behind. 
The fisherman forsook the strand,
The swarthy smith took dirk and brand;
With changed cheer, the mower blithe
Left in the half-cut swath his scythe;
The herds without a keeper strayed,
The plough was in mid-furrow staved,
The falconer tossed his hawk away,
The hunter left the stag at hay;
Prompt at the signal of alarms,
Each son of Alpine rushed to arms;
So swept the tumult and affray
Along the margin of Achray. 
Alas, thou lovely lake! that e’er
Thy banks should echo sounds of fear! 
The rocks, the bosky thickets, sleep
So stilly on thy bosom deep,
The lark’s blithe carol from the cloud
Seems for the scene too gayly loud.

Project Gutenberg
The Lady of the Lake from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
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