Row, vassals, row, for the pride of the Highlands! 
    Stretch to your oars for the evergreen Pine! 
  O that the rosebud that graces yon islands
    Were wreathed in a garland around him to twine! 
        O that some seedling gem,
        Worthy such noble stem,
  Honored and blessed in their shadow might grow! 
        Loud should Clan-Alpine then
        Ring from the deepmost glen,
    “Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!”

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

* * * * *

BEAL’ AN DHUINE.

[1411.]

FROM “THE LADY OF THE LAKE,” CANTO VI.

  There is no breeze upon the fern,
    No ripple on the lake,
  Upon her eyrie 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 bound for battle strife,
    Or bard of martial lay,
  ’Twere worth ten years of peaceful life,
    One glance at their array!

  Their light-armed archers far and near
    Surveyed the tangled ground,
  Their centre ranks, with pike and spear,
    A twilight forest frowned,
  Their barbed 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. 
  There breathed no wind their crests to shake,
    Or wave their flags abroad;
  Scarce the frail aspen seemed to quake,
    That shadowed o’er their road. 
  Their vaward scouts no tidings bring,
    Can rouse no lurking foe,
  Nor spy a trace of living thing,
    Save when they stirred the roe;
  The host moves like a deep sea wave,
  Where rise no rocks its pride to brave,
    High swelling, dark, and slow. 
  The lake is passed, and now they gain
  A narrow and a broken plain,
  Before the Trosach’s rugged jaws;
  And here the horse and spearmen pause,
  While, to explore the dangerous glen,
  Dive through the pass the archer men.