"Thou shakest, good friend, thy tresses gray,-- That pleading look, what can it say But what I own?--I grant him[111] brave, But wild as Bracklinn's[112] thundering wave; And generous--save[113] vindictive mood, Or jealous transport, chafe his blood: I grant him true to friendly band, As his claymore is to his hand; But oh! that very blade of steel More mercy for a foe would feel: I grant him liberal, to fling Among his clan the wealth they bring, When back by lake and glen they wind, And in the Lowland leave behind, Where once some pleasant hamlet stood, A mass of ashes slaked[114] with blood. The hand that for my father fought I honor, as his daughter ought; But can I clasp it reeking red, From peasants slaughter'd in their shed? No! wildly while his virtues gleam, They make his passions darker seem, And flash along his spirit high, Like lightning o'er the midnight sky. While yet a child,--and children know, Instinctive taught, the friend and foe,-- I shudder'd at his brow of gloom, His shadowy plaid, and sable plume; A maiden grown, I ill could bear His haughty mien and lordly air: But, if thou join'st a suitor's claim, In serious mood, to Roderick's name, I thrill with anguish! or, if e'er A Douglas knew the word, with fear. To change such odious theme were best,-- What thinkst thou of our stranger guest?" [111] "I grant him," i.e., I grant that he is. [112] A cascade on the Keltie. [113] Unless. [114] Quenched. XV. "What think I of him? Woe the while That brought such wanderer to our isle! Thy father's battle brand, of yore For Tine-man[115] forged by fairy lore, What time he leagued, no longer foes, His Border spears with Hotspur's bows, Did, self-unscabbarded, foreshow The footstep of a secret foe. If courtly spy hath harbor'd here, What may we for the Douglas fear? What for this island, deem'd of old Clan-Alpine's last and surest hold? If neither spy nor foe, I pray What yet may jealous Roderick say? --Nay, wave not thy disdainful head, Bethink thee of the discord dread That kindled, when at Beltane[116] game Thou ledst the dance with Malcolm Græme; Still, though thy sire the peace renew'd, Smolders in Roderick's breast the feud. Beware!--But hark, what sounds are these? My dull ears catch no faltering breeze; No weeping birch, nor aspens wake, Nor breath is dimpling in the lake; Still is the canna's[117] hoary beard; Yet, by my minstrel faith, I heard-- And hark again! some pipe of war Sends the bold pibroch from afar."