A heap of wither'd boughs was piled, Of juniper and rowan[168] wild, Mingled with shivers from the oak, Rent by the lightning's recent stroke. Brian, the Hermit, by it stood, Barefooted, in his frock and hood.[169] His grisled beard and matted hair Obscured a visage of despair; His naked arms and legs, seamed o'er, The scars of frantic penance bore. That monk, of savage form and face, The impending danger of his race Had drawn[170] from deepest solitude, Far in Benharrow's[171] bosom rude. Not his the mien of Christian priest, But Druid's,[172] from the grave released, Whose hardened heart and eye might brook On human sacrifice to look; And much, 'twas said, of heathen lore, Mixed in the charms he muttered o'er. The hallow'd creed gave only worse And deadlier emphasis of curse; No peasant sought that Hermit's prayer, His cave the pilgrim shunn'd with care, The eager huntsman knew his bound, And in mid-chase called off his hound; Or if, in lonely glen or strath, The desert dweller met his path, He pray'd, and signed the cross between, While terror took devotion's mien. [168] Mountain ash. [169] "Frock and hood," i.e., the usual garments of monks or hermits. [170] "That monk," etc., i.e., the impending danger ... had drawn that monk, etc. [171] A mountain near the head of Loch Lomond. [172] The Druids were the priests among the ancient Celtic nations in Gaul and Britain. They worshiped in forests, regarded oaks and mistletoe as sacred, and offered human sacrifices. V. Of Brian's birth strange tales were told. His mother watch'd a midnight fold,[173] Built deep within a dreary glen, Where scatter'd lay the bones of men, In some forgotten battle slain, And bleach'd by drifting wind and rain. It might have tamed a warrior's heart, To view such mockery of his art! The knot-grass fetter'd there the hand, Which once could burst an iron band; Beneath the broad and ample bone, That buckler'd heart to fear unknown, A feeble and a timorous guest, The field-fare[174] framed her lowly nest; There the slow blind-worm left his slime On the fleet limbs that mock'd at time; And there, too, lay the leader's skull, Still wreathed with chaplet, flush'd and full, For heath-bell, with her purple bloom, Supplied the bonnet and the plume. All night, in this sad glen, the maid Sate, shrouded in her mantle's shade: --She said, no shepherd sought her side, No hunter's hand her snood untied, Yet ne'er again, to braid her hair, The virgin snood did Alice wear; Gone was her maiden glee and sport, Her maiden girdle all too short; Nor sought she, from that fatal night, Or holy church, or blessed rite, But lock'd her secret in her breast, And died in travail, unconfess'd. [173] Sheep pen. [174] Bird. VI.