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[190]-- 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-men row, The bubbles, where they launch'd the boat, Were all unbroken and afloat, Dancing in foam and ripple still, When it had near'd 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. [190] A meadow at the western end of Loch Vennachar. XIII. Speed, Malise, speed! the dun deer's hide[191] 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[192] hound; The crag is high, the scaur is deep, Yet shrink not from the desperate leap: Parch'd 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 pliest thou now thy flying pace With rivals in the mountain race; But danger, death, and warrior deed Are in thy course--speed, Malise, speed! [191] The shoes or buskins of the Highlanders were made of this hide. [192] Hunting. XIV. Fast as the fatal symbol flies, In arms the huts and hamlets rise; From winding glen, from upland brown, They pour'd each hardy tenant down. Nor slack'd the messenger his pace; He show'd 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,[193] the mower blithe Left in the half-cut swath the scythe; The herds without a keeper stray'd, The plow was in mid-furrow stayed, The falc'ner toss'd his hawk away, The hunter left the stag at bay; Prompt at the signal of alarms, Each son of Alpine rush'd 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[194] thickets, sleep So stilly on thy bosom deep, The lark's blithe carol, from the cloud, Seems for the scene too gayly loud. [193] State of mind. [194] Bushy. XV.