A blithesome rout, that morning tide,[203] Had sought the chapel of St. Bride. Her troth Tombea's[204] Mary gave To Norman, heir of Armandave,[205] And, issuing from the Gothic arch, The bridal[206] now resumed their march. In rude, but glad procession, came Bonneted sire and coif-clad dame; And plaided youth, with jest and jeer, Which snooded maiden would not hear; And children, that, unwitting[207] why, Lent the gay shout their shrilly cry; And minstrels, that in measures vied Before the young and bonny bride, Whose downcast eye and cheek disclose The tear and blush of morning rose. With virgin step, and bashful hand, She held the kerchief's snowy band; The gallant bridegroom, by her side, Beheld his prize with victor's pride, And the glad mother in her ear Was closely whispering word of cheer. [203] Season. [204] Tombea and Armandave are names of neighboring farmsteads. [205] Tombea and Armandave are names of neighboring farmsteads. [206] Those composing the bridal procession. [207] Not knowing. XXI. Who meets them at the churchyard gate? The messenger of fear and fate! Haste in his hurried accent lies, And grief is swimming in his eyes. All dripping from the recent flood, Panting and travel-soil'd he stood, The fatal sign of fire and sword Held forth, and spoke the appointed word: "The muster-place is Lanrick mead-- Speed forth the signal! Norman, speed!" And must he change so soon the hand, Just link'd to his by holy band, For the fell Cross of blood and brand? And must the day, so blithe that rose, And promised rapture in the close, Before its setting hour, divide The bridegroom from the plighted bride? O fatal doom!--it must! it must! Clan-Alpine's cause, her Chieftain's trust, Her summons dread, brook no delay; Stretch to the race--away! away! XXII. Yet slow he laid his plaid aside, And, lingering, eyed his lovely bride, Until he saw the starting tear Speak woe he might not stop to cheer; Then, trusting not a second look, In haste he sped him up the brook, Nor backward glanced, till on the heath Where Lubnaig's lake supplies the Teith. --What in the racer's bosom stirr'd? The sickening pang of hope deferr'd, And memory, with a torturing train Of all his morning visions vain. Mingled with love's impatience, came The manly thirst for martial fame; The stormy joy of mountaineers, Ere yet they rush upon the spears; And zeal for Clan and Chieftain burning, And hope, from well-fought field returning, With war's red honors on his crest, To clasp his Mary to his breast. Stung by such thoughts, o'er bank and brae, Like fire from flint he glanced away, While high resolve, and feeling strong, Burst into voluntary song. XXIII. SONG.