"Now westward rolls the battle's din, That deep and doubling pass within. --Minstrel, away! the work of fate Is bearing on: its issue wait, Where the rude Trosachs' dread defile Opens on Katrine's lake and isle. Gray Benvenue I soon repass'd, Loch Katrine lay beneath me cast. The sun is set;--the clouds are met, The lowering scowl of heaven An inky hue of livid blue To the deep lake has given; Strange gusts of wind from mountain glen Swept o'er the lake, then sunk agen. I heeded not the eddying surge, Mine eye but saw the Trosachs' gorge, Mine ear but heard that sullen sound, Which like an earthquake shook the ground, And spoke the stern and desperate strife That parts not but with parting life, Seeming, to minstrel ear, to toll The dirge of many a passing soul. Nearer it comes--the dim-wood glen The martial flood disgorged agen, But not in mingled tide; The plaided warriors of the North High on the mountain thunder forth And overhang its side; While by the lake below appears The dark'ning cloud of Saxon spears. At weary bay each shatter'd band, Eying their foemen, sternly stand; Their banners stream like tatter'd sail, That flings its fragments to the gale, And broken arms and disarray Mark'd the fell havoc of the day." XX. "Viewing the mountain's ridge askance, The Saxon stood in sullen trance, Till Moray pointed with his lance, And cried--'Behold yon isle!-- See! none are left to guard its strand, But women weak, that wring the hand: 'Tis there of yore the robber band Their booty wont to pile;-- My purse, with bonnet pieces[354] store, To him will swim a bowshot o'er, And loose a shallop from the shore. Lightly we'll tame the war wolf then, Lords of his mate, and brood, and den.'-- Forth from the ranks a spearman sprung, On earth his casque and corselet rung, He plunged him in the wave:-- All saw the deed--the purpose knew, And to their clamors Benvenue A mingled echo gave; The Saxons shout, their mate to cheer, The helpless females scream for fear, And yells for rage the mountaineer. 'Twas then, as by the outcry riven, Pour'd down at once the lowering heaven; A whirlwind swept Loch Katrine's breast, Her billows rear'd their snowy crest. Well for the swimmer swell'd they high, To mar the Highland marksman's eye; For round him shower'd, 'mid rain and hail, The vengeful arrows of the Gael.-- In vain--He nears the isle--and lo! His hand is on a shallop's bow. --Just then a flash of lightning came, It tinged the waves and strand with flame;-- I mark'd Duncraggan's widow'd dame-- Behind an oak I saw her stand, A naked dirk gleam'd in her hand: It darken'd,--but, amid the moan