"The Minstrel came once more to view The eastern ridge of Benvenue, 370 For ere he parted, he would say Farewell to lovely Loch Achray-- Where shall he find in foreign land, So lone a lake, so sweet a strand! There is no breeze upon the fern, 375 Nor ripple on the lake, Upon her eyry nods the erne, The deer has sought the brake; The small birds will not sing aloud, The springing trout lies still, 380 So darkly glooms yon thunder cloud, That swathes, as with a purple shroud, Benledi's distant hill. Is it the thunder's solemn sound That mutters deep and dread, 385 Or echoes from the groaning ground The warrior's measured tread? Is it the lightning's quivering glance That on the thicket streams, Or do they flash on spear and lance 390 The sun's retiring beams? --I see the dagger-crest of Mar, I see the Moray's silver star, Wave o'er the cloud of Saxon war, That up the lake comes winding far! 395 To hero boune for battle-strife, Or bard of martial lay, 'Twere worth ten years of peaceful life, One glance at their array! XVI "Their light-armed archers far and near 400 Surveyed the tangled ground, Their center ranks, with pike and spear, A twilight forest frowned, Their barded horsemen, in the rear, The stern battalia crowned. 405 No cymbal clashed, no clarion rang, Still were the pipe and drum; Save heavy tread, and armor's clang, The sullen march was dumb. There breathed no wind their crests to shake, 410 Or wave their flags abroad; Scarce the frail aspen seemed to quake, That shadowed o'er their road. Their vaward scouts no tidings bring, Can rouse no lurking foe, 415 Nor spy a trace of living thing, Save when they stirred the roe; The host moves, like a deep-sea wave, Where rise no rocks its pride to brave, High-swelling, dark, and slow. 420 The lake is passed, and now they gain A narrow and a broken plain, Before the Trossachs' rugged jaws; And here the horse and spearmen pause, While, to explore the dangerous glen, 425 Dive through the pass the archer-men. XVII