"'Revenge! revenge!' the Saxons cried; The Gaels' exulting shout replied. 575 Despite the elemental rage, Again they hurried to engage; But, ere they closed in desperate fight, Bloody with spurring came a knight, Sprung from his horse, and, from a crag, 580 Waved 'twixt the hosts a milk-white flag. Clarion and trumpet by his side Rung forth a truce-note high and wide, While, in the Monarch's name, afar An herald's voice forbade the war, 585 For Bothwell's lord, and Roderick bold, Were both, he said, in captive hold." --But here the lay made sudden stand, The harp escaped the Minstrel's hand!-- Oft had he stolen a glance, to spy 590 How Roderick brooked his minstrelsy: At first, the Chieftain, to the chime, With lifted hand, kept feeble time; That motion ceased--yet feeling strong Varied his look as changed the song; 595 At length, no more his deafened ear The minstrel melody can hear; His face grows sharp--his hands are clenched, As if some pang his heart-strings wrenched; Set are his teeth, his fading eye 600 Is sternly fixed on vacancy; Thus, motionless, and moanless, drew His parting breath, stout Roderick Dhu! Old Allan-bane looked on aghast, While grim and still his spirit passed; 605 But when he saw that life was fled, He poured his wailing o'er the dead. XXII LAMENT "And art thou cold and lowly laid, Thy foeman's dread, thy people's aid, Breadalbane's boast, Clan-Alpine's shade! 610 For thee shall none a requiem say? --For thee--who loved the minstrel's lay, For thee, of Bothwell's house the stay, The shelter of her exiled line, E'en in this prison-house of thine 615 I'll wail for Alpine's honored Pine! "What groans shall yonder valleys fill! What shrieks of grief shall rend yon hill! What tears of burning rage shall thrill, When mourns thy tribe thy battles done, 620 Thy fall before the race was won, Thy sword ungirt ere set of sun! There breathes not clansman of thy line, But would have given his life for thine. O woe for Alpine's honored Pine! 625 "Sad was thy lot on mortal stage! The captive thrush may brook the cage, The prisoned eagle dies for rage. Brave spirit, do not scorn my strain! And, when its notes awake again, 630 Even she, so long beloved in vain, Shall with my harp her voice combine, And mix her woe and tears with mine, To wail Clan-Alpine's honored Pine." XXIII