'Twas all prepared--and from the rock, A goat, the patriarch of the flock, 180 Before the kindling pile was laid, And pierced by Roderick's ready blade. Patient the sickening victim eyed The life-blood ebb in crimson tide, Down his clogged beard and shaggy limb, 185 Till darkness glazed his eyeballs dim. The grisly priest, with murmuring prayer, A slender crosslet formed with care, A cubit's length in measure due; The shaft and limbs were rods of yew, 190 Whose parents in Inch-Cailliach wave Their shadows o'er Clan-Alpine's grave, And, answering Lomond's breezes deep, Soothe many a chieftain's endless sleep. The Cross, thus formed, he held on high, 195 With wasted hand and haggard eye, And strange and mingled feelings woke; While his anathema he spoke. IX "Woe to the clansman, who shall view This symbol of sepulchral yew, 200 Forgetful that its branches grew Where weep the heavens their holiest dew On Alpine's dwelling low! Deserter of his Chieftain's trust, He ne'er shall mingle with their dust, 205 But, from his sires and kindred thrust, Each clansman's execration just Shall doom him wrath and woe." He paused--the word the vassals took, With forward step and fiery look, 210 On high their naked brands they shook, Their clattering targets wildly strook; And first in murmur low, Then, like the billow in his course, That far to seaward finds his source, 215 And flings to shore his mustered force, Burst, with loud roar, their answer hoarse, "Woe to the traitor, woe!" Ben-an's grey scalp the accents knew, The joyous wolf from cover drew, 220 The exulting eagle screamed afar-- They knew the voice of Alpine's war. X