Who meets them at the churchyard gate? 500 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-soiled he stood, 505 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, 510 Just linked 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 515 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! 520 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, 525 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 stirred? The sickening pang of hope deferred, 530 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, 535 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. 540 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 The heath this night must be my bed, 545 The bracken curtain for my head, My lullaby the warder's tread, Far, far, from love and thee, Mary; To-morrow eve, more stilly laid, My couch may be my bloody plaid, 550 My vesper song, thy wail, sweet maid! It will not waken me, Mary! I may not, dare not, fancy now The grief that clouds thy lovely brow, I dare not think upon thy vow, 555 And all it promised me, Mary. No fond regret must Norman know; When bursts Clan-Alpine on the foe, His heart must be like bended bow, His foot like arrow free, Mary. 560