She sat beneath a birchen-tree, Her elbow resting on her knee; She had withdrawn the fatal shaft, And gazed on it, and feebly laughed; 640 Her wreath of broom and feathers gray, Daggled with blood, beside her lay. The Knight to staunch the life-stream tried-- "Stranger, it is in vain!" she cried. "This hour of death has given me more 645 Of reason's power than years before; For, as these ebbing veins decay, My frenzied visions fade away. A helpless injured wretch I die, And something tells me in thine eye, 650 That thou wert mine avenger born. Seest thou this tress?--Oh! still I've worn This little tress of yellow hair, Through danger, frenzy, and despair! It once was bright and clear as thine, 655 But blood and tears have dimmed its shine. I will not tell thee when 'twas shred, Nor from what guiltless victim's head-- My brain would turn!--but it shall wave Like plumage on thy helmet brave, 660 Till sun and wind shall bleach the stain, And thou wilt bring it me again. I waver still--O God! more bright Let reason beam her parting light!-- Oh! by thy knighthood's honored sign, 665 And for thy life preserved by mine, When thou shalt see a darksome man, Who boasts him Chief of Alpine's Clan, With tartans broad and shadowy plume And hand of blood, and brow of gloom, 670 Be thy heart bold, thy weapon strong, And wreak poor Blanche of Devan's wrong!-- They watch for thee by pass and fell.... Avoid the path.... O God!... farewell." XXVIII