Old Allan followed to the strand-- Such was the Douglas's command-- And anxious told, how, on the morn, The stern Sir Roderick deep had sworn, The Fiery Cross should circle o'er Dale, glen, and valley, down and moor Much were the peril to the Graeme From those who to the signal came; Far up the lake 't were safest land, Himself would row him to the strand. He gave his counsel to the wind, While Malcolm did, unheeding, bind, Round dirk and pouch and broadsword rolled, His ample plaid in tightened fold, And stripped his limbs to such array As best might suit the watery way,-- XXXVII. Then spoke abrupt: 'Farewell to thee, Pattern of old fidelity!' The Minstrel's hand he kindly pressed,-- 'O, could I point a place of rest! My sovereign holds in ward my land, My uncle leads my vassal band; To tame his foes, his friends to aid, Poor Malcolm has but heart and blade. Yet, if there be one faithful Graeme Who loves the chieftain of his name, Not long shall honored Douglas dwell Like hunted stag in mountain cell; Nor, ere yon pride-swollen robber dare,-- I may not give the rest to air! Tell Roderick Dhu I owed him naught, Not tile poor service of a boat, To waft me to yon mountain-side.' Then plunged he in the flashing tide. Bold o'er the flood his head he bore, And stoutly steered him from the shore; And Allan strained his anxious eye, Far mid the lake his form to spy, Darkening across each puny wave, To which the moon her silver gave. Fast as the cormorant could skim. The swimmer plied each active limb; Then landing in the moonlight dell, Loud shouted of his weal to tell. The Minstrel heard the far halloo, And joyful from the shore withdrew. CANTO THIRD. The Gathering. I. Time rolls his ceaseless course. The race of yore, Who danced our infancy upon their knee, And told our marvelling boyhood legends store Of their strange ventures happed by land or sea, How are they blotted from the things that be! How few, all weak and withered of their force, Wait on the verge of dark eternity, Like stranded wrecks, the tide returning hoarse, To sweep them from out sight! Time rolls his ceaseless course. Yet live there still who can remember well, How, when a mountain chief his bugle blew, Both field and forest, dingle, cliff; and dell, And solitary heath, the signal knew; And fast the faithful clan around him drew. What time the warning note was keenly wound, What time aloft their kindred banner flew, While clamorous war-pipes yelled the gathering sound, And while the Fiery Cross glanced like a meteor, round. II.