I come with banner, brand, and bow, As leader seeks his mortal foe. For love-lorn swain, in lady's bower, Ne'er panted for the appointed hour, As I, until before me stand This rebel Chieftain and his band." "Have, then, thy wish!"--he whistled shrill, And he was answered from the hill: Wild as the scream of the curlew, From crag to crag the signal flew. Instant, through copse and heath, arose Bonnets and spears, and bended bows. On right, on left, above, below, Sprung up at once the lurking foe; From shingles grey their lances start, The bracken bush sends forth the dart. The rushes and the willow wand Are bristling into axe and brand, And every tuft of broom gives life To plaided warrior armed for strife. That whistle garrison'd the glen At once with full five hundred men, As if the yawning hill to heaven A subterraneous host had given. Watching their leader's beck and will, All silent there they stood and still. Like the loose crags whose threatening mass Lay tottering o'er the hollow pass, As if an infant's touch could urge Their headlong passage down the verge, With step and weapon forward flung. Upon the mountain-side they hung. The mountaineer cast glance of pride Along Benledi's living side, Then fixed his eye and sable brow Full on Fitz-James--"How says't thou now? These are Clan-Alpine's warriors true, And, Saxon,--I am Roderick Dhu!" Fitz-James was brave:--Though to his heart The life-blood thrilled with sudden start, He mann'd himself with dauntless air, Returned the Chief his haughty stare, His back against a rock he bore, And firmly placed his foot before:-- "Come one, come all! this rock shall fly From its firm base as soon as I." Sir Roderick marked--and in his eyes Respect was mingled with surprise, And the stern joy which warriors feel In foemen worthy of their steel. Short space he stood--then waved his hand; Down sunk the disappearing band: Each warrior vanished where he stood, In broom or bracken, heath or wood: Sunk brand and spear, and bended bow, In osiers pale and copses low; It seemed as if their mother Earth Had swallowed up her warlike birth. The wind's last breath had tossed in air Pennon, and plaid, and plumage fair,-- The next but swept a lone hill-side, Where heath and fern were waving wide; The sun's last glance was glinted back, From spear and glaive, from targe and jack,-- The next, all unreflected, shone On bracken green and cold grey stone. Fitz-James looked round--yet scarce believed The witness that his sight received;