Vassals and menials, thronging in,
Lent their brute rage to swell the din:
When, far and wide, a bugle-clang
From the dark ocean upward rang.
"The Abbot comes!" they cry at once,
"The holy man, whose favoured glance
Hath sainted visions known;
Angels have met him on the way,
Beside the blessed martyrs' bay,
And by Columba's stone.
His monks have heard their hymnings high Sound from the summit of Dun-Y,
To cheer his penance lone,
When at each cross, on girth and wold,
(Their number thrice an hundred-fold,)
His prayer he made, his beads he told,
With Aves many a one-
He comes our feuds to reconcile,
A sainted man from sainted isle;
We will his holy doom abide,
The Abbot shall our strife decide.”—
Scarcely this fair accord was o'er,
When through the wide revolving door
The black stoled brethren wind;
Twelve sandalled monks, who relics bore,
With many a torch-bearer before,
And many a cross behind.
Then sunk each fierce uplifted hand,
And dagger bright and flashing brand
Dropped swiftly at the sight;
They vanished from the churchman's eye,
As shooting stars, that glance and die,
Dart from the vault of night.
The Abbot on the threshold stood,
And in his hand the holy rood;
Back on his shoulders flowed his hood,
The torches' glaring ray
Showed, in its red and flashing light,
His withered cheek and amice white,
His blue eye glistening cold and bright,
His tresses scant and gray.
"Fair Lords," he said, "Our Lady's love, And peace be with you from above,
-But what means this? no peace is here!-Do dirks unsheathed suit bridal cheer?
Or are these naked brands
A seemly show for churchman's sight,
When he comes summoned to unite
Betrothed hearts and hands?"
Then, cloaking hate with fiery zeal,
Proud Lórn first answered the appeal ;-
"Thou comest, O holy Man,
True sons of blessed church to greet,
But little deeming here to meet
A wretch, beneath the ban
Of Pope and Church, for murder done
E'en on the sacred altar-stone !-
Well mayest thou wonder we should know
Such miscreant here, nor lay him low,
Or dream of greeting, peace, or truce,
With excommunicated Bruce!
Yet well I grant, to end debate,
Thy sainted voice decide his fate."-
Then Ronald pled the stranger's cause, And knighthood's oath and honour's laws; And Isabel, on bended knee,
Brought prayers and tears to back the plea ; And Edith lent her generous aid,
And wept, and Lorn for mercy prayed.
"Hence," he exclaimed, " degenerate maid !
Was't not enough to Ronald's bower
I brought thee, like a paramour,
Or bond-maid at her master's gate,
His careless cold approach to wait ?---
But the bold Lord of Cumberland,
The gallant Clifford, seeks thy hand;
His it shall be-Nay, no reply!
Hence! till those rebel eyes be dry."-
With grief the Abbot heard and saw,
Yet nought relaxed his brow of awe.
Then Argentine, in England's name,
So highly urged his sovereign's claim,
He waked a spark, that, long suppressed,
Had smouldered in Lord Ronald's breast;
And now, as from the flint the fire,
Flashed forth at once his generous ire.-
"Enough of noble blood," he said,
"By English Edward had been shed,
Since matchless Wallace first had been
In mockery crowned with wreaths of green,
And done to death by felon hand,
For guarding well his father's land.
Where's Nigel Bruce? and De la Haye,
And valiant Seton-where are they?
Where Somerville, the kind and free?
And Fraser, flower of chivalry?
Have they not been on gibbet bound,
Their quarters flung to hawk and hound,
And hold we here a cold debate,
To yield more victims to their fate?
What! can the English Leopard's mood
Never be gorged with northern blood?
Was not the life of Athole shed,
To sooth the tyrant's sickened bed?
And must his word, at dying day,
Be nought but quarter, hang, and slay
Thou frown'st, De Argentine,-my gage
Is prompt to prove the strife I wage."-
"Nor deem," said stout Dunvegan's knight,
"That thou shalt brave alone the fight!
By saints of isle and mainland both,
By Woden wild, (my grandsire's oath,)
Let Rome and England do their worst,
Howe'er attainted or accursed,
If Bruce shall e'er find friends again,
Once more to brave a battle plain,
If Douglas couch again his lance,
Or Randolph dare another chance,
Old Torquil will not be to lack
With twice a thousand at his back.-
Nay, chafe not at my bearing bold,
Good Abbot! for thou knowest of old,
Torquil's rude thought and stubborn will
Smack of the wild Norwegian still;
Nor will I barter Freedom's cause
For England's wealth, or Rome's applause."
The Abbot seemed with eye severe
The hardy Chieftain's speech to hear;
Then on the monarch turned the Monk,
But twice his courage came and sunk,
Confronted with the hero's look;
Twice fell his eye, his accents shook;
At length, resolved in tone and brow,
Sternly be questioned him
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