Now rose De Argentine to claim
The prisoners in his sovereign's name
To England's crown, who, vassals sworn,
'Gainst their liege lord had weapon borne-
Such speech, I ween, was but to hide
His care their safety to provide;
For knight more true in thought and deed
Than Argentine ne'er spurred a steed -
And Ronald who his meaning guessed
Seemed half to sanction the request.
This purpose fiery Torquil broke:
'Somewhat we've heard of England's yoke,'
He said, 'and in our islands Fame
Hath whispered of a lawful claim
That calls the Bruce fair Scotland's lord,
Though dispossessed by foreign sword.
This craves reflection - but though right
And just the charge of England's Knight,
Let England's crown her rebels seize
Where she has power;-in towers like
these,

Midst Scottish chieftains summoned here
To bridal mirth and bridal cheer,
Be sure, with no consent of mine
Shall either Lorn or Argentine
With chains or violence, in our sight,
Oppress a brave and banished knight.'

XXI.

Then waked the wild debate again
With brawling threat and clamor vain.
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 favored glance

Hath sainted visions known;
Angels have met him on the way,
Beside the blessed martyr's 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 a 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.'

XXII.

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.

XXIII.

The abbot on the threshold stood,
And in his hand the holy rood;
Back on his shoulders flowed his hood,
The torch's 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,
And Benedicite!

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?'

XXIV.

Then, cloaking hate with fiery zeal,
Proud Lorn first answered the appeal:
'Thou com'st, 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
Even on the sacred altar-stone-
Well mayst 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.'

XXV.

Then Ronald pled the stranger's cause, And knighthood's oath and honor'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 naught relaxed his brow of awe.

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 soothe the tyrant's sickened bed?
And must his word till dying day

The abbot seemed with eye severe
The hardy chieftain's speech to hear:
Then on King Robert 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 he questioned him- 'And thou,
Unhappy! what hast thou to plead,
Why I denounce not on thy deed
That awful doom which canons tell
Shuts paradise and opens hell;
Anathema of power so dread
It blends the living with the dead,
Bids each good angel soar away
And every ill one claim his prey;
Expels thee from the church's care
And deafens Heaven against thy prayer;
Arms every hand against thy life,
Bans all who aid thee in the strife,
Nay, each whose succor, cold and scant,
With meanest alms relieves thy want;
Haunts thee while living, and when dead
Dwells on thy yet devoted head,

Rends Honor's scutcheon from thy hearse,
Stills o'er thy bier the holy verse,
And spurns thy corpse from hallowed
ground,

Flung like vile carrion to the hound:
Such is the dire and desperate doom
For sacrilege, decreed by Rome;
And such the well-deserved meed
Of thine unhallowed, ruthless deed.'

XXIX.

'Abbot!' the Bruce replied, 'thy charge
It boots not to dispute at large.
This much, howe'er, I bid thee know,
No selfish vengeance dealt the blow,
For Comyn died his country's foe.

Nor blame I friends whose ill-timed speed
Fulfilled my soon-repented deed,

Nor censure those from whose stern tongue The dire anathema has rung.

I only blame mine own wild ire,

By Scotland's wrongs incensed to fire.
Heaven knows my purpose to atone,
Far as I may, the evil done,

And hears a penitent's appeal
From papal curse and prelate's zeal.
My first and dearest task achieved,
Fair Scotland from her thrall relieved,
Shall many a priest in cope and stole
Say requiem for Red Comyn's soul,
While I the blessed cross advance
And expiate this unhappy chance
In Palestine with sword and lance.
But, while content the Church should know
My conscience owns the debt I owe,
Unto De Argentine and Lorn
The name of traitor I return,
Bid them defiance stern and high,
And give them in their throats the lie!
These brief words spoke, I speak no more.
Do what thou wilt; my shrift is o'er.'

Disowned, deserted, and distressed,

I bless thee, and thou shalt be blessed!
Blessed in the hall and in the field,
Under the mantle as the shield.
Avenger of thy country's shame,
Restorer of her injured fame,
Blessed in thy sceptre and thy sword,
De Bruce, fair Scotland's rightful lord,
Blessed in thy deeds and in thy fame,
What lengthened honors wait thy name!
In distant ages sire to son

Shall tell thy tale of freedom won,
And teach his infants in the use
Of earliest speech to falter Bruce.
Go, then, triumphant! sweep along

Thy course, the theme of many a song! The Power whose dictates swell my breast Hath blessed thee, and thou shalt be blessed!

Enough my short-lived strength decays,
And sinks the momentary blaze.

Heaven hath our destined purpose broke,
Not here must nuptial vow be spoke;
Brethren, our errand here is o'er,
Our task discharged. - Unmoor, unmoor!'
His priests received the exhausted monk,
As breathless in their arms he sunk.
Punctual his orders to obey,

The train refused all longer stay,
Embarked, raised sail, and bore away.

I.

'Scaped noteless and without remark,
Two strangers sought the abbot's bark.
'Man every galley! — fly pursue!

The priest his treachery shall rue!
Ay, and the time shall quickly come
When we shall hear the thanks that Rome
Will pay his feigned prophecy!'
Such was fierce Lorn's indignant cry;
And Cormac Doil in haste obeyed,
Hoisted his sail, his anchor weighed -
For, glad of each pretext for spoil,
A pirate sworn was Cormac Doil.
But others, lingering, spoke apart,
The maid has given her maiden heart
To Ronald of the Isles,

And, fearful lest her brother's word
Bestow her on that English lord,
She seeks Iona's piles,
And wisely deems it best to dwell
A votaress in the holy cell

Until these feuds so fierce and fell
The abbot reconciles.'

V.

As, impotent of ire, the hall
Echoed to Lorn's impatient call-
My horse, my mantle, and my train!
Let none who honors Lorn remain!'.
Courteous but stern, a bold request
To Bruce De Argentine expressed:
'Lord Earl,' he said, 'I cannot chuse
But yield such title to the Bruce,
Though name and earldom both are gone
Since he braced rebel's armor on
But, earl or serf — rude phrase was thine
Of late, and launched at Argentine;
Such as compels me to demand
Redress of honor at thy hand.
We need not to each other tell

That both can wield their weapons well;
Then do me but the soldier grace
This glove upon thy helm to plac
Where we may meet in fight;
And I will say, as still I 've said,
Though by ambition far misled,
Thou art a noble knight.'

VI.

And I,' the princely Bruce replied,

Might term it stain on knighthood's pride That the bright sword of Argentine Should in a tyrant's quarrel shine;

But, for your brave request,

Be sure the honored pledge you gave
In every battle-field shall wave

Upon my helmet-crest;
Believe that if my hasty tongue
Hath done thine honor causeless wrong,
It shall be well redressed.

Thus parted they

-

VII.

for now, with soundLike waves rolled back from rocky ground, The friends of Lorn retire;

Each mainland chieftain with his train
Draws to his mountain towers again,
Pondering how mortal schemes prove vain
And mortal hopes expire.

But through the castle double guard
By Ronald's charge kept wakeful ward,
Wicket and gate were trebly barred

By beam and bolt and chain;
Then of the guests in courteous sort
He prayed excuse for mirth broke short,
And bade them in Artornish fort

In confidence remain.

Now torch and menial tendance led
Chieftain and knight to bower and bed,
And beads were told and Aves said,

And soon they sunk away
Into such sleep as wont to shed
Oblivion on the weary head
After a toilsome day.

VIII.

But soon uproused, the monarch cried To Edward slumbering by his side,

6

Awake, or sleep for aye!

Even now there jarred a secret door
A taper-light gleams on the floor -
Up, Edward! up, I say!

Some one glides in like midnight ghost -
Nay, strike not! 't is our noble host.'
Advancing then his taper's flame,
Ronald stept forth, and with him came
Dunvegan's chief - each bent the knee
To Bruce in sign of fealty

And proffered him his sword,
And hailed him in a monarch's style
As king of mainland and of isle

And Scotland's rightful lord.

'And O,' said Ronald, Owned of Heaven!
Say, is my erring youth forgiven,
By falsehood's arts from duty driven,
Who rebel falchion drew,

Yet ever to thy deeds of fame,
Even while I strove against thy claim,

Paid homage just and true?. 'Alas! dear youth, the unhappy time,' Answered the Bruce, 'must bear the crime

Since, guiltier far than you,

Even Ihe paused; for Falkirk's woes Upon his conscious soul arose.