r so,
For I have seen these scars run full and white,
And heard their trumpetings as they rush'd madly
Adown the spray-sown steep, past wood and knoll,
To mingle with the waters of the lake
Vexed with the storm and sounding loud in sympathy.
What have we here? What human trace of times
When hearts o'erflowed, and hand and steel were swift,
And red in the flashing of a hasty thought?
Ah me! these times, these woful times when word
And blow were wed, and none could sunder them,
And honour'd live! See yonder isle set single
In the lake, near by where Earn darts swiftly 'neath
The rustic bridge to bear the music of the place
To broader Tay, who murmurs from afar
In the rich harmony of his many streams--yon isle,
The haunt of lovers now, where hearts that touch
And thrill, cling closer in the eerie sense
Of fear that lurks amid the tumbled stones
Of robbers' lair. Here, once upon a time,
When might was right, and men made wrongful
Gain of Nature's fastnesses, a ruffian couched
And preyed upon his kind. Long time he throve,
But vengeance woke at length, and the heavy tread
Of frowning men from far Loch Tay--skiff-laden.
Adown the glen they came one moonless night,
Goaded by tingling sneer of white-hair'd sire.
They rest where Tarken pours his scanty tide,
Then silently--nor moon nor star appearing--
Launch forth upon the lake, and softly steal
Towards the caitiff's fire gleaming through the dark
Like blood-shot eye. All saving one, and he
Was left to skirt the shore and give the foe
Rough welcome should he 'scape to land. Who then
Fair-hair'd and young stood there in melting mood,
With all his mother in his swimming eyes,
Of abbot's line--with dirk half drawn, fearing,
Hoping, praying, as his gentler nature bade
That life and light would not go out together.
The hope seem'd vain. From out the gloom there came
The grinding keel--the tread of hurrying feet--
Clashing of words, of steel, and all was dark--
And all was still. But hark! a sound--the faint
Breathing of one who swims with pain, the plash
Of nerveless hands nearer and nearer comes,
Yet ever fainter. What boots it now to have
Escaped the vengeful swords that smote his kin?
The waves engulf him and his bubbling cry.
But unhoped help is near--a friendly word--
A plunge, then stroke on stroke, and timeously
A hand to save. Say not, ye thoughtless