Plate LXXVIII.
The Lady of the Lake.
Canto III. The Gathering.
VIII.
'Twas all prepared—and from the rock,
A goat, the patriarch of the flock,
Before the kindling pile was laid,
And pierced by Roderick's ready blade.
* * * *
The grisly priest with murmuring prayer,
A slender crosslet framed with care.
* * * *
The cross, thus formed, he held on high,
With wasted hand and haggard eye,
And strange and mingled feelings woke,
While his anathema he spoke.
IX.
* * * *
He paused—the word the vassals took,
With forward step and fiery look,
On high their naked brands they shook,
Their clattering targets wildly strook;
And first, in murmur low,
Then, like the billow in his course,
That far to seaward finds his source,
And flings to shore his mustered force,
Burst with loud roar, their answer hoarse,
"Woe to the traitor, woe!"
