XIV.
“Thou shakest, good friend, thy tresses gray,—
That pleading look, what can it say
But what I own?—I grant him[111] brave,
But wild as Bracklinn’s[112] thundering wave;
And generous—save[113] vindictive mood,
Or jealous transport, chafe his blood:
I grant him true to friendly band,
As his claymore is to his hand;
But oh! that very blade of steel
More mercy for a foe would feel:
I grant him liberal, to fling
Among his clan the wealth they bring,
When back by lake and glen they wind,
And in the Lowland leave behind,
Where once some pleasant hamlet stood,
A mass of ashes slaked[114] with blood.
The hand that for my father fought
I honor, as his daughter ought;
But can I clasp it reeking red,
From peasants slaughter’d in their shed?
No! wildly while his virtues gleam,
They make his passions darker seem,
And flash along his spirit high,
Like lightning o’er the midnight sky.
While yet a child,—and children know,
Instinctive taught, the friend and foe,—
I shudder’d at his brow of gloom,
His shadowy plaid, and sable plume;
A maiden grown, I ill could bear
His haughty mien and lordly air:
But, if thou join’st a suitor’s claim,
In serious mood, to Roderick’s name,
I thrill with anguish! or, if e’er
A Douglas knew the word, with fear.
To change such odious theme were best,—
What thinkst thou of our stranger guest?”