XV.
“What think I of him? Woe the while
That brought such wanderer to our isle!
Thy father’s battle brand, of yore
For Tine-man[115] forged by fairy lore,
What time he leagued, no longer foes,
His Border spears with Hotspur’s bows,
Did, self-unscabbarded, foreshow
The footstep of a secret foe.
If courtly spy hath harbor’d here,
What may we for the Douglas fear?
What for this island, deem’d of old
Clan-Alpine’s last and surest hold?
If neither spy nor foe, I pray
What yet may jealous Roderick say?
—Nay, wave not thy disdainful head,
Bethink thee of the discord dread
That kindled, when at Beltane[116] game
Thou ledst the dance with Malcolm Græme;
Still, though thy sire the peace renew’d,
Smolders in Roderick’s breast the feud.
Beware!—But hark, what sounds are these?
My dull ears catch no faltering breeze;
No weeping birch, nor aspens wake,
Nor breath is dimpling in the lake;
Still is the canna’s[117] hoary beard;
Yet, by my minstrel faith, I heard—
And hark again! some pipe of war
Sends the bold pibroch from afar.”