XVIII.
Angus, the heir of Duncan’s line,
Sprung forth and seized the fatal sign.
In haste the stripling to his side
His father’s dirk and broadsword tied;
But when he saw his mother’s eye
Watch him in speechless agony,
Back to her open’d arms he flew,
Press’d on her lips a fond adieu—
“Alas!” she sobb’d,—“and yet, begone,
And speed thee forth, like Duncan’s son!”
One look he cast upon the bier,
Dash’d from his eye the gathering tear,
Breathed deep to clear his laboring breast,
And toss’d aloft his bonnet crest,
Then, like the high-bred colt, when, freed,
First he essays his fire and speed,
He vanish’d, and o’er moor and moss
Sped forward with the Fiery Cross.
Suspended was the widow’s tear,
While yet his footsteps she could hear;
And when she mark’d the henchman’s eye
Wet with unwonted sympathy,
“Kinsman,” she said, “his race is run,
That should have sped thine errand on;
The oak has fall’n,—the sapling bough
Is all Duncraggan’s shelter now.
Yet trust I well, his duty done,
The orphan’s God will guard my son.—
And you, in many a danger true,
At Duncan’s hest[201] your blades that drew,
To arms, and guard that orphan’s head!
Let babes and women wail the dead.”
Then weapon clang, and martial call,
Resounded through the funeral hall,
While from the walls the attendant band
Snatch’d sword and targe, with hurried hand;
And short and flitting energy
Glanced from the mourner’s sunken eye,
As if the sounds to warrior dear
Might rouse her Duncan from his bier.
But faded soon that borrow’d force;
Grief claim’d his right, and tears their course.