XXIII.
“Who is this maid? what means her lay?
She hovers o’er the hollow way,
And flutters wide her mantle gray,
As the lone heron spreads his wing,
By twilight, o’er a haunted spring.”—
“’Tis Blanche of Devan,” Murdoch said,
“A crazed and captive Lowland maid,
Ta’en on the morn she was a bride,
When Roderick foray’d Devan-side;
The gay bridegroom resistance made,
And felt our Chief’s unconquer’d blade.
I marvel she is now at large,
But oft she ’scapes from Maudlin’s charge.—
Hence, brain-sick fool!”—He raised his bow:—
“Now, if thou strikest her but one blow,
I’ll pitch thee from the cliff as far
As ever peasant pitch’d a bar!”[264]—
“Thanks, champion, thanks!” the maniac cried,
And press’d her to Fitz-James’s side.
“See the gray pennons I prepare,
To seek my true love through the air!
I will not lend that savage groom,
To break his fall, one downy plume!
No!—deep amid disjointed stones,
The wolves shall batten[265] on his bones,
And then shall his detested plaid,
By bush and brier in mid air stayed,
Wave forth a banner fair and free,
Meet signal for their revelry.”—