Warrior of the savage breast,
Fell Macranuil 'twas thy crest,
'Twas the banner of thy race
Which the wondering eye might trace,
As it wound by wood and brake,
Rolling stream and stilly lake,
As it fluttered for a while
On the brow of dark Torgoil,
Or descended the rough side
Of the Moristone's wild tide.
Silent is Macranuil's tread
And his followers' stealthy speed,
As they cross the lovely glen
Where Urquhart's waters, flow between
Hillocks where the zephyrs dwell,
In the blue and fragrant bell:
Groves where echo answers ever
The low murmurs of the river;
And the mountain top is seen
Snow-speck'd in the distant scene.
Mhicranuil! why that softened pace?
Thou seek'st not now the wary chase?
Why do'st thou and thy warriors keen
So fold your plaids that nought is seen
Of arms or armour, even the lance
Whereon your pendant used to glance
Its blazoned "Lamh dhearg" 'mid the rays
Of solar light, or battle blaze,
Has disappeared, and each wild look
Scowls at the music of the brook,
As if sweet nature seemed to scan
The inmost heart of guilty man?
Oh! can you in a scene so loved
By all that's holy stand unmoved?
Can vengeance in that heart be found
Which vibrates on this blessed ground?
Can that lone deep cathedral bell
Cast all around its sacred spell?
And yet on ruthless murder bent,
Its voice to thee in vain be sent?
Mhicranuil? raise thy haggard eye,
And say beneath the glowing sky
Is there a spot where man may rest
More beautiful, more truly blest
Than where the Beauly pours its stream
Through nature's all-romantic Dream,[A]
Down to that ridge which bounds the south
Of Nephia's salmon-spangled mouth?
The voice of praise was heard to peal
From Cillechriost's low holy aisle,
And on the Sabbath's stilly air
Arose the hopeful soul of pray'r:
When on the pastor's thoughtful face
Played something like a radiant grace;
Still was each thought to heaven sent,
Still was each knee in prayer bent;
Still did each heart in wonder rise
To something far beyond the skies,
When burst, as an electric cloud
Had wrapt them in a flaming shroud,
The roof above, the sides around,
The altar—nay the very ground
Seemed burning, mingled with the air
In one wild universal flare!
Hark, heaven! through the lurid air
Sprung the wild scream of mad despair,
Those that so late did breath but love,
Whose kindred hearts were interwove,
Now tore away strong nature's ties
Amidst her stronger agonies;
Affection, frantic, burst the band
That linked them often hand to hand,
And rushed along the maddening tide
Which rolled in flames from side to side.
Eager the crowded porch to gain
In hopes of safety. Ah! how vain?
The demon ministers of death.
From stern Glengarrie's land of heath
Stood bristled round the burning fane
Like hells last hopeless, hideous chain,
That even the infant might not die
Beneath a brighter, cooler sky,
Whilst in their savageness of joy
The war-pipe screams their victory.
PIOBREACHD CILLECHRIOST.
Ho! Clanchonich? mark the blaze
Reddening all your kindred skies,
Hear ye not your children's cries
Welcoming Macranuil?
Hear ye not the eagle scream
O'er the curling, crackling flame
Which flies to heaven with the name
Of glorious Clandonuil?
Ho! horo? the war-note swell,
Burst aloud Clanchonich's wail!
Hark! it is their wild farewell
To Allan-du-Macranuil!
Never yet did victor smile
On a nobler funeral pile,
Than rushes from this holy aisle
In memory of Clandonuil!
Never shall pale sorrow's tear
Blanch the cheek that slumbers here,
They have pressed a warmer bier
For Allan-du-Macranuil!
Never shall a footstep roam
From their dreary voiceless home
They have slept in one red tomb
For grateful Clandonuil!