The Lady of the Lake: Canto 5 (excerpt)

"Have, then, thy wish!"--he whistled shrill,
   And he was answer'd from the hill;
   Wild as the scream of the curlew,
   From crag to crag the signal flew.
   Instant, through copse and heath,
   Bonnets and spears and bended bows;
   On right, on left, above, below,
   Sprung up at once the lurking foe;
   From shingles gray their lances start,
  The bracken bush sends forth the dart,
  The rushes and the willow-wand
  Are bristling into axe and brand,
  And every tuft of broom gives life
  To plaided warrior arm'd for strife.
  That whistle garrison'd the glen
  At once with full five hundred men,
  As if the yawning hill to heaven
  A subterranean host had given.
  Watching their leader's beck and will,
  All silent there they stood, and still.
  Like the loose crags whose threatening mass
  Lay tottering o'er the hollow pass,
  As if an infant's touch could urge
  Their headlong passage down the verge,
  With step and weapon forward flung,
  Upon the mountain-side they hung.
  The Mountaineer cast glance of pride
  Along Benledi's living side,
  Then fix'd his eye and sable brow
  Full on Fitz-James--"How say'st thou now?
  These are Clan-Alpine's warriors true;
  And, Saxon,--I am Roderick Dhu!"X

  Fitz-James was brave:--Though to his heart
  The life-blood thrill'd with sudden start,
  He mann'd himself with dauntless air,
  Return'd the Chief his haughty stare,
  His back against a rock he bore,
  And firmly placed his foot before:--
  "Come one, come all! this rock shall fly
  From its firm base as soon as I."
  Sir Roderick mark'd--and in his eyes
  Respect was mingled with surprise,
  And the stern joy which warriors feel
  In foemen worthy of their steel.
  Short space he stood, then waved his hand:
  Down sunk the disappearing band;
  Each warrior vanish'd where he stood,
  In broom or bracken, heath or wood;
  Sunk brand and spear and bended bow,
  In osiers pale and copses low;
  It seem'd as if their mother Earth
  Had swallow'd up her warlike birth.
  The wind's last breath had toss'd in air,
  Pennon, and plaid, and plumage fair,--
  The next but swept a lone hill-side,
  Where heath and fern were waving wide:
  The sun's last glance was glinted back,
  From spear and glaive, from targe and jack,--
  The next, all unreflected, shone
   On bracken green, and cold grey stone.XI

  Fitz-James look'd round--yet scarce believed
  The witness that his sight received;
  Such apparition well might seem
  Delusion of a dreadful dream.
  Sir Roderick in suspense he eyed,
  And to his look the Chief replied,
  "Fear nought--nay, that I need not say--
  But--doubt not aught from mine array.
  Thou art my guest;--I pledged my word
  As far as Coilantogle ford:
  Nor would I call a clansman's brand
  For aid against one valiant hand,
  Though on our strife lay every vale
  Rent by the Saxon from the Gael.
  So move we on;--I only meant
  To show the reed on which you leant,
  Deeming this path you might pursue
  Without a pass from Roderick Dhu."
  They moved:--I said Fitz-James was brave,
  As ever knight that belted glaive;
  Yet dare not say, that now his blood
  Kept on its wont and temper'd flood,
  As, following Roderick's stride, he drew
  That seeming lonesome pathway through,
  Which yet, by fearful proof, was rife
  With lances, that, to take his life,
  Waited but signal from a guide,
  So late dishonour'd and defied.
  Ever, by stealth, his eye sought round
  The vanish'd guardians of the ground,
  And still, from copse and heather deep,
  Fancy saw spear and broadsword peep,
  And in the plover's shrilly strain,
  The signal-whistle heard again.
  Nor breathed he free till far behind
  The pass was left; for then they wind
  Along a wide and level green,
  Where neither tree nor tuft was seen,
  Nor rush nor bush of broom was near,
 To hide a bonnet or a spear.XII

 The Chief in silence strode before,
 And reach'd that torrent's sounding shore
 Which, daughter of three mighty lakes,
 From Vennachar in silver breaks,
 Sweeps through the plain, and ceaseless mines
 On Bochastle the mouldering lines,
 Where Rome, the Empress of the world,
 Of yore her eagle wings unfurl'd.
 And here his course the Chieftain staid,
 Threw down his target and his plaid,
 And to the Lowland warrior said:--
 "Bold Saxon! to his promise just,
 Vich-Alpine has discharged his trust.