University of Virginia Library

‘While the red glaring torches illumine the cave,
Bring the wine that was bought by the blood of the brave!
No coward's pale lip
Of the liquor shall sip
While we drink to our comrades that lie in the grave!

‘We gained it in strife, and in danger we won;
But we merrily drink now the battle is done!
And the goblet we quaff
While we merrily laugh,
Nor to fill it anew the same danger we'll shun.

‘Then fill the bright goblets—replenish the whole!
Pour, pour the rich liquor that gladdens the soul;
For remorse we defy
When the goblet is by,
And conscience and care are soon drowned in the bowl.’

Thus sung the bandit crew, and as they sung,
Wildly their harsh, discordant voices rung;
And jarring echoes filled the vaulted cave
As each harsh voice joined rudely in the stave;
And when they ceased, the scoffing jest gave birth
To sounds of laughter—loud and boisterous mirth;
Or all was hushed in silence round while one
Triumphant told of deeds of horror done;
Or boasting speech and bitter mockings rose
To angry words, and threatenings to blows
And bloody contest, till the din swells high
With shouts of fury, pain, and blasphemy.

But instant sunk the tumult and the din,
As suddenly the Chieftain came within;
His tall, majestic, and commanding form
Had been depressed beneath misfortune's storm;
And on his brow care's lineaments uncouth
Belie his age and rob him of his youth.
And, save when all convulsed, his features show
He strives within for mastery with woe;
While half his agitated frame reveals
The inward agony his pride conceals;
His face and form assume the settled air
And wonted attitude of calm despair.

He was not formed by Nature for the part
That he now played—once foreign to his heart.
He had been formed to love; but 'twas his fate
To meet with none but who deserved his hate.
He had been mild, but injuries had fired,
And with a savage sullenness inspired;
Repeated wrongs had turned his breast to steel,
And all but these he had forgot to feel.

Apart from all, within a dark recess,
He sat him down in gloomy silentness,
Where he was wont to sit in gloomy thought
O'er dark designs with woe and fury fraught,
And his wild brain each frenzied plan revolved,
Or acts of daring enterprise resolved;
Even now, thus darkly did he meditate
One last sad act to signalize his hate—
One deed of retribution to be hurled
To 'venge the wrongs he suffered from the world!

Nor oft the robbers ventured to intrude
By careless noise upon his thoughtful mood;
And fewer still e'er strive by curious speech
The secret purport of his plans to reach.
One look—one word—the intrusive speech repressed,
And the inquiry hushed, ere scarce expressed;
So was he ever feared and held in awe—
They crouched to him who spurned at every law!

Wolf only to address the Chieftain dared,
Nor for repulses oft repeated cared.
Next to the Chief they feared and hated him
Whose joy was blood and cruelty his whim.
His sheathless blade was never known to rust,
Nor the fresh gore e'er suffered to encrust;
Peace he abhorred, and endless warfare waged,
In jarring strife, eternal broils engaged.
Ambitious, too,—impatient of control,—
Subjection grated on his haughty soul,
And made him—spurning at his leader's sway—
First to rebel and latest to obey.
And now, with angry tone the Bandit spoke,
And on the Chieftain's reverie thus broke—
‘Say, do you scorn us, that you shun our feast,
For that invites not your contempt at least;
Our wine is good, and even Dacre's Lord
Scarce sees such venison smoke upon his board.
Such is our feast—would it were never worse,
Nor more deserving your contempt than us.’

Up rose the Chief in haste, but not a word
Implied the discontented speech was heard.
‘To arms,’ he cried, ‘to arms with speed prepare,
This night our final enterprise to share,
And then we part, for 'mid these wilds I see
No firm security remains for me.’

He spoke—they lingered still, and some expressed
Their discontent in murmurs half repressed—
‘When steals our wearied limbs repose from toil,
While we make merry o'er our hard-earned spoil,
This very night we fondly hoped at last
To rest and revel after labours past;
And, as I live, a feast, 'twas our belief,
Would celebrate the accession of our Chief.’

‘A feast! a banquet! rather let it show
In my life's calendar a day of woe!
A day that rose in gloom is lowering yet,
And soon, I fear, as gloomily will set;
And for your calling, think you I have prized
Your avocation, nor yourselves despised?
Have I your savage, brutal deeds admired,
Nor cursed the sordid motives that inspired?
No! I have viewed ye as a scourge designed—
A plague—a curse—to chasten humankind.
As such, as instruments I chose you, then,
To wreak my vengeance on ungrateful men!

‘And in your banquets did I ever sip?
Your food untasted ever pass my lip?
No! I will eat wild berries and wild fruit,
Drink of the stream and famish on a root,
Couch in a cave and lodge me where I can,
Ere I will now hold anything of man!
And, hear this truth,—the plainest morsel now,
By honest labour, earned with sweating brow,
Were dearer, sweeter far, to me at least,
Than all the viands in your guilty feast!

Enough of this. Time hurries on! Draw near;
For once my plan and all its purport hear,
That, known more fully, you may judge aright,
You join or not my enterprise to-night!’
In deep attention,—hushed without a sound,—
With wondering eagerness they circle round;
Ne'er had he deigned before one word to hold
In converse with them or his plans had told;
But now he speaks, for once without command,
And the mute robbers, listening, round him stand.

‘Who has not heard the Earl Glenallan's name,
And been familiar with his warlike fame?
Who, by his king ungratefully repaid,
Left courts and kings and sought the rural shade,
Till roused from happy indolence he heard
The plaint his bondaged countrymen preferred,
And heard the summons to his patriot hand
To burst the fetters that enslaved his land;
'Twas then reluctantly he drew his sword
Against the king for whom his blood had poured,
But poured, alas, in vain;—who does not know
His combats, victories, and overthrow?
Though all his perils, both by land and sea,
And sorrows since, are only known to me.

‘Defeated and deserted—under ban—
Chased like a tiger by the hate of man;
By day through lonely wilds he urged his flight,
And couched beneath Heaven's canopy at night.
Alone he fled—his tenantry's goodwill
And wishes for his welfare followed still;
But more they dared not—till, by happy chance,
Two boldly aided his escape to France.

‘But ere he went he bade a long adieu
To one, the last, the only friend he knew;
To him confided his intended wife—
His love, his hope, his all, and more than life;
And then he hurried from the ingrate strand,
But first bequeathed his blessing to his land.

‘In France he covered all his deeds with shame,
And, first, for aye resigned the patriot's name.
Cursed be the day—the era of his fall—
He gave his hand in friendship to the Gaul;
Ne'er might his foes so well exult till then,
Nor he deserved thus of his countrymen;
Ne'er had he raised before his traitor hand
Against the welfare of his native land;
His deeds were blasted and his shame was sealed.
There first he fought and first was known to greet
A joyful feeling in his own defeat;
Oft had he sighed to join in fight once more
With those he led to victory before;
But, they victorious,—'twere a coward's deed!
He sighed, and left it for the day of need.
It came. He marked the Gaul's superior force—
Resistless, bursting its triumphant course.
He left the conquerors in joyful haste,
And fought when ruin and defeat menaced.
Again he conquered, and returned once more
With hopes rekindled to his native shore,
And fondly thought this service might recall
His country's love and make amends for all.
In vain! His service they remembered not,
But all, except his many faults, forgot,
And drove him into solitude to find
A refuge with the vilest of his kind.
And now, to fill the measure of his woe,
His friend must strike the last inhuman blow.
This night—save we avert the guilty deed,
Or his cold heart, like that he tortures, bleed—
He weds the hand and heart he basely stole,
And whelms keen anguish o'er Glenallan's soul!
Love, friendless, poor—yet while my arm is strong,
And my blade keen, I can avenge the wrong.
Till now I've righted others' cause alone,
But now Glenallan shall avenge his own!’

Awhile the robbers paused in deep amaze,
And on the Chieftain turned their earnest gaze,
Not that they pondered aught unusual now
In the dark workings of his gloomy brow;
But ne'er before they heard his lofty name,
Nor knew they had a Chieftain of such fame.

He spoke again: ‘Your guilty hands are red,
And blush with blood too often they have shed.
Many perchance may feel in after times
The woe, the misery that tracked your crimes;
But can remorse or conscience now recall
One deed as black as this among them all?
If so, remain, unworthy of the care
To speed the chastening you ought to share.
Speak! What so sacred to a Highland breast
As is the claim of safety for his guest,
And far more sacred if he be distrest?
'Twas thus we hailed the Stuart when he fled,
And spurned the gold that hung upon his head:
Was there a wretch, a traitor so accurst,
A seeming friend who dared betray his trust?

‘Lead on!—We go! The traitor's heart shall bleed,
Our hands shall aid, our tongues approve the deed.
Long live our Chieftain, and all traitors die!’
They cried—one only joined not in the cry.
'Twas Wolf! ‘I say not so,’ with scornful smile
He said, and gazed upon his brand the while.
‘Could this relate the deeds its edge had done,—
Lost in amaze ye would forget that one,
As each succeeding each you found them still
All brighter far, or blacker, if you will,’—
And o'er his haggard features as he spoke
A scornful smile of exultation broke.
All have some passion, pride, or ruling will,
And his to be in all superior still;
And now he gloried o'er the blood he spilt,
That made him paramount, though but in guilt.

And now the sign, the bustle, and the din
Of preparation reigns without—within;
Loud ring the arms, and loud the bugle strain,
Recalls the stragglers to the cave again.
They came in weary groups, but gaily bring
Fresh game and booty for the banqueting,
But, lo! deserted is the festive board,
And each girds on his armour and his sword,
While all their converse and their words imply
Some daring enterprise and booty nigh.
They marvel and inquire the Chief's intent,
And rather give submission than consent.
They arm—the order given—the route is known,—
They hurry out, and Wolf is left alone.
The sun, still lingering in the golden west,
Slow sinks behind the purple mountain's crest
That rears its head sublime; and far below
The lake's calm bosom sparkles in the glow,
Save where is seen an undulating shade
By frowning rocks and woods and forests made;
Or the tall vessel gently seems to glide
In silent majesty along the tide,
Her white sails wooing the soft zephyr's breath,
Scarce rippling in the dancing wave beneath
That rolls with gentle murmuring to lave
The willow twig that loves to kiss the wave.

One bright departing ray of golden fire
Still hangs reluctant on the village spire;
Like Hope's last dream, it fondly lingers yet,
Then leaves the highest pinnacle—'tis set!
And now the mountains, blending with the sky,
Or, lost in clouds, elude the gazer's eye,
And wide and far the lengthened shadows round,
Creep slow and silent o'er the darkened ground;
And travelling on, obscuring hill and dale,
The shades of night enshroud the quiet vale.

Now sleeps the peasant, and forgets the while,
In sweet oblivion, his daily toil;
Now rest the weary, and perchance in sleep
The wretched and unhappy cease to weep;
Some few in pain, or revelry or woe,
Or worldly cares, its influence forego.
Perhaps it flies the dark uneasy bed,
Where the pale invalid reclines his head;
But chiefly Guilt its balmy sweets forsake,
And the cursed murderer and robber wake,
For Conscience and Remorse, that sleep not, seem
To sting when waked and haunt their every dream.