Читать книгу Highland Legends - Sir Thomas Dick Lauder - Страница 8

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The raven of Denmark stretched his broad wing,

And shot his dark flight o’er Moray’s fair fields;

And Findhorn’s wild echoes were heard to ring

With ill-omened croak, and the clash of shields.

And the yelling shouts of the conflict broil,

As Dane and Scot met in mortal toil—

And cruel and fierce was the battle tide

That raged on rocky Findhorn’s side;

And red was his wave, as it wailed away,

By that plain where his slaughtered warriors lay.

Yet stark stern in death was each hero’s frown!

Each fell not till crushed by an hundred foes!

But, though hordes of Norsemen had borne them down,

Dire vengeance had soothed their dying throes.

For the bloody fight had not been won

Till drooped to the west the slanting sun,

And his golden beams a bright glory shed

Around each dying hero’s head,

And lighted his soul with a cheering ray,

E’er his dim eye closed on the parting day.

But Findhorn’s dark heights, and his wizzard wave,

Were lighted anon by far fiercer rays,

Calling bosoms abroad, that beat warm and brave,

To muster around the tall beacon’s blaze.

And now, as afar o’er the plains they look,

Where glistens with flame each winding brook,

Red ruin enwraps both tower and town,

And wild Norsemen’s shouts reach the beacon Doun;

And by shrieks of woe their hearts are wrung,

Till each Scottish breast to revenge is strung.

Whose steed-tramp resounds down the woody glen?

Who bears, as he rides, his proud crest so high,

His brow circled with gems, as chief of men,

And gold shining bright on his panoply?

’Tis Fergus the King! The broad signal fire,

And the Norsemen’s ravage, have roused his ire;

And, see how his clustering horsemen sweep

From the forest dark and the dingle deep!

And, hark to the tread of the many feet

That crowd to those heights where the waters meet!

Full little does Sewyn, the Norse King, know,

As his ruthless Danes rifle the peaceful plain,

That the Pass of the Dhuie conceals a foe

Of far other mould than the shepherd swain.

And far other herds, and far other flocks

Than shepherds may feed, lie hid by these rocks.

He doubts not but all who a spear could wield

Have fall’n in the strife of one bloody field.

Onward he presses, and, blindly led,

Go his Norsemen, with hopes of plunder fed.

The current was rapid, the stream was deep,

And the cumbered waters foamed high and flashed,

As horsemen and foot, from the shore so steep,

Through the Dhuie in thick confusion dashed.

But scarce were they rid of the rushing tide,

Nor yet had they formed on the meadow’s side,

When by bursting yells the skies were rent,

With the gleam of arms glowed the firmament,

And down, like the lightning’s fiery shower,

Came King Fergus’ force on King Sewyn’s power.

And quailed the black raven of Denmark then,

And he cowered his wing, and he croaked his fear;

And wide with the eagle’s scream rang the glen,

As eager she snuffed up her feast so near;

And each Norseman’s heart, though ne’er so bold,

With panic-dread grew sick and cold,

Nor dared they abide the battle shock,

But fled away like some startled flock,

Or some scattered herd of timid deer,

When the howl of the gaunt mountain wolves they hear.

The slaughter was wide, and the vengeance deep,

That the Moray-men took of their Danish foes;

But yet deeper revenge did Findhorn reap

As high, in his anger, his billows rose.

For he had wailed that his wave before

The dye of his children’s life’s-blood bore;

But now, full glutted with hostile dead,

He reared him aloft, shook his oak-crowned head,

And, roaring with fearful revelry,

He swept off his spoils to his kindred sea.

Who sits her and sighs on the castled isle

That on Loch-an-Dorbe’s dark breast doth float?

And why lights her eye with a radiant smile

As the moonbeam falls soft on that little boat?

A fairy thing it seems to be,

It glides o’er the wave so silently;

And like such sprites of witching power

It vanished beneath a shadowy tower,

As its slender side lost the moonbeam’s ray,

Nor left it one trace of its liquid way.

That maiden who sat in the castled isle

Scanned that little boat with no idle gaze;

And I ween that her eyes with their radiant smile

Had hope blent with love in their glowing rays.

Malvina she was that maiden fair,

King Fergus’ daughter, who sat her there.

She’s gone!—and her pulse may hardly beat,

As in silence move her trembling feet

To the dungeon where lonely her lover lies,

And wastes the night in despairing sighs,

The son of King Sewyn in battle ta’en,

The gallant Prince Harrold, the brave young Dane.

She unlocked the bolts with a master key,

And Prince Harrold sprang forth to his lady’s side.

“Love favours our flight!” softly whispered she,

“At the postern stairs doth the boat abide.”

Then they stole away by the shadowy wall.

Yet she sighed to quit her father’s hall,

And her bosom heaved, and she dropped a tear,

Whilst her lover essayed to hush her fear,

And she clung to his arm as the little boat

Did o’er the wide lake in silence float.

’Twas a right trusty page that gave them way,

And he landed them ’neath the greenwood tree,

Where tied to the oak was a courser grey;

Prince Harrold to saddle sprang merrily.

The fair Malvina behind him placed,

With snow-white arms her lover embraced.

The sun rose to welcome the bonny bride,

As they fled them straight to the Findhorn’s side;

But its stream was swollen and barred their flight,

And drove them for refuge to Dulsie’s height.

“Go, bring me Prince Harrold,” King Fergus cried,

His royal eyes sparkling with beams of joy,

“My daughter Malvina shall be his bride,

And Moray be freed from the Dane’s annoy.

Envoy to me hath King Sewyn sent,

And peace shall their bridal knot cement.”

But Harrold was gone and Malvina fair!

Yet a sharp-witted page could teach him where,

And quick spoke the boy; for the King had told

Such glad tidings, I ween, as made him bold.

“To boat!” cried King Fergus, with eager haste,

And—“To horse!” when he touched the farther shore,

And furious he spurred through the forest waste,

As to Findhorn’s stream his swift course he bore.

The lovers from Dulsie’s wooded height

Saw Moray’s lord coming in kingly might.

’Twas better to tempt the swollen tide,

Than captive be torn from his bonny bride.

Harrold lifted Malvina to saddle again,

And down Dulsie’s slope urged his steed amain.

Oh, Findhorn shrieked loud to warn them away!

But louder yet did the water-fiends yell,

Rebellious they laughed at his empty sway,

As vainly he strove their wild rage to quell.

And the sire’s despairing cry was vain,

“Malvina! my child! oh, turn again!”

But the lovers, twined on the courser grey,

Were swept from his outstretchd eyes away,

And he smote his bosom and tore his hair

As adown the big stream he sought the pair.

Why tarries the knight in his lonely way

At yon cairn on flowery Ferness holm?

Why scans he yon pillar, so rough and grey,

That rises from out its rudely-heaped dome?

’Twas there the love-twined youth and maid,

Unsevered in death, were sadly laid;

And there did King Fergus and Sewyn weep

When they found them locked in death’s cold sleep,

And Findhorn still lingers around their grave,

And sighs for their fate with repentant wave.