He turns!—a band of foes have rallied,
And on his rear impetuous sallied,-
Pressing to where young Orchay's arm
Yet deals its deathblows, free from harm;
And he it plainly is, they mean
To capture now, their files between!
Heading this band,-first man of note
Whom Dochart yet in sight has got,
He marks, remote but little way,
Stalwart M'Gregor of Glen-Strae;
And sees at once the end revealed,
For which that Chief 's to-night a-field,-
Young Orchay prisoner thus to take,
And, for her threatened treasure's sake,
The mother straight his bride to make!
"Detested villain! traitor foul!
Let, to its fellow-fiends, thy soul
Be rather sped!"—thus Dochart cried,
As mid the band he rushed, and tried
To force his way to Gregor's side.
An echoing shout the Campbells raise !—
But, lo! a bolt that moment lays
Their young Chief prostrate mid their throng,
Like tall straight ash-tree stretched along,
The warm blood gushing from his wound!
His side next instant Dochart found,
And, while big tears his face bedewed,
Like lion o'er the Youth he stood;
With blow on blow, to pieces hewing
All who rushed on, the prize pursuing ;
Till, by mere numbers overborne,
And bleeding, faint, with toil outworn,
He staggered, aimless struck, and fell!
Now, o'er the prostrate, fight pell-mell,
A mingled, blind, infuriate crowd:
Campbells, to death or vengeance vowed;
And Gregors, eager to secure
Their triumph,- -now too near and sure!
At length, his horn the victor blows.
The victory won each Gregor knows;
And from the carnage glad recedes,
To rest his arm, and count his deeds;
And to the vanquished leisure give
Quarter to supplicate, and live.
Only a wounded, wearied few,
Yield for this boon their foes to sue.
The rest,-alas, how small a band!
Skilled in each path and pass at hand,
Steal, mid the hurry, noise, and gloom,
Forth from the scene of strife and doom,
And leave the victors, watch to keep
O'er foe and friend in death that sleep,
Till morn detecting light shall cast
On all, by battle's whirlwind massed.
HIGH up the shoulder of Ben-Loy,
From whence afar may range the
The whole length of Strath-Fillan through,
Till Ben-More's ridge arrests the view;
Thence northward, over lone Glengyle,
Where rise the peaks, in rugged file,
O'er Rannoch's dreary waste that loom ;—
Thence to the west, where, wrapt in gloom,
The Black Mount Alps appear to prop
Heaven's cloudy skirts, that on them drop ;-
And where, at hand, Ben-Doran throws
His bulk aloft, the view to close,
Till, downward, Cruachan uprears
His sky-kissed head, and Awe appears
Sleeping in beauty at his base !-
Where this wide range the eye surveys,
On western shoulder of Ben-Loy,
A massy pile of rock you spy,
From whose steep edge, the steadiest head
That dared to look, would shrink with dread,
So high it shoots,-so pronely down
Would drop whate'er was from it thrown,
And, on the floor of splintered rock,
Be dashed to pieces with the shock.
Level with this rock-splintered floor,
Yawns, half-concealed, a gloomy door,-
So low, he on his knees must creep,
Who into its recess would peep;
And, entrance through this door-way got,
Is found within a roomy grot,
With high peaked roof of solid stone,-
Floor smooth and flat,-sides overgrown
With lady-fern, and lichens grey;
While, over-head, a frequent ray
From stalactite like lightning darts,
And by degrees the gloomiest parts
Helps to make obvious to the sight,
Oppressed at first with utter night.
Within this cave, against its side,
In middle distance now was spied
A good turf fire, whose flickering blaze
Shed through the cave a ruddy haze,
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