. The poetical works of Sir Walter Scott, baronet; ed. with a careful revision of the text. hy death ;Yet sure thy fair and generous faith,And my deep debt for life preserved,A better meed have well deserved:Can naught but blood our feud there no means ? — No, stranger, none !And hear, — to fire thy flagging zeal, —The Saxon cause rests on thy steel;For thus spoke Fate by prophet bredBetween the living and the dead : Who spills the foremost foemans life,His party conquers in the strife. Then, by my word, the Saxon said, The riddle is already yonder brake beneath the cliff,—
. The poetical works of Sir Walter Scott, baronet; ed. with a careful revision of the text. hy death ;Yet sure thy fair and generous faith,And my deep debt for life preserved,A better meed have well deserved:Can naught but blood our feud there no means ? — No, stranger, none !And hear, — to fire thy flagging zeal, —The Saxon cause rests on thy steel;For thus spoke Fate by prophet bredBetween the living and the dead : Who spills the foremost foemans life,His party conquers in the strife. Then, by my word, the Saxon said, The riddle is already yonder brake beneath the cliff,—There lies Red Murdoch, stark and stiff. THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 223 Thus Fate hath solved her prophecy;Then yield to Fate, and not to James at Stirling let us go,When, if thou wilt be still his foe,Or if the King shall not agreeTo grant thee grace and favor free. Not yet prepared ? — By heaven, I changeMy thought, and hold thy valor lightAs that of some vain carpet ill deserved my courteous care,And whose best boast is but to wearA braid of his fair ladys I plight mine honor, oath, and wordThat, to thy native strengths, each advantage shalt thou standThat aids thee now to guard thy land. Dark lightning flashed from Rodericks eye Soars thy presumption, then, so a wretched kern ye slew,Homage to name to Roderick Dhu ?He yields not, he. to man nor Fate !Thou addst but fuel to my hate : —My clansmans blood demands revenge. I thank thee, Roderick, for the word!It nerves my heart, it steels my sword ;For I have sworn this braid to stainIn the best blood that warms thy , truce, farewell! and, ruth, begone ! —Yet think not that by thee Chief ! can courtesy be shown ;Though not from copse, or heath, or at my whistle clansmen this small horn one feeble blastWould fearful odds against thee fear not — doubt not — which thou wilt —We try this quarrel hilt to hilt. 2 24 SCOT
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