XIV.
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Thou shak'st, good friend, thy tresses gray,--That pleading look, what can it sayBut what I own?--I grant him brave,But wild as Bracklinn's thundering wave;And generous,--save vindictive moodOr jealous transport chafe his blood:I grant him true to friendly band,As his claymore is to his hand;But O! that very blade of steelMore mercy for a foe would feel:I grant him liberal, to flingAmong his clan the wealth they bring,When back by lake and glen they wind,And in the Lowland leave behind,Where once some pleasant hamlet stood,A mass of ashes slaked with blood.The hand that for my father foughtI honor, as his daughter ought;But can I clasp it reeking redFrom peasants slaughtered in their shed?No! wildly while his virtues gleam,They make his passions darker seem,And flash along his spirit high,Like lightning o'er the midnight sky.While yet a child,--and children know,Instinctive taught, the friend and foe,--I shuddered at his brow of gloom,His shadowy plaid and sable plume;A maiden grown, I ill could bearHis haughty mien and lordly air:But, if thou join'st a suitor's claim,In serious mood, to Roderick's name.I thrill with anguish! or, if e'erA Douglas knew the word, with fear.To change such odious theme were best,--What think'st thou of our stranger guest? '--
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