XVIII.
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Bearing before them in their courseThe relics of the archer force,Like wave with crest of sparkling foam,Right onward did Clan-Alpine come.Above the tide, each broadsword brightWas brandishing like beam of light,Each targe was dark below;And with the ocean's mighty swing,When heaving to the tempest's wing,They hurled them on the foe.I heard the lance's shivering crash,As when the whirlwind rends the ash;I heard the broadsword's deadly clang,As if a hundred anvils rang!But Moray wheeled his rearward rankOf horsemen on Clan-Alpine's flank,--"My banner-man, advance!I see," he cried, "their column shake.Now, gallants! for your ladies' sake,Upon them with the lance!"--The horsemen dashed among the rout,As deer break through the broom; Their steeds are stout, their swords are out,They soon make lightsome room.Clan-Alpine's best are backward borne--Where, where was Roderick then!One blast upon his bugle-hornWere worth a thousand men.And refluent through the pass of fearThe battle's tide was poured;Vanished the Saxon's struggling spear,Vanished the mountain-sword.As Bracklinn's chasm, so black and steep,Receives her roaring linnAs the dark caverns of the deepSuck the wild whirlpool in,So did the deep and darksome passDevour the battle's mingled mass;None linger now upon the plainSave those who ne'er shall fight again.
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