The Elocutionist (1840-1850)/Fitz-James and Rhoderick Dhu

by Walter Scott

For other versions of this work, see Fitz-James and Rhoderick Dhu.

FITZ-JAMES & RHODERICK DHU.

The Chief in silence strode before,
And reached the torrent's sounding shore,
Which, daughter of three mighty lakes,
From Vennachar in silver breaks,
Sweeps through the plain, and ceaseless mines
On Bochastles mouldering lines,
Where Rome, the Empress of the world,
Of yore her eagle wings unfurled;
And here his course the Chieftain staid,
Threw down his target and his plaid,
And to the Lowland warrior said:
‘Bold Saxon to his promise just,
Vich-Alpin has discharged his trust,
This murderous Chief, this ruthless man,
This head of a rebellous clan.
Hath led thee safe through watch and ward,
Far past Clan-Alpine’s outmost guard.
Now man to man, and steel to steel,
A Chieftain’s vengeance thou shalt feel
See, here, all vantagless I stand,
Armed like thyself, with single brand;
For this is Coilantogle ford,
And thou must keep thee with thy sword.

The Saxon paused;—‘I ne’er delayed
When foeman bad me draw my blade;
Nay more, brave Chief, I vowed thy death
Yet sure thy fair and generous faith,
And my deep debt for life preserved,
A better meed have well deserved:
Can nought but blood our feud atone!
Are 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 bred
Between the living and the dead:
Who spills the foremost foeman’s life
His party conquers in the strife.’
'Then, by my word,' the Saxon said,
'The riddle is already read,
Seek yonder brake, beneath the cliff,—
'Their lies Red Murdoch, stark and stiff.
Thus Fate has solved her prophecy,
Then yield to Fate and not to me.'
Dark lightening flashed from Rhoderick's eye
Soars thy presumption then so high.
Because a wretched kern ye slew,
Homage to name to Rhoderick Dhu!
He yields not he, to man nor Fate!
Thou add'st but fuel to my hate!
My clans-man's blood demands revenge—
Not yet prepared?—By heaven I change
My thought, and hold thy valour light
As that of some vain carpet knight,
Who ill deserved my courteous care,
And whose best boast is but to wear
A braid of his fair lady's hair!
—'I thank thee, Rhoderick, for the word!
It warms my heart, it steels my sword;
For I have sworn this braid to stain
In the best blood that warms thy vein.
Now, truce, farewell! and ruth begone!
Yet think not that by the alone,
Proud Chief! can courtesy be shone,
Though not from copse, or heath, or cairn,
Start at my whistle clansman stern,
Of this small horn one feeble blast
Would fearful odds against the cast.
But fear not—doubt not—which thou wilt
We try this quarrel hilt to hilt'—
Then each at once his falchion drew,
Each on the ground his scabbard threw,
Each looked to sun, and stream, and plain,
As what they ne'er might see again;
Then foot, and point, and eye opposed
In dubious strife they darkly closed.

Ill far'd it then with Rhoderick Dhu,
That on the field his targe he threw,
Whose brazen studs and tough bull-hide
Had death so often dashed aside;
For, trained abroad his arms to wield,
Fitz-James's blade was sword and shield,
He practised every pass and ward,
Co thurst, to strike, to faint, to guard;
While less expert, but stronger far,
The Gael maintained unequal war.
Three times in closing strife they stood,
And thrice the Saxon blade drank blood;
No stinted draught, no scanty tide,
The gushing flood the tartans dyed.
Fierce Rhoderick felt the fatal drain,
And showered his blows like wintry rain:
And as firm rock, or castle roof,
Against the wintry shower is proof,
The foe, invulnerable still,
Boiled his wild rage by steady skill;
Till, at advantage ta'en, his brand
Forced Rhoderick's weapon from his hand,
And, backwards borne upon the lea,
Brought the proud Chieftain to his knee.
Now, yield thee, or by Him who made
The world, thy heart's blood dyes my blade!
Thy threats, thy mercy, I defy!
Let recreant yield who fears to die,'—
Like adder darting from his coil,
Like wolf that dashes through the toil.
Like mountain-cat who guards her young,
Full at Fitz-James’s throat he sprung;
Received, but wrecked not of a wound,
And locked his arms the foeman round.—
Now, gallant Saxon, hold thine own
No maiden’s hand is round thee thrown!
That desperate grasp thy frame might feel
Through bars of brass and triple steel!—
They tug, they strain!—down, down they go,
The Gael above, Fitz-James below.