The shout was hushed on lake and fell, The Monk resumed his muttered spell:
Dismal and low its accents came, The while he scathed the Cross with flame;And the few words that reached the air, Although the holiest name was there, Had more of blasphemy than prayer.
But when he shook above the crowd Its kindled points, he spoke aloud:--'Woe to the wretch who fails to rear At this dread sign the ready spear!
For, as the flames this symbol sear, His home, the refuge of his fear, A kindred fate shall know;Far o'er its roof the volumed flame Clan-Alpine's vengeance shall proclaim, While maids and matrons on his name Shall call down wretchedness and shame, And infamy and woe.'
Then rose the cry of females, shrill As goshawk's whistle on the hill, Denouncing misery and ill, Mingled with childhood's babbling trill Of curses stammered slow;Answering with imprecation dread, 'Sunk be his home in embers red!
And cursed be the meanest shed That o'er shall hide the houseless head We doom to want and woe!'
A sharp and shrieking echo gave, Coir-Uriskin, thy goblin cave!
And the gray pass where birches wave On Beala-nam-bo.
