The wild rose, eglantine, and broomWasted around their rich perfume:The birch trees wept in fragrant balm,The aspens slept beneath the calm;The silver light, with quivering glance,Play’d on the water’s still expanse,—Wild were the heart whose passion’s swayCould rage beneath the sober ray!He felt its calm, that warrior guest,While thus he communed with his breast:—“Why is it at each turn I traceSome memory of that exiled race?Can I not mountain maiden spy,But she must bear the Douglas eye?Can I not view a Highland brand,But it must match the Douglas hand?Can I not frame a fever’d dream,But still the Douglas is the theme?I’ll dream no more—by manly mindNot even in sleep is will resign’d.My midnight orisons said o’er,I’ll turn to rest, and dream no more.”His midnight orisons he told,[84]A prayer with every bead of gold,Consign’d to Heaven his cares and woes,And sunk in undisturb’d repose;Until the heath cock shrilly crew,And morning dawn’d on Benvenue.
The wild rose, eglantine, and broomWasted around their rich perfume:The birch trees wept in fragrant balm,The aspens slept beneath the calm;The silver light, with quivering glance,Play’d on the water’s still expanse,—Wild were the heart whose passion’s swayCould rage beneath the sober ray!He felt its calm, that warrior guest,While thus he communed with his breast:—“Why is it at each turn I traceSome memory of that exiled race?Can I not mountain maiden spy,But she must bear the Douglas eye?Can I not view a Highland brand,But it must match the Douglas hand?Can I not frame a fever’d dream,But still the Douglas is the theme?I’ll dream no more—by manly mindNot even in sleep is will resign’d.My midnight orisons said o’er,I’ll turn to rest, and dream no more.”His midnight orisons he told,[84]A prayer with every bead of gold,Consign’d to Heaven his cares and woes,And sunk in undisturb’d repose;Until the heath cock shrilly crew,And morning dawn’d on Benvenue.
The wild rose, eglantine, and broom
Wasted around their rich perfume:
The birch trees wept in fragrant balm,
The aspens slept beneath the calm;
The silver light, with quivering glance,
Play’d on the water’s still expanse,—
Wild were the heart whose passion’s sway
Could rage beneath the sober ray!
He felt its calm, that warrior guest,
While thus he communed with his breast:—
“Why is it at each turn I trace
Some memory of that exiled race?
Can I not mountain maiden spy,
But she must bear the Douglas eye?
Can I not view a Highland brand,
But it must match the Douglas hand?
Can I not frame a fever’d dream,
But still the Douglas is the theme?
I’ll dream no more—by manly mind
Not even in sleep is will resign’d.
My midnight orisons said o’er,
I’ll turn to rest, and dream no more.”
His midnight orisons he told,[84]
A prayer with every bead of gold,
Consign’d to Heaven his cares and woes,
And sunk in undisturb’d repose;
Until the heath cock shrilly crew,
And morning dawn’d on Benvenue.
THE ISLAND.
At morn the blackcock trims his jetty wing,’Tis morning prompts the linnet’s[85]blithest lay,All Nature’s children feel the matin[86]springOf life reviving, with reviving day;And while yon little bark glides down the bay,Wafting the stranger on his way again,Morn’s genial influence roused a minstrel gray,And sweetly o’er the lake was heard thy strain,Mix’d with the sounding harp, O white-hair’d Allan-Bane![87]
At morn the blackcock trims his jetty wing,’Tis morning prompts the linnet’s[85]blithest lay,All Nature’s children feel the matin[86]springOf life reviving, with reviving day;And while yon little bark glides down the bay,Wafting the stranger on his way again,Morn’s genial influence roused a minstrel gray,And sweetly o’er the lake was heard thy strain,Mix’d with the sounding harp, O white-hair’d Allan-Bane![87]
At morn the blackcock trims his jetty wing,
’Tis morning prompts the linnet’s[85]blithest lay,
All Nature’s children feel the matin[86]spring
Of life reviving, with reviving day;
And while yon little bark glides down the bay,
Wafting the stranger on his way again,
Morn’s genial influence roused a minstrel gray,
And sweetly o’er the lake was heard thy strain,
Mix’d with the sounding harp, O white-hair’d Allan-Bane![87]
SONG.“Not faster yonder rowers’ mightFlings from their oars the spray,Not faster yonder rippling bright,That tracks the shallop’s course in light,Melts in the lake away,Than men from memory eraseThe benefits of former days;Then, stranger, go! good speed the while,Nor think again of the lonely isle.“High place to thee in royal court,High place in battled[88]line,Good hawk and hound for silvan sport,Where beauty sees the brave resort,The honor’d meed[89]be thine!True be thy sword, thy friend sincere,Thy lady constant, kind, and dear,And lost in love’s and friendship’s smileBe memory of the lonely isle.
SONG.“Not faster yonder rowers’ mightFlings from their oars the spray,Not faster yonder rippling bright,That tracks the shallop’s course in light,Melts in the lake away,Than men from memory eraseThe benefits of former days;Then, stranger, go! good speed the while,Nor think again of the lonely isle.
SONG.
“Not faster yonder rowers’ might
Flings from their oars the spray,
Not faster yonder rippling bright,
That tracks the shallop’s course in light,
Melts in the lake away,
Than men from memory erase
The benefits of former days;
Then, stranger, go! good speed the while,
Nor think again of the lonely isle.
“High place to thee in royal court,High place in battled[88]line,Good hawk and hound for silvan sport,Where beauty sees the brave resort,The honor’d meed[89]be thine!True be thy sword, thy friend sincere,Thy lady constant, kind, and dear,And lost in love’s and friendship’s smileBe memory of the lonely isle.
“High place to thee in royal court,
High place in battled[88]line,
Good hawk and hound for silvan sport,
Where beauty sees the brave resort,
The honor’d meed[89]be thine!
True be thy sword, thy friend sincere,
Thy lady constant, kind, and dear,
And lost in love’s and friendship’s smile
Be memory of the lonely isle.
SONG CONTINUED.“But if beneath yon southern skyA plaided stranger roam,Whose drooping crest and stifled sigh,And sunken cheek and heavy eye,Pine for his Highland home;Then, warrior, then be thine to showThe care that soothes a wanderer’s woe;Remember then thy hap erewhile,A stranger in the lonely isle.“Or if on life’s uncertain mainMishap shall mar thy sail;If faithful, wise, and brave in vain,Woe, want, and exile thou sustainBeneath the fickle gale;Waste not a sigh on fortune changed,On thankless courts, or friends estranged,But come where kindred worth shall smile,To greet thee in the lonely isle.”
SONG CONTINUED.“But if beneath yon southern skyA plaided stranger roam,Whose drooping crest and stifled sigh,And sunken cheek and heavy eye,Pine for his Highland home;Then, warrior, then be thine to showThe care that soothes a wanderer’s woe;Remember then thy hap erewhile,A stranger in the lonely isle.
SONG CONTINUED.
“But if beneath yon southern sky
A plaided stranger roam,
Whose drooping crest and stifled sigh,
And sunken cheek and heavy eye,
Pine for his Highland home;
Then, warrior, then be thine to show
The care that soothes a wanderer’s woe;
Remember then thy hap erewhile,
A stranger in the lonely isle.
“Or if on life’s uncertain mainMishap shall mar thy sail;If faithful, wise, and brave in vain,Woe, want, and exile thou sustainBeneath the fickle gale;Waste not a sigh on fortune changed,On thankless courts, or friends estranged,But come where kindred worth shall smile,To greet thee in the lonely isle.”
“Or if on life’s uncertain main
Mishap shall mar thy sail;
If faithful, wise, and brave in vain,
Woe, want, and exile thou sustain
Beneath the fickle gale;
Waste not a sigh on fortune changed,
On thankless courts, or friends estranged,
But come where kindred worth shall smile,
To greet thee in the lonely isle.”
As died the sounds upon the tide,The shallop reach’d the mainland side,And ere his onward way he took,The stranger cast a lingering look,Where easily his eye might reachThe Harper on the islet beach,Reclined against a blighted tree,As wasted, gray, and worn as he.To minstrel meditation given,His reverend brow was raised to heaven,As from the rising sun to claimA sparkle of inspiring flame.His hand, reclined upon the wire,Seem’d watching the awakening fire;So still he sate, as those who waitTill judgment speak the doom of fate;So still, as if no breeze might dareTo lift one lock of hoary hair;So still, as life itself were fled,In the last sound his harp had sped.
As died the sounds upon the tide,The shallop reach’d the mainland side,And ere his onward way he took,The stranger cast a lingering look,Where easily his eye might reachThe Harper on the islet beach,Reclined against a blighted tree,As wasted, gray, and worn as he.To minstrel meditation given,His reverend brow was raised to heaven,As from the rising sun to claimA sparkle of inspiring flame.His hand, reclined upon the wire,Seem’d watching the awakening fire;So still he sate, as those who waitTill judgment speak the doom of fate;So still, as if no breeze might dareTo lift one lock of hoary hair;So still, as life itself were fled,In the last sound his harp had sped.
As died the sounds upon the tide,
The shallop reach’d the mainland side,
And ere his onward way he took,
The stranger cast a lingering look,
Where easily his eye might reach
The Harper on the islet beach,
Reclined against a blighted tree,
As wasted, gray, and worn as he.
To minstrel meditation given,
His reverend brow was raised to heaven,
As from the rising sun to claim
A sparkle of inspiring flame.
His hand, reclined upon the wire,
Seem’d watching the awakening fire;
So still he sate, as those who wait
Till judgment speak the doom of fate;
So still, as if no breeze might dare
To lift one lock of hoary hair;
So still, as life itself were fled,
In the last sound his harp had sped.
Upon a rock with lichens wild,Beside him Ellen sate and smiled.—Smiled she to see the stately drakeLead forth his fleet[90]upon the lake,While her vex’d spaniel, from the beach,Bay’d at the prize beyond his reach?Yet tell me, then, the maid who knows,Why deepen’d on her cheek the rose?—Forgive, forgive, Fidelity!Perchance the maiden smiled to seeYon parting lingerer wave adieu,And stop and turn to wave anew;And, lovely ladies, ere your ireCondemn the heroine of my lyre,Show me the fair would scorn to spy,And prize such conquest of her eye!
Upon a rock with lichens wild,Beside him Ellen sate and smiled.—Smiled she to see the stately drakeLead forth his fleet[90]upon the lake,While her vex’d spaniel, from the beach,Bay’d at the prize beyond his reach?Yet tell me, then, the maid who knows,Why deepen’d on her cheek the rose?—Forgive, forgive, Fidelity!Perchance the maiden smiled to seeYon parting lingerer wave adieu,And stop and turn to wave anew;And, lovely ladies, ere your ireCondemn the heroine of my lyre,Show me the fair would scorn to spy,And prize such conquest of her eye!
Upon a rock with lichens wild,
Beside him Ellen sate and smiled.—
Smiled she to see the stately drake
Lead forth his fleet[90]upon the lake,
While her vex’d spaniel, from the beach,
Bay’d at the prize beyond his reach?
Yet tell me, then, the maid who knows,
Why deepen’d on her cheek the rose?—
Forgive, forgive, Fidelity!
Perchance the maiden smiled to see
Yon parting lingerer wave adieu,
And stop and turn to wave anew;
And, lovely ladies, ere your ire
Condemn the heroine of my lyre,
Show me the fair would scorn to spy,
And prize such conquest of her eye!
While yet he loiter’d on the spot,It seem’d as Ellen mark’d him not;But when he turn’d him to the glade,One courteous parting sign she made;And after, oft the Knight would say,That not, when prize of festal dayWas dealt him by the brightest fairWho e’er wore jewel in her hair,So highly did his bosom swell,As at that simple mute farewell.Now with a trusty mountain guide,And his dark staghounds by his side,He parts—the maid, unconscious still,Watch’d him wind slowly round the hill;But when his stately form was hid,The guardian in her bosom chid—“Thy Malcolm! vain and selfish maid!”’Twas thus upbraiding conscience said,—“Not so had Malcolm idly hungOn the smooth phrase of southern tongue;Not so had Malcolm strain’d his eye,Another step than thine to spy.—Wake, Allan-Bane," aloud she cried,To the old Minstrel by her side,—“Arouse thee from thy moody dream!I’ll give thy harp heroic theme,And warm thee with a noble name;Pour forth the glory of the Græme!”[91]Scarce from her lip the word had rush’d,When deep the conscious maiden blush’d;For of his clan, in hall and bower,Young Malcolm Græme was held the flower.
While yet he loiter’d on the spot,It seem’d as Ellen mark’d him not;But when he turn’d him to the glade,One courteous parting sign she made;And after, oft the Knight would say,That not, when prize of festal dayWas dealt him by the brightest fairWho e’er wore jewel in her hair,So highly did his bosom swell,As at that simple mute farewell.Now with a trusty mountain guide,And his dark staghounds by his side,He parts—the maid, unconscious still,Watch’d him wind slowly round the hill;But when his stately form was hid,The guardian in her bosom chid—“Thy Malcolm! vain and selfish maid!”’Twas thus upbraiding conscience said,—“Not so had Malcolm idly hungOn the smooth phrase of southern tongue;Not so had Malcolm strain’d his eye,Another step than thine to spy.—Wake, Allan-Bane," aloud she cried,To the old Minstrel by her side,—“Arouse thee from thy moody dream!I’ll give thy harp heroic theme,And warm thee with a noble name;Pour forth the glory of the Græme!”[91]Scarce from her lip the word had rush’d,When deep the conscious maiden blush’d;For of his clan, in hall and bower,Young Malcolm Græme was held the flower.
While yet he loiter’d on the spot,
It seem’d as Ellen mark’d him not;
But when he turn’d him to the glade,
One courteous parting sign she made;
And after, oft the Knight would say,
That not, when prize of festal day
Was dealt him by the brightest fair
Who e’er wore jewel in her hair,
So highly did his bosom swell,
As at that simple mute farewell.
Now with a trusty mountain guide,
And his dark staghounds by his side,
He parts—the maid, unconscious still,
Watch’d him wind slowly round the hill;
But when his stately form was hid,
The guardian in her bosom chid—
“Thy Malcolm! vain and selfish maid!”
’Twas thus upbraiding conscience said,—
“Not so had Malcolm idly hung
On the smooth phrase of southern tongue;
Not so had Malcolm strain’d his eye,
Another step than thine to spy.—
Wake, Allan-Bane," aloud she cried,
To the old Minstrel by her side,—
“Arouse thee from thy moody dream!
I’ll give thy harp heroic theme,
And warm thee with a noble name;
Pour forth the glory of the Græme!”[91]
Scarce from her lip the word had rush’d,
When deep the conscious maiden blush’d;
For of his clan, in hall and bower,
Young Malcolm Græme was held the flower.
The Minstrel waked his harp—three timesArose the well-known martial chimes,And thrice their high heroic prideIn melancholy murmurs died.“Vainly thou bidst, O noble maid,”Clasping his wither’d hands, he said,“Vainly thou bidst me wake the strain,Though all unwont to bid in vain.Alas! than mine a mightier handHas tuned my harp, my strings has spann’d!I touch the chords of joy, but lowAnd mournful answer notes of woe;And the proud march, which victors tread,Sinks in the wailing for the dead.Oh, well for me, if mine aloneThat dirge’s deep prophetic tone!If, as my tuneful fathers said,This harp, which erst[92]St. Modan[93]sway’d,Can thus its master’s fate foretell,Then welcome be the Minstrel’s knell!”
The Minstrel waked his harp—three timesArose the well-known martial chimes,And thrice their high heroic prideIn melancholy murmurs died.“Vainly thou bidst, O noble maid,”Clasping his wither’d hands, he said,“Vainly thou bidst me wake the strain,Though all unwont to bid in vain.Alas! than mine a mightier handHas tuned my harp, my strings has spann’d!I touch the chords of joy, but lowAnd mournful answer notes of woe;And the proud march, which victors tread,Sinks in the wailing for the dead.Oh, well for me, if mine aloneThat dirge’s deep prophetic tone!If, as my tuneful fathers said,This harp, which erst[92]St. Modan[93]sway’d,Can thus its master’s fate foretell,Then welcome be the Minstrel’s knell!”
The Minstrel waked his harp—three times
Arose the well-known martial chimes,
And thrice their high heroic pride
In melancholy murmurs died.
“Vainly thou bidst, O noble maid,”
Clasping his wither’d hands, he said,
“Vainly thou bidst me wake the strain,
Though all unwont to bid in vain.
Alas! than mine a mightier hand
Has tuned my harp, my strings has spann’d!
I touch the chords of joy, but low
And mournful answer notes of woe;
And the proud march, which victors tread,
Sinks in the wailing for the dead.
Oh, well for me, if mine alone
That dirge’s deep prophetic tone!
If, as my tuneful fathers said,
This harp, which erst[92]St. Modan[93]sway’d,
Can thus its master’s fate foretell,
Then welcome be the Minstrel’s knell!”
“But ah! dear lady, thus it sigh’dThe eve thy sainted mother died;And such the sounds which, while I stroveTo wake a lay of war or love,Came marring all the festal mirth,Appalling me who gave them birth,And, disobedient to my call,Wail’d loud through Bothwell’s[94]banner’d hall,Ere Douglases, to ruin driven,Were exiled from their native heaven.—Oh! if yet worse mishap and woeMy master’s house must undergo,Or aught but weal to Ellen fairBrood in these accents of despair,No future bard, sad Harp! shall flingTriumph or rapture from thy string;One short, one final strain shall flow,Fraught with unutterable woe,Then shiver’d shall thy fragments lie,Thy master cast him down and die!”
“But ah! dear lady, thus it sigh’dThe eve thy sainted mother died;And such the sounds which, while I stroveTo wake a lay of war or love,Came marring all the festal mirth,Appalling me who gave them birth,And, disobedient to my call,Wail’d loud through Bothwell’s[94]banner’d hall,Ere Douglases, to ruin driven,Were exiled from their native heaven.—Oh! if yet worse mishap and woeMy master’s house must undergo,Or aught but weal to Ellen fairBrood in these accents of despair,No future bard, sad Harp! shall flingTriumph or rapture from thy string;One short, one final strain shall flow,Fraught with unutterable woe,Then shiver’d shall thy fragments lie,Thy master cast him down and die!”
“But ah! dear lady, thus it sigh’d
The eve thy sainted mother died;
And such the sounds which, while I strove
To wake a lay of war or love,
Came marring all the festal mirth,
Appalling me who gave them birth,
And, disobedient to my call,
Wail’d loud through Bothwell’s[94]banner’d hall,
Ere Douglases, to ruin driven,
Were exiled from their native heaven.—
Oh! if yet worse mishap and woe
My master’s house must undergo,
Or aught but weal to Ellen fair
Brood in these accents of despair,
No future bard, sad Harp! shall fling
Triumph or rapture from thy string;
One short, one final strain shall flow,
Fraught with unutterable woe,
Then shiver’d shall thy fragments lie,
Thy master cast him down and die!”
Soothing she answer’d him—"Assuage,Mine honor’d friend, the fears of age;All melodies to thee are known,That harp has rung or pipe[95]has blown,In Lowland vale or Highland glen,From Tweed to Spey[96]—what marvel, then,At times, unbidden notes should rise,Confusedly bound in memory’s ties,Entangling, as they rush along,The war march with the funeral song?—Small ground is now for boding fear;Obscure, but safe, we rest us here.My sire, in native virtue great,Resigning lordship, lands, and state,Not then to fortune more resign’d,Than yonder oak might give the wind;The graceful foliage storms may reave,[97]The noble stem they cannot grieve.For me,“—she stoop’d, and, looking round,Pluck’d a blue harebell from the ground,—“For me, whose memory scarce conveysAn image of more splendid days,This little flower, that loves the lea,May well my simple emblem be;It drinks heaven’s dew as blithe as roseThat in the King’s own garden grows;And when I place it in my hair,Allan, a bard is bound to swearHe ne’er saw coronet so fair.”Then playfully the chaplet wildShe wreath’d in her dark locks, and smiled.
Soothing she answer’d him—"Assuage,Mine honor’d friend, the fears of age;All melodies to thee are known,That harp has rung or pipe[95]has blown,In Lowland vale or Highland glen,From Tweed to Spey[96]—what marvel, then,At times, unbidden notes should rise,Confusedly bound in memory’s ties,Entangling, as they rush along,The war march with the funeral song?—Small ground is now for boding fear;Obscure, but safe, we rest us here.My sire, in native virtue great,Resigning lordship, lands, and state,Not then to fortune more resign’d,Than yonder oak might give the wind;The graceful foliage storms may reave,[97]The noble stem they cannot grieve.For me,“—she stoop’d, and, looking round,Pluck’d a blue harebell from the ground,—“For me, whose memory scarce conveysAn image of more splendid days,This little flower, that loves the lea,May well my simple emblem be;It drinks heaven’s dew as blithe as roseThat in the King’s own garden grows;And when I place it in my hair,Allan, a bard is bound to swearHe ne’er saw coronet so fair.”Then playfully the chaplet wildShe wreath’d in her dark locks, and smiled.
Soothing she answer’d him—"Assuage,
Mine honor’d friend, the fears of age;
All melodies to thee are known,
That harp has rung or pipe[95]has blown,
In Lowland vale or Highland glen,
From Tweed to Spey[96]—what marvel, then,
At times, unbidden notes should rise,
Confusedly bound in memory’s ties,
Entangling, as they rush along,
The war march with the funeral song?—
Small ground is now for boding fear;
Obscure, but safe, we rest us here.
My sire, in native virtue great,
Resigning lordship, lands, and state,
Not then to fortune more resign’d,
Than yonder oak might give the wind;
The graceful foliage storms may reave,[97]
The noble stem they cannot grieve.
For me,“—she stoop’d, and, looking round,
Pluck’d a blue harebell from the ground,—
“For me, whose memory scarce conveys
An image of more splendid days,
This little flower, that loves the lea,
May well my simple emblem be;
It drinks heaven’s dew as blithe as rose
That in the King’s own garden grows;
And when I place it in my hair,
Allan, a bard is bound to swear
He ne’er saw coronet so fair.”
Then playfully the chaplet wild
She wreath’d in her dark locks, and smiled.
Her smile, her speech, with winning sway,Wiled[98]the old Harper’s mood away.With such a look as hermits throw,When angels stoop to soothe their woe,He gazed, till fond regret and prideThrill’d to a tear, then thus replied:“Loveliest and best! thou little know’stThe rank, the honors, thou hast lost!Oh, might I live to see thee grace,In Scotland’s court, thy birthright place,To see my favorite’s step advance,The lightest in the courtly dance,The cause of every gallant’s sigh,And leading star of every eye,And theme of every minstrel’s art,The Lady of the Bleeding Heart!”[99]
Her smile, her speech, with winning sway,Wiled[98]the old Harper’s mood away.With such a look as hermits throw,When angels stoop to soothe their woe,He gazed, till fond regret and prideThrill’d to a tear, then thus replied:“Loveliest and best! thou little know’stThe rank, the honors, thou hast lost!Oh, might I live to see thee grace,In Scotland’s court, thy birthright place,To see my favorite’s step advance,The lightest in the courtly dance,The cause of every gallant’s sigh,And leading star of every eye,And theme of every minstrel’s art,The Lady of the Bleeding Heart!”[99]
Her smile, her speech, with winning sway,
Wiled[98]the old Harper’s mood away.
With such a look as hermits throw,
When angels stoop to soothe their woe,
He gazed, till fond regret and pride
Thrill’d to a tear, then thus replied:
“Loveliest and best! thou little know’st
The rank, the honors, thou hast lost!
Oh, might I live to see thee grace,
In Scotland’s court, thy birthright place,
To see my favorite’s step advance,
The lightest in the courtly dance,
The cause of every gallant’s sigh,
And leading star of every eye,
And theme of every minstrel’s art,
The Lady of the Bleeding Heart!”[99]
“Fair dreams are these,” the maiden cried,(Light was her accent, yet she sigh’d;)“Yet is this mossy rock to meWorth splendid chair and canopy;Nor would my footsteps spring more gayIn courtly dance than blithe strathspey,[100]Nor half so pleased mine ear inclineTo royal minstrel’s lay as thine.And then for suitors proud and high,To bend before my conquering eye,—Thou, flattering bard! thyself wilt say,That grim Sir Roderick owns its sway.The Saxon[101]scourge, Clan-Alpine’s[102]pride,The terror of Loch Lomond’s side,Would, at my suit, thou know’st, delayA Lennox[103]foray—for a day.”
“Fair dreams are these,” the maiden cried,(Light was her accent, yet she sigh’d;)“Yet is this mossy rock to meWorth splendid chair and canopy;Nor would my footsteps spring more gayIn courtly dance than blithe strathspey,[100]Nor half so pleased mine ear inclineTo royal minstrel’s lay as thine.And then for suitors proud and high,To bend before my conquering eye,—Thou, flattering bard! thyself wilt say,That grim Sir Roderick owns its sway.The Saxon[101]scourge, Clan-Alpine’s[102]pride,The terror of Loch Lomond’s side,Would, at my suit, thou know’st, delayA Lennox[103]foray—for a day.”
“Fair dreams are these,” the maiden cried,
(Light was her accent, yet she sigh’d;)
“Yet is this mossy rock to me
Worth splendid chair and canopy;
Nor would my footsteps spring more gay
In courtly dance than blithe strathspey,[100]
Nor half so pleased mine ear incline
To royal minstrel’s lay as thine.
And then for suitors proud and high,
To bend before my conquering eye,—
Thou, flattering bard! thyself wilt say,
That grim Sir Roderick owns its sway.
The Saxon[101]scourge, Clan-Alpine’s[102]pride,
The terror of Loch Lomond’s side,
Would, at my suit, thou know’st, delay
A Lennox[103]foray—for a day.”
The ancient bard his glee repress’d:“I’ll hast thou chosen theme for jest!For who, through all this western wild,Named Black[104]Sir Roderick e’er, and smiled?In Holy-Rood[105]a knight he slew;I saw, when back the dirk he drew,Courtiers give place before the strideOf the undaunted homicide;And since, though outlaw’d,[106]hath his handFull sternly kept his mountain land.Who else dared give—ah! woe the dayThat I such hated truth should say—The Douglas, like a stricken deer,Disown’d by every noble peer,Even the rude refuge we have here?Alas! this wild marauding ChiefAlone might hazard our relief,And, now thy maiden charms expand,Looks for his guerdon[107]in thy hand;Full soon may dispensation[108]sought,To back his suit, from Rome be brought.Then, though an exile on the hill,Thy father, as the Douglas, stillBe held in reverence and fear;And though to Roderick thou’rt so dear,That thou mightst guide with silken thread,Slave of thy will, this Chieftain dread,Yet, O loved maid, thy mirth refrain!Thy hand is on a lion’s mane.”
The ancient bard his glee repress’d:“I’ll hast thou chosen theme for jest!For who, through all this western wild,Named Black[104]Sir Roderick e’er, and smiled?In Holy-Rood[105]a knight he slew;I saw, when back the dirk he drew,Courtiers give place before the strideOf the undaunted homicide;And since, though outlaw’d,[106]hath his handFull sternly kept his mountain land.Who else dared give—ah! woe the dayThat I such hated truth should say—The Douglas, like a stricken deer,Disown’d by every noble peer,Even the rude refuge we have here?Alas! this wild marauding ChiefAlone might hazard our relief,And, now thy maiden charms expand,Looks for his guerdon[107]in thy hand;Full soon may dispensation[108]sought,To back his suit, from Rome be brought.Then, though an exile on the hill,Thy father, as the Douglas, stillBe held in reverence and fear;And though to Roderick thou’rt so dear,That thou mightst guide with silken thread,Slave of thy will, this Chieftain dread,Yet, O loved maid, thy mirth refrain!Thy hand is on a lion’s mane.”
The ancient bard his glee repress’d:
“I’ll hast thou chosen theme for jest!
For who, through all this western wild,
Named Black[104]Sir Roderick e’er, and smiled?
In Holy-Rood[105]a knight he slew;
I saw, when back the dirk he drew,
Courtiers give place before the stride
Of the undaunted homicide;
And since, though outlaw’d,[106]hath his hand
Full sternly kept his mountain land.
Who else dared give—ah! woe the day
That I such hated truth should say—
The Douglas, like a stricken deer,
Disown’d by every noble peer,
Even the rude refuge we have here?
Alas! this wild marauding Chief
Alone might hazard our relief,
And, now thy maiden charms expand,
Looks for his guerdon[107]in thy hand;
Full soon may dispensation[108]sought,
To back his suit, from Rome be brought.
Then, though an exile on the hill,
Thy father, as the Douglas, still
Be held in reverence and fear;
And though to Roderick thou’rt so dear,
That thou mightst guide with silken thread,
Slave of thy will, this Chieftain dread,
Yet, O loved maid, thy mirth refrain!
Thy hand is on a lion’s mane.”
“Minstrel,” the maid replied, and highHer father’s soul glanced from her eye,“My debts to Roderick’s house I know:All that a mother could bestow,To Lady Margaret’s care I owe,Since first an orphan in the wildShe sorrow’d o’er her sister’s child;To her brave chieftain son, from ireOf Scotland’s King who shrouds[109]my sire,A deeper, holier debt is owed;And, could I pay it with my blood,Allan! Sir Roderick should commandMy blood, my life,—but not my hand.Rather will Ellen Douglas dwellA votaress in Maronnan’s[110]cell;Rather through realms beyond the sea,Seeking the world’s cold charity,Where ne’er was spoke a Scottish word,And ne’er the name of Douglas heard,An outcast pilgrim will she rove,Than wed the man she cannot love.”
“Minstrel,” the maid replied, and highHer father’s soul glanced from her eye,“My debts to Roderick’s house I know:All that a mother could bestow,To Lady Margaret’s care I owe,Since first an orphan in the wildShe sorrow’d o’er her sister’s child;To her brave chieftain son, from ireOf Scotland’s King who shrouds[109]my sire,A deeper, holier debt is owed;And, could I pay it with my blood,Allan! Sir Roderick should commandMy blood, my life,—but not my hand.Rather will Ellen Douglas dwellA votaress in Maronnan’s[110]cell;Rather through realms beyond the sea,Seeking the world’s cold charity,Where ne’er was spoke a Scottish word,And ne’er the name of Douglas heard,An outcast pilgrim will she rove,Than wed the man she cannot love.”
“Minstrel,” the maid replied, and high
Her father’s soul glanced from her eye,
“My debts to Roderick’s house I know:
All that a mother could bestow,
To Lady Margaret’s care I owe,
Since first an orphan in the wild
She sorrow’d o’er her sister’s child;
To her brave chieftain son, from ire
Of Scotland’s King who shrouds[109]my sire,
A deeper, holier debt is owed;
And, could I pay it with my blood,
Allan! Sir Roderick should command
My blood, my life,—but not my hand.
Rather will Ellen Douglas dwell
A votaress in Maronnan’s[110]cell;
Rather through realms beyond the sea,
Seeking the world’s cold charity,
Where ne’er was spoke a Scottish word,
And ne’er the name of Douglas heard,
An outcast pilgrim will she rove,
Than wed the man she cannot love.”
“Thou shakest, good friend, thy tresses gray,—That pleading look, what can it sayBut what I own?—I grant him[111]brave,But wild as Bracklinn’s[112]thundering wave;And generous—save[113]vindictive mood,Or jealous transport, chafe his blood:I grant him true to friendly band,As his claymore is to his hand;But oh! 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[114]with blood.The hand that for my father foughtI honor, as his daughter ought;But can I clasp it reeking red,From peasants slaughter’d 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 shudder’d 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 thinkst thou of our stranger guest?”
“Thou shakest, good friend, thy tresses gray,—That pleading look, what can it sayBut what I own?—I grant him[111]brave,But wild as Bracklinn’s[112]thundering wave;And generous—save[113]vindictive mood,Or jealous transport, chafe his blood:I grant him true to friendly band,As his claymore is to his hand;But oh! 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[114]with blood.The hand that for my father foughtI honor, as his daughter ought;But can I clasp it reeking red,From peasants slaughter’d 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 shudder’d 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 thinkst thou of our stranger guest?”
“Thou shakest, good friend, thy tresses gray,—
That pleading look, what can it say
But what I own?—I grant him[111]brave,
But wild as Bracklinn’s[112]thundering wave;
And generous—save[113]vindictive mood,
Or jealous transport, chafe his blood:
I grant him true to friendly band,
As his claymore is to his hand;
But oh! that very blade of steel
More mercy for a foe would feel:
I grant him liberal, to fling
Among 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[114]with blood.
The hand that for my father fought
I honor, as his daughter ought;
But can I clasp it reeking red,
From peasants slaughter’d 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 shudder’d at his brow of gloom,
His shadowy plaid, and sable plume;
A maiden grown, I ill could bear
His 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’er
A Douglas knew the word, with fear.
To change such odious theme were best,—
What thinkst thou of our stranger guest?”
“What think I of him? Woe the whileThat brought such wanderer to our isle!Thy father’s battle brand, of yoreFor Tine-man[115]forged by fairy lore,What time he leagued, no longer foes,His Border spears with Hotspur’s bows,Did, self-unscabbarded, foreshowThe footstep of a secret foe.If courtly spy hath harbor’d here,What may we for the Douglas fear?What for this island, deem’d of oldClan-Alpine’s last and surest hold?If neither spy nor foe, I prayWhat yet may jealous Roderick say?—Nay, wave not thy disdainful head,Bethink thee of the discord dreadThat kindled, when at Beltane[116]gameThou ledst the dance with Malcolm Græme;Still, though thy sire the peace renew’d,Smolders in Roderick’s breast the feud.Beware!—But hark, what sounds are these?My dull ears catch no faltering breeze;No weeping birch, nor aspens wake,Nor breath is dimpling in the lake;Still is the canna’s[117]hoary beard;Yet, by my minstrel faith, I heard—And hark again! some pipe of warSends the bold pibroch from afar.”
“What think I of him? Woe the whileThat brought such wanderer to our isle!Thy father’s battle brand, of yoreFor Tine-man[115]forged by fairy lore,What time he leagued, no longer foes,His Border spears with Hotspur’s bows,Did, self-unscabbarded, foreshowThe footstep of a secret foe.If courtly spy hath harbor’d here,What may we for the Douglas fear?What for this island, deem’d of oldClan-Alpine’s last and surest hold?If neither spy nor foe, I prayWhat yet may jealous Roderick say?—Nay, wave not thy disdainful head,Bethink thee of the discord dreadThat kindled, when at Beltane[116]gameThou ledst the dance with Malcolm Græme;Still, though thy sire the peace renew’d,Smolders in Roderick’s breast the feud.Beware!—But hark, what sounds are these?My dull ears catch no faltering breeze;No weeping birch, nor aspens wake,Nor breath is dimpling in the lake;Still is the canna’s[117]hoary beard;Yet, by my minstrel faith, I heard—And hark again! some pipe of warSends the bold pibroch from afar.”
“What think I of him? Woe the while
That brought such wanderer to our isle!
Thy father’s battle brand, of yore
For Tine-man[115]forged by fairy lore,
What time he leagued, no longer foes,
His Border spears with Hotspur’s bows,
Did, self-unscabbarded, foreshow
The footstep of a secret foe.
If courtly spy hath harbor’d here,
What may we for the Douglas fear?
What for this island, deem’d of old
Clan-Alpine’s last and surest hold?
If neither spy nor foe, I pray
What yet may jealous Roderick say?
—Nay, wave not thy disdainful head,
Bethink thee of the discord dread
That kindled, when at Beltane[116]game
Thou ledst the dance with Malcolm Græme;
Still, though thy sire the peace renew’d,
Smolders in Roderick’s breast the feud.
Beware!—But hark, what sounds are these?
My dull ears catch no faltering breeze;
No weeping birch, nor aspens wake,
Nor breath is dimpling in the lake;
Still is the canna’s[117]hoary beard;
Yet, by my minstrel faith, I heard—
And hark again! some pipe of war
Sends the bold pibroch from afar.”
Far up the lengthen’d lake were spiedFour darkening specks upon the tide,That, slow enlarging on the view,Four mann’d and masted barges grew,And, bearing downwards from Glengyle,Steer’d full upon the lonely isle;The point of Brianchoil[118]they pass’d,And, to the windward as they cast,Against the sun they gave to shineThe bold Sir Roderick’s banner’d Pine.[119]Nearer and nearer as they bear,Spears, pikes, and axes flash in air.Now might you see the tartans brave,[120]And plaids and plumage dance and wave:Now see the bonnets[121]sink and rise,As his tough oar the rower plies;See, flashing at each sturdy stroke,The wave ascending into smoke;See the proud pipers on the bow,And mark the gaudy streamers[122]flowFrom their loud chanters down, and sweepThe furrow’d bosom of the deep,As, rushing through the lake amain,They plied the ancient Highland strain.
Far up the lengthen’d lake were spiedFour darkening specks upon the tide,That, slow enlarging on the view,Four mann’d and masted barges grew,And, bearing downwards from Glengyle,Steer’d full upon the lonely isle;The point of Brianchoil[118]they pass’d,And, to the windward as they cast,Against the sun they gave to shineThe bold Sir Roderick’s banner’d Pine.[119]Nearer and nearer as they bear,Spears, pikes, and axes flash in air.Now might you see the tartans brave,[120]And plaids and plumage dance and wave:Now see the bonnets[121]sink and rise,As his tough oar the rower plies;See, flashing at each sturdy stroke,The wave ascending into smoke;See the proud pipers on the bow,And mark the gaudy streamers[122]flowFrom their loud chanters down, and sweepThe furrow’d bosom of the deep,As, rushing through the lake amain,They plied the ancient Highland strain.
Far up the lengthen’d lake were spied
Four darkening specks upon the tide,
That, slow enlarging on the view,
Four mann’d and masted barges grew,
And, bearing downwards from Glengyle,
Steer’d full upon the lonely isle;
The point of Brianchoil[118]they pass’d,
And, to the windward as they cast,
Against the sun they gave to shine
The bold Sir Roderick’s banner’d Pine.[119]
Nearer and nearer as they bear,
Spears, pikes, and axes flash in air.
Now might you see the tartans brave,[120]
And plaids and plumage dance and wave:
Now see the bonnets[121]sink and rise,
As his tough oar the rower plies;
See, flashing at each sturdy stroke,
The wave ascending into smoke;
See the proud pipers on the bow,
And mark the gaudy streamers[122]flow
From their loud chanters down, and sweep
The furrow’d bosom of the deep,
As, rushing through the lake amain,
They plied the ancient Highland strain.
Ever, as on they bore, more loudAnd louder rung the pibroch proud.At first the sound, by distance tame,Mellow’d along the waters came,And, lingering long by cape and bay,Wail’d every harsher note away;Then, bursting bolder on the ear,The clan’s shrill Gathering they could hear;Those thrilling sounds, that call the mightOf old Clan-Alpine to the fight.Thick beat the rapid notes, as whenThe mustering hundreds shake the glen,And, hurrying at the signal dread,The batter’d earth returns their tread.Then prelude light, of livelier tone,Express’d their merry marching on,Ere peal of closing battle rose,With mingled outcry, shrieks, and blows;And mimic din of stroke and ward,As broadsword upon target jarr’d;And groaning pause, ere yet again,Condensed, the battle yell’d amain;The rapid charge, the rallying shout,Retreat borne headlong into rout,And bursts of triumph, to declareClan-Alpine’s conquests—all were there.Nor ended thus the strain; but slow,Sunk in a moan prolong’d and low,And changed the conquering clarion swell,For wild lament o’er those that fell.
Ever, as on they bore, more loudAnd louder rung the pibroch proud.At first the sound, by distance tame,Mellow’d along the waters came,And, lingering long by cape and bay,Wail’d every harsher note away;Then, bursting bolder on the ear,The clan’s shrill Gathering they could hear;Those thrilling sounds, that call the mightOf old Clan-Alpine to the fight.Thick beat the rapid notes, as whenThe mustering hundreds shake the glen,And, hurrying at the signal dread,The batter’d earth returns their tread.Then prelude light, of livelier tone,Express’d their merry marching on,Ere peal of closing battle rose,With mingled outcry, shrieks, and blows;And mimic din of stroke and ward,As broadsword upon target jarr’d;And groaning pause, ere yet again,Condensed, the battle yell’d amain;The rapid charge, the rallying shout,Retreat borne headlong into rout,And bursts of triumph, to declareClan-Alpine’s conquests—all were there.Nor ended thus the strain; but slow,Sunk in a moan prolong’d and low,And changed the conquering clarion swell,For wild lament o’er those that fell.
Ever, as on they bore, more loud
And louder rung the pibroch proud.
At first the sound, by distance tame,
Mellow’d along the waters came,
And, lingering long by cape and bay,
Wail’d every harsher note away;
Then, bursting bolder on the ear,
The clan’s shrill Gathering they could hear;
Those thrilling sounds, that call the might
Of old Clan-Alpine to the fight.
Thick beat the rapid notes, as when
The mustering hundreds shake the glen,
And, hurrying at the signal dread,
The batter’d earth returns their tread.
Then prelude light, of livelier tone,
Express’d their merry marching on,
Ere peal of closing battle rose,
With mingled outcry, shrieks, and blows;
And mimic din of stroke and ward,
As broadsword upon target jarr’d;
And groaning pause, ere yet again,
Condensed, the battle yell’d amain;
The rapid charge, the rallying shout,
Retreat borne headlong into rout,
And bursts of triumph, to declare
Clan-Alpine’s conquests—all were there.
Nor ended thus the strain; but slow,
Sunk in a moan prolong’d and low,
And changed the conquering clarion swell,
For wild lament o’er those that fell.
The war pipes ceased; but lake and hillWere busy with their echoes still;And, when they slept, a vocal strainBade their hoarse chorus wake again,While loud a hundred clansmen raiseTheir voices in their Chieftain’s praise.Each boatman, bending to his oar,With measured sweep the burden[123]bore,In such wild cadence as the breezeMakes through December’s leafless trees.The chorus first could Allan know,“Roderick Vich Alpine, ho! iro!”And near, and nearer as they row’d,Distinct the martial ditty flow’d.
The war pipes ceased; but lake and hillWere busy with their echoes still;And, when they slept, a vocal strainBade their hoarse chorus wake again,While loud a hundred clansmen raiseTheir voices in their Chieftain’s praise.Each boatman, bending to his oar,With measured sweep the burden[123]bore,In such wild cadence as the breezeMakes through December’s leafless trees.The chorus first could Allan know,“Roderick Vich Alpine, ho! iro!”And near, and nearer as they row’d,Distinct the martial ditty flow’d.
The war pipes ceased; but lake and hill
Were busy with their echoes still;
And, when they slept, a vocal strain
Bade their hoarse chorus wake again,
While loud a hundred clansmen raise
Their voices in their Chieftain’s praise.
Each boatman, bending to his oar,
With measured sweep the burden[123]bore,
In such wild cadence as the breeze
Makes through December’s leafless trees.
The chorus first could Allan know,
“Roderick Vich Alpine, ho! iro!”
And near, and nearer as they row’d,
Distinct the martial ditty flow’d.
BOAT SONG.Hail to the Chief who in triumph advances!Honor’d and bless’d be the ever-green Pine!Long may the tree, in his banner that glances,Flourish, the shelter and grace of our line!Heaven send it happy dew,Earth lend it sap anew,Gayly to bourgeon,[124]and broadly to grow,While every Highland glenSends our shout back agen,[125]“Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu,[126]ho! ieroe!”Ours is no sapling, chance-sown by the fountain,Blooming at Beltane, in winter to fade;When the whirlwind has stripp’d every leaf on the mountain,The more shall Clan-Alpine exult in her shade.Moor’d in the rifted rock,Proof to the tempest’s shock,Firmer he roots him the ruder it blow;Menteith and Breadalbane,[127]then,Echo his praise agen,“Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!”
BOAT SONG.Hail to the Chief who in triumph advances!Honor’d and bless’d be the ever-green Pine!Long may the tree, in his banner that glances,Flourish, the shelter and grace of our line!Heaven send it happy dew,Earth lend it sap anew,Gayly to bourgeon,[124]and broadly to grow,While every Highland glenSends our shout back agen,[125]“Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu,[126]ho! ieroe!”
BOAT SONG.
Hail to the Chief who in triumph advances!
Honor’d and bless’d be the ever-green Pine!
Long may the tree, in his banner that glances,
Flourish, the shelter and grace of our line!
Heaven send it happy dew,
Earth lend it sap anew,
Gayly to bourgeon,[124]and broadly to grow,
While every Highland glen
Sends our shout back agen,[125]
“Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu,[126]ho! ieroe!”
Ours is no sapling, chance-sown by the fountain,Blooming at Beltane, in winter to fade;When the whirlwind has stripp’d every leaf on the mountain,The more shall Clan-Alpine exult in her shade.Moor’d in the rifted rock,Proof to the tempest’s shock,Firmer he roots him the ruder it blow;Menteith and Breadalbane,[127]then,Echo his praise agen,“Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!”
Ours is no sapling, chance-sown by the fountain,
Blooming at Beltane, in winter to fade;
When the whirlwind has stripp’d every leaf on the mountain,
The more shall Clan-Alpine exult in her shade.
Moor’d in the rifted rock,
Proof to the tempest’s shock,
Firmer he roots him the ruder it blow;
Menteith and Breadalbane,[127]then,
Echo his praise agen,
“Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!”
Proudly our pibroch has thrill’d in Glen Fruin,[128]And Bannochar’s[129]groans to our slogan[130]replied;Glen Luss[131]and Ross-dhu,[132]they are smoking in ruin,And the best of Loch Lomond lie dead on her side.Widow and Saxon maidLong shall lament our raid,Think of Clan-Alpine with fear and with woe;Lennox and Leven-glenShake when they hear agen,“Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!”Row, vassals, row, for the pride of the Highlands!Stretch to your oars, for the ever-green Pine!Oh that the rosebud that graces yon islandsWere wreathed in a garland around him to twine!Oh that some seedling gem,Worthy such noble stem,Honor’d and bless’d in their shadow might grow!Loud should Clan-Alpine thenRing from her deepmost glen,"Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!"
Proudly our pibroch has thrill’d in Glen Fruin,[128]And Bannochar’s[129]groans to our slogan[130]replied;Glen Luss[131]and Ross-dhu,[132]they are smoking in ruin,And the best of Loch Lomond lie dead on her side.Widow and Saxon maidLong shall lament our raid,Think of Clan-Alpine with fear and with woe;Lennox and Leven-glenShake when they hear agen,“Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!”
Proudly our pibroch has thrill’d in Glen Fruin,[128]
And Bannochar’s[129]groans to our slogan[130]replied;
Glen Luss[131]and Ross-dhu,[132]they are smoking in ruin,
And the best of Loch Lomond lie dead on her side.
Widow and Saxon maid
Long shall lament our raid,
Think of Clan-Alpine with fear and with woe;
Lennox and Leven-glen
Shake when they hear agen,
“Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!”
Row, vassals, row, for the pride of the Highlands!Stretch to your oars, for the ever-green Pine!Oh that the rosebud that graces yon islandsWere wreathed in a garland around him to twine!Oh that some seedling gem,Worthy such noble stem,Honor’d and bless’d in their shadow might grow!Loud should Clan-Alpine thenRing from her deepmost glen,"Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!"
Row, vassals, row, for the pride of the Highlands!
Stretch to your oars, for the ever-green Pine!
Oh that the rosebud that graces yon islands
Were wreathed in a garland around him to twine!
Oh that some seedling gem,
Worthy such noble stem,
Honor’d and bless’d in their shadow might grow!
Loud should Clan-Alpine then
Ring from her deepmost glen,
"Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!"
With all her joyful female band,Had Lady Margaret sought the strand.Loose on the breeze their tresses flew,And high their snowy arms they threw,As echoing back with shrill acclaim,And chorus wild, the Chieftain’s name;While prompt to please, with mother’s art,The darling passion of his heart,The Dame call’d Ellen to the strand,To greet her kinsman ere he land:“Come, loiterer, come! a Douglas thou,And shun to wreathe a victor’s brow?”Reluctantly and slow, the maidThe unwelcome summoning obey’d,And, when a distant bugle rung,In the mid-path aside she sprung:—“List, Allan-Bane! From mainland cast,I hear my father’s signal blast.Be ours," she cried, "the skiff to guide,And waft him from the mountain side.”Then, like a sunbeam, swift and bright,She darted to her shallop light,And, eagerly while Roderick scann’d,For her dear form, his mother’s band,The islet far behind her lay,And she had landed in the bay.
With all her joyful female band,Had Lady Margaret sought the strand.Loose on the breeze their tresses flew,And high their snowy arms they threw,As echoing back with shrill acclaim,And chorus wild, the Chieftain’s name;While prompt to please, with mother’s art,The darling passion of his heart,The Dame call’d Ellen to the strand,To greet her kinsman ere he land:“Come, loiterer, come! a Douglas thou,And shun to wreathe a victor’s brow?”Reluctantly and slow, the maidThe unwelcome summoning obey’d,And, when a distant bugle rung,In the mid-path aside she sprung:—“List, Allan-Bane! From mainland cast,I hear my father’s signal blast.Be ours," she cried, "the skiff to guide,And waft him from the mountain side.”Then, like a sunbeam, swift and bright,She darted to her shallop light,And, eagerly while Roderick scann’d,For her dear form, his mother’s band,The islet far behind her lay,And she had landed in the bay.
With all her joyful female band,
Had Lady Margaret sought the strand.
Loose on the breeze their tresses flew,
And high their snowy arms they threw,
As echoing back with shrill acclaim,
And chorus wild, the Chieftain’s name;
While prompt to please, with mother’s art,
The darling passion of his heart,
The Dame call’d Ellen to the strand,
To greet her kinsman ere he land:
“Come, loiterer, come! a Douglas thou,
And shun to wreathe a victor’s brow?”
Reluctantly and slow, the maid
The unwelcome summoning obey’d,
And, when a distant bugle rung,
In the mid-path aside she sprung:—
“List, Allan-Bane! From mainland cast,
I hear my father’s signal blast.
Be ours," she cried, "the skiff to guide,
And waft him from the mountain side.”
Then, like a sunbeam, swift and bright,
She darted to her shallop light,
And, eagerly while Roderick scann’d,
For her dear form, his mother’s band,
The islet far behind her lay,
And she had landed in the bay.
Some feelings are to mortals given,With less of earth in them than heaven:And if there be a human tearFrom passion’s dross refined and clear,A tear so limpid and so meek,It would not stain an angel’s cheek,’Tis that which pious fathers shedUpon a duteous daughter’s head!And as the Douglas to his breastHis darling Ellen closely press’d,Such holy drops her tresses steep’d,Though ’twas an hero’s eye that weep’d.Nor while on Ellen’s faltering tongueHer filial welcomes crowded hung,Mark’d she, that fear (affection’s proof)Still held a graceful youth aloof;No! not till Douglas named his name,Although the youth was Malcolm Græme.
Some feelings are to mortals given,With less of earth in them than heaven:And if there be a human tearFrom passion’s dross refined and clear,A tear so limpid and so meek,It would not stain an angel’s cheek,’Tis that which pious fathers shedUpon a duteous daughter’s head!And as the Douglas to his breastHis darling Ellen closely press’d,Such holy drops her tresses steep’d,Though ’twas an hero’s eye that weep’d.Nor while on Ellen’s faltering tongueHer filial welcomes crowded hung,Mark’d she, that fear (affection’s proof)Still held a graceful youth aloof;No! not till Douglas named his name,Although the youth was Malcolm Græme.
Some feelings are to mortals given,
With less of earth in them than heaven:
And if there be a human tear
From passion’s dross refined and clear,
A tear so limpid and so meek,
It would not stain an angel’s cheek,
’Tis that which pious fathers shed
Upon a duteous daughter’s head!
And as the Douglas to his breast
His darling Ellen closely press’d,
Such holy drops her tresses steep’d,
Though ’twas an hero’s eye that weep’d.
Nor while on Ellen’s faltering tongue
Her filial welcomes crowded hung,
Mark’d she, that fear (affection’s proof)
Still held a graceful youth aloof;
No! not till Douglas named his name,
Although the youth was Malcolm Græme.
Allan, with wistful look the while,Mark’d Roderick landing on the isle;His master piteously he eyed,Then gazed upon the Chieftain’s pride,Then dash’d, with hasty hand, awayFrom his dimm’d eye the gathering spray;And Douglas, as his hand he laidOn Malcolm’s shoulder, kindly said,“Canst thou, young friend, no meaning spyIn my poor follower’s glistening eye?I’ll tell thee:—he recalls the dayWhen in my praise he led the layO’er the arch’d gate of Bothwell proud,While many a minstrel answer’d loud,When Percy’s Norman pennon,[133]wonIn bloody field, before me shone,And twice ten knights, the least a nameAs mighty as yon Chief may claim,Gracing my pomp, behind me came.Yet trust me, Malcolm, not so proudWas I of all that marshal’d crowd,Though the waned crescent[134]own’d my might,And in my train troop’d lord and knight,Though Blantyre[135]hymn’d her holiest lays,And Bothwell’s bards flung back my praise,As when this old man’s silent tear,And this poor maid’s affection dear,A welcome give more kind and true,Than aught my better fortunes knew.Forgive, my friend, a father’s boast,Oh! it out-beggars[136]all I lost!“
Allan, with wistful look the while,Mark’d Roderick landing on the isle;His master piteously he eyed,Then gazed upon the Chieftain’s pride,Then dash’d, with hasty hand, awayFrom his dimm’d eye the gathering spray;And Douglas, as his hand he laidOn Malcolm’s shoulder, kindly said,“Canst thou, young friend, no meaning spyIn my poor follower’s glistening eye?I’ll tell thee:—he recalls the dayWhen in my praise he led the layO’er the arch’d gate of Bothwell proud,While many a minstrel answer’d loud,When Percy’s Norman pennon,[133]wonIn bloody field, before me shone,And twice ten knights, the least a nameAs mighty as yon Chief may claim,Gracing my pomp, behind me came.Yet trust me, Malcolm, not so proudWas I of all that marshal’d crowd,Though the waned crescent[134]own’d my might,And in my train troop’d lord and knight,Though Blantyre[135]hymn’d her holiest lays,And Bothwell’s bards flung back my praise,As when this old man’s silent tear,And this poor maid’s affection dear,A welcome give more kind and true,Than aught my better fortunes knew.Forgive, my friend, a father’s boast,Oh! it out-beggars[136]all I lost!“
Allan, with wistful look the while,
Mark’d Roderick landing on the isle;
His master piteously he eyed,
Then gazed upon the Chieftain’s pride,
Then dash’d, with hasty hand, away
From his dimm’d eye the gathering spray;
And Douglas, as his hand he laid
On Malcolm’s shoulder, kindly said,
“Canst thou, young friend, no meaning spy
In my poor follower’s glistening eye?
I’ll tell thee:—he recalls the day
When in my praise he led the lay
O’er the arch’d gate of Bothwell proud,
While many a minstrel answer’d loud,
When Percy’s Norman pennon,[133]won
In bloody field, before me shone,
And twice ten knights, the least a name
As mighty as yon Chief may claim,
Gracing my pomp, behind me came.
Yet trust me, Malcolm, not so proud
Was I of all that marshal’d crowd,
Though the waned crescent[134]own’d my might,
And in my train troop’d lord and knight,
Though Blantyre[135]hymn’d her holiest lays,
And Bothwell’s bards flung back my praise,
As when this old man’s silent tear,
And this poor maid’s affection dear,
A welcome give more kind and true,
Than aught my better fortunes knew.
Forgive, my friend, a father’s boast,
Oh! it out-beggars[136]all I lost!“
Delightful praise!—Like summer rose,That brighter in the dewdrop glows,The bashful maiden’s cheek appear’d,For Douglas spoke, and Malcolm heard.The flush of shamefaced joy to hide,The hounds, the hawk, her cares divide;The loved caresses of the maidThe dogs with crouch and whimper paid;And, at her whistle, on her handThe falcon took his favorite stand,Closed his dark wing, relax’d his eye,Nor, though unhooded,[137]sought to fly.And, trust, while in such guise she stood,Like fabled goddess[138]of the wood,That if a father’s partial thoughtO’erweigh’d her worth and beauty aught,Well might the lover’s judgment failTo balance with a juster scale;For with each secret glance he stole,The fond enthusiast sent his soul.
Delightful praise!—Like summer rose,That brighter in the dewdrop glows,The bashful maiden’s cheek appear’d,For Douglas spoke, and Malcolm heard.The flush of shamefaced joy to hide,The hounds, the hawk, her cares divide;The loved caresses of the maidThe dogs with crouch and whimper paid;And, at her whistle, on her handThe falcon took his favorite stand,Closed his dark wing, relax’d his eye,Nor, though unhooded,[137]sought to fly.And, trust, while in such guise she stood,Like fabled goddess[138]of the wood,That if a father’s partial thoughtO’erweigh’d her worth and beauty aught,Well might the lover’s judgment failTo balance with a juster scale;For with each secret glance he stole,The fond enthusiast sent his soul.
Delightful praise!—Like summer rose,
That brighter in the dewdrop glows,
The bashful maiden’s cheek appear’d,
For Douglas spoke, and Malcolm heard.
The flush of shamefaced joy to hide,
The hounds, the hawk, her cares divide;
The loved caresses of the maid
The dogs with crouch and whimper paid;
And, at her whistle, on her hand
The falcon took his favorite stand,
Closed his dark wing, relax’d his eye,
Nor, though unhooded,[137]sought to fly.
And, trust, while in such guise she stood,
Like fabled goddess[138]of the wood,
That if a father’s partial thought
O’erweigh’d her worth and beauty aught,
Well might the lover’s judgment fail
To balance with a juster scale;
For with each secret glance he stole,
The fond enthusiast sent his soul.
Of stature tall, and slender frame,But firmly knit, was Malcolm Græme.The belted plaid and tartan hoseDid ne’er more graceful limbs disclose;His flaxen hair, of sunny hue,Curl’d closely round his bonnet blue.Train’d to the chase, his eagle eyeThe ptarmigan in snow could spy:Each pass, by mountain, lake, and heath,He knew, through Lennox and Menteith;Vain was the bound of dark-brown doeWhen Malcolm bent his sounding bow;And scarce that doe, though wing’d with fear,Outstripp’d in speed the mountaineer:Right up Ben-Lomond could he press,And not a sob his toil confess.His form accorded with a mindLively and ardent, frank and kind;A blither heart, till Ellen came,Did never love nor sorrow tame;It danced as lightsome in his breast,As play’d the feather on his crest.Yet friends, who nearest knew the youth,His scorn of wrong, his zeal for truth,And bards, who saw his features bold,When kindled by the tales of old,Said, were that youth to manhood grown,Not long should Roderick Dhu’s renownBe foremost voiced by mountain fame,But quail to that of Malcolm Græme.
Of stature tall, and slender frame,But firmly knit, was Malcolm Græme.The belted plaid and tartan hoseDid ne’er more graceful limbs disclose;His flaxen hair, of sunny hue,Curl’d closely round his bonnet blue.Train’d to the chase, his eagle eyeThe ptarmigan in snow could spy:Each pass, by mountain, lake, and heath,He knew, through Lennox and Menteith;Vain was the bound of dark-brown doeWhen Malcolm bent his sounding bow;And scarce that doe, though wing’d with fear,Outstripp’d in speed the mountaineer:Right up Ben-Lomond could he press,And not a sob his toil confess.His form accorded with a mindLively and ardent, frank and kind;A blither heart, till Ellen came,Did never love nor sorrow tame;It danced as lightsome in his breast,As play’d the feather on his crest.Yet friends, who nearest knew the youth,His scorn of wrong, his zeal for truth,And bards, who saw his features bold,When kindled by the tales of old,Said, were that youth to manhood grown,Not long should Roderick Dhu’s renownBe foremost voiced by mountain fame,But quail to that of Malcolm Græme.
Of stature tall, and slender frame,
But firmly knit, was Malcolm Græme.
The belted plaid and tartan hose
Did ne’er more graceful limbs disclose;
His flaxen hair, of sunny hue,
Curl’d closely round his bonnet blue.
Train’d to the chase, his eagle eye
The ptarmigan in snow could spy:
Each pass, by mountain, lake, and heath,
He knew, through Lennox and Menteith;
Vain was the bound of dark-brown doe
When Malcolm bent his sounding bow;
And scarce that doe, though wing’d with fear,
Outstripp’d in speed the mountaineer:
Right up Ben-Lomond could he press,
And not a sob his toil confess.
His form accorded with a mind
Lively and ardent, frank and kind;
A blither heart, till Ellen came,
Did never love nor sorrow tame;
It danced as lightsome in his breast,
As play’d the feather on his crest.
Yet friends, who nearest knew the youth,
His scorn of wrong, his zeal for truth,
And bards, who saw his features bold,
When kindled by the tales of old,
Said, were that youth to manhood grown,
Not long should Roderick Dhu’s renown
Be foremost voiced by mountain fame,
But quail to that of Malcolm Græme.