Then through the dell his horn resounds,From vain pursuit to call the hounds.170Back limped, with slow and crippled pace,The sulky leaders of the chase;Close to their master's side they pressed,With drooping tail and humbled crest;But still the dingle's hollow throat175Prolonged the swelling bugle-note.The owlets started from their dream,The eagles answered with their scream,Round and around the sounds were cast,noteTill echo seemed an answering blast;180And on the Hunter hied his way,To join some comrades of the day;Yet often paused, so strange the road,So wondrous were the scenes it showed.
Then through the dell his horn resounds,From vain pursuit to call the hounds.170Back limped, with slow and crippled pace,The sulky leaders of the chase;Close to their master's side they pressed,With drooping tail and humbled crest;But still the dingle's hollow throat175Prolonged the swelling bugle-note.The owlets started from their dream,The eagles answered with their scream,Round and around the sounds were cast,noteTill echo seemed an answering blast;180And on the Hunter hied his way,To join some comrades of the day;Yet often paused, so strange the road,So wondrous were the scenes it showed.
The western waves of ebbing day185Rolled o'er the glen their level way;Each purple peak, each flinty spire,Was bathed in floods of living fire.But not a setting beam could glowWithin the dark ravines below,190Where twined the path in shadow hid,Round many a rocky pyramid,Shooting abruptly from the dellIts thunder-splintered pinnacle;Round many an insulated mass,195The native bulwarks of the pass,Huge as the tower which builders vainnotePresumptuous piled on Shinar's plain.The rocky summits, split and rent,Formed turret, dome, or battlement,200Or seemed fantastically setWith cupola or minaret,Wild crests as pagod ever decked,Or mosque of Eastern architect.Nor were these earth-born castles bare,205Nor lacked they many a banner fair;For, from their shivered brows displayed,Far o'er the unfathomable glade,All twinkling with the dewdrops sheen,noteThe brier-rose fell in streamers green,210And creeping shrubs, of thousand dyes,Waved in the west-wind's summer sighs.
The western waves of ebbing day185Rolled o'er the glen their level way;Each purple peak, each flinty spire,Was bathed in floods of living fire.But not a setting beam could glowWithin the dark ravines below,190Where twined the path in shadow hid,Round many a rocky pyramid,Shooting abruptly from the dellIts thunder-splintered pinnacle;Round many an insulated mass,195The native bulwarks of the pass,Huge as the tower which builders vainnotePresumptuous piled on Shinar's plain.The rocky summits, split and rent,Formed turret, dome, or battlement,200Or seemed fantastically setWith cupola or minaret,Wild crests as pagod ever decked,Or mosque of Eastern architect.Nor were these earth-born castles bare,205Nor lacked they many a banner fair;For, from their shivered brows displayed,Far o'er the unfathomable glade,All twinkling with the dewdrops sheen,noteThe brier-rose fell in streamers green,210And creeping shrubs, of thousand dyes,Waved in the west-wind's summer sighs.
Boon nature scattered, free and wild,Each plant or flower, the mountain's child.Here eglantine embalmed the air,215Hawthorn and hazel mingled there;The primrose pale and violet flower,Found in each cliff a narrow bower;Fox-glove and night-shade, side by side,Emblems of punishment and pride,220Grouped their dark hues with every stainThe weather-beaten crags retain.With boughs that quaked at every breath,Grey birch and aspen wept beneath;Aloft, the ash and warrior oak225Cast anchor in the rifted rock;And, higher yet, the pine-tree hungHis shattered trunk, and frequent flung,noteWhere seemed the cliffs to meet on high,His bows athwart the narrowed sky.230Highest of all, where white peaks glanced,Where glist'ning streamers waved and danced,The wanderer's eye could barely viewThe summer heaven's delicious blue;So wondrous wild, the whole might seem235The scenery of a fairy dream.
Boon nature scattered, free and wild,Each plant or flower, the mountain's child.Here eglantine embalmed the air,215Hawthorn and hazel mingled there;The primrose pale and violet flower,Found in each cliff a narrow bower;Fox-glove and night-shade, side by side,Emblems of punishment and pride,220Grouped their dark hues with every stainThe weather-beaten crags retain.With boughs that quaked at every breath,Grey birch and aspen wept beneath;Aloft, the ash and warrior oak225Cast anchor in the rifted rock;And, higher yet, the pine-tree hungHis shattered trunk, and frequent flung,noteWhere seemed the cliffs to meet on high,His bows athwart the narrowed sky.230Highest of all, where white peaks glanced,Where glist'ning streamers waved and danced,The wanderer's eye could barely viewThe summer heaven's delicious blue;So wondrous wild, the whole might seem235The scenery of a fairy dream.
Onward, amid the copse 'gan peepA narrow inlet, still and deep,Affording scarce such breadth of brimAs served the wild duck's brood to swim.240Lost for a space, through thickets veering,But broader when again appearing,Tall rocks and tufted knolls their faceCould on the dark-blue mirror trace;And farther as the Hunter strayed,245Still broader sweep its channels made.The shaggy mounds no longer stood,Emerging from entangled wood,But, wave-encircled, seemed to float,Like castle girdled with its moat;250Yet broader floods extending stillDivide them from their parent hill,Till each, retiring, claims to beAn islet in an inland sea.
Onward, amid the copse 'gan peepA narrow inlet, still and deep,Affording scarce such breadth of brimAs served the wild duck's brood to swim.240Lost for a space, through thickets veering,But broader when again appearing,Tall rocks and tufted knolls their faceCould on the dark-blue mirror trace;And farther as the Hunter strayed,245Still broader sweep its channels made.The shaggy mounds no longer stood,Emerging from entangled wood,But, wave-encircled, seemed to float,Like castle girdled with its moat;250Yet broader floods extending stillDivide them from their parent hill,Till each, retiring, claims to beAn islet in an inland sea.
And now, to issue from the glen,255No pathway meets the wanderer's ken,Unless he climb, with footing nice,noteA far projecting precipice.The broom's tough roots his ladder made,The hazel saplings lent their aid;260And thus an airy point he won,Where, gleaming with the setting sun,One burnished sheet of living gold,Loch Katrine lay beneath him rolled,In all her length far winding lay,265With promontory, creek, and bay,And island that, empurpled bright,Floated amid the livelier light,And mountains, that like giants stand,To sentinel enchanted land.270High on the south, huge BenvenueDown on the lake in masses threwCrags, knolls, and mounds, confusedly hurled,The fragments of an earlier world;A wildering forest feathered o'er275His ruined sides and summit hoar,While on the north, through middle air,Ben-an heaved high his forehead bare.
And now, to issue from the glen,255No pathway meets the wanderer's ken,Unless he climb, with footing nice,noteA far projecting precipice.The broom's tough roots his ladder made,The hazel saplings lent their aid;260And thus an airy point he won,Where, gleaming with the setting sun,One burnished sheet of living gold,Loch Katrine lay beneath him rolled,In all her length far winding lay,265With promontory, creek, and bay,And island that, empurpled bright,Floated amid the livelier light,And mountains, that like giants stand,To sentinel enchanted land.270High on the south, huge BenvenueDown on the lake in masses threwCrags, knolls, and mounds, confusedly hurled,The fragments of an earlier world;A wildering forest feathered o'er275His ruined sides and summit hoar,While on the north, through middle air,Ben-an heaved high his forehead bare.
From the steep promontory gazedThe stranger, raptured and amazed,280And, "What a scene were here," he cried,"For princely pomp, or churchman's pride!On this bold brow, a lordly tower;In that soft vale, a lady's bower;On yonder meadow, far away,285The turrets of a cloister gray;How blithely might the bugle-hornChide, on the lake, the lingering morn!How sweet, at eve, the lover's luteChime, when the groves were still and mute!290And when the midnight moon should laveHer forehead in the silver wave,How solemn on the ear would comeThe holy matin's distant hum,While the deep peal's commanding tone295Should wake, in yonder islet lone,A sainted hermit from his cell,To drop a bead with every knell—And bugle, lute, and bell, and all,Should each bewildered stranger call300To friendly feast, and lighted hall.
From the steep promontory gazedThe stranger, raptured and amazed,280And, "What a scene were here," he cried,"For princely pomp, or churchman's pride!On this bold brow, a lordly tower;In that soft vale, a lady's bower;On yonder meadow, far away,285The turrets of a cloister gray;How blithely might the bugle-hornChide, on the lake, the lingering morn!How sweet, at eve, the lover's luteChime, when the groves were still and mute!290And when the midnight moon should laveHer forehead in the silver wave,How solemn on the ear would comeThe holy matin's distant hum,While the deep peal's commanding tone295Should wake, in yonder islet lone,A sainted hermit from his cell,To drop a bead with every knell—And bugle, lute, and bell, and all,Should each bewildered stranger call300To friendly feast, and lighted hall.
"Blithe were it then to wander here!But now—beshrew yon nimble deer—Like that same hermit's, thin and spare,The copse must give my evening fare;305Some mossy bank my couch must be,Some rustling oak my canopy.Yet pass we that; the war and chaseGive little choice of resting-place—A summer night, in greenwood spent,310Were but tomorrow's merriment:But hosts may in these wilds abound,Such as are better missed than found;To meet with Highland plunderers here,noteWere worse than loss of steed or deer.315I am alone; my bugle-strainMay call some straggler of the train;Or, fall the worst that may betide,Ere now this falchion has been tried."
"Blithe were it then to wander here!But now—beshrew yon nimble deer—Like that same hermit's, thin and spare,The copse must give my evening fare;305Some mossy bank my couch must be,Some rustling oak my canopy.Yet pass we that; the war and chaseGive little choice of resting-place—A summer night, in greenwood spent,310Were but tomorrow's merriment:But hosts may in these wilds abound,Such as are better missed than found;To meet with Highland plunderers here,noteWere worse than loss of steed or deer.315I am alone; my bugle-strainMay call some straggler of the train;Or, fall the worst that may betide,Ere now this falchion has been tried."
But scarce again his horn he wound,320When lo! forth starting at the sound,From underneath an aged oak,That slanted from the islet rock,A damsel guider of its way,A little skiff shot to the bay,325That round the promontory steepLed its deep line in graceful sweep,Eddying, in almost viewless wave,The weeping willow-twig to lave,And kiss, with whispering sound and slow,330The beach of pebbles bright as snow.The boat had touched the silver strand,Just as the Hunter left his stand,And stood concealed amid the brake,To view this Lady of the Lake.335The maiden paused, as if againShe thought to catch the distant strain.With head upraised, and look intent,And eye and ear attentive bent,And locks flung back, and lips apart,340Like monument of Grecian art,In listening mood, she seemed to stand,The guardian Naiad of the strand.
But scarce again his horn he wound,320When lo! forth starting at the sound,From underneath an aged oak,That slanted from the islet rock,A damsel guider of its way,A little skiff shot to the bay,325That round the promontory steepLed its deep line in graceful sweep,Eddying, in almost viewless wave,The weeping willow-twig to lave,And kiss, with whispering sound and slow,330The beach of pebbles bright as snow.The boat had touched the silver strand,Just as the Hunter left his stand,And stood concealed amid the brake,To view this Lady of the Lake.335The maiden paused, as if againShe thought to catch the distant strain.With head upraised, and look intent,And eye and ear attentive bent,And locks flung back, and lips apart,340Like monument of Grecian art,In listening mood, she seemed to stand,The guardian Naiad of the strand.
And ne'er did Grecian chisel traceA Nymph, a Naiad, or a Grace345Of finer form or lovelier face!What though the sun, with ardent frown,Had slightly tinged her cheek with brown—The sportive toil, which, short and light,Had dyed her glowing hue so bright,350Served too in hastier swell to showShort glimpses of a breast of snow.What though no rule of courtly graceTo measured mood had trained her pace,—A foot more light, a step more true,355Ne'er from the heath-flower dashed the dew;E'en the slight harebell raised its head,Elastic from her airy tread.What though upon her speech there hungThe accents of the mountain tongue—360Those silver sounds, so soft, so dear,The listener held his breath to hear!
And ne'er did Grecian chisel traceA Nymph, a Naiad, or a Grace345Of finer form or lovelier face!What though the sun, with ardent frown,Had slightly tinged her cheek with brown—The sportive toil, which, short and light,Had dyed her glowing hue so bright,350Served too in hastier swell to showShort glimpses of a breast of snow.What though no rule of courtly graceTo measured mood had trained her pace,—A foot more light, a step more true,355Ne'er from the heath-flower dashed the dew;E'en the slight harebell raised its head,Elastic from her airy tread.What though upon her speech there hungThe accents of the mountain tongue—360Those silver sounds, so soft, so dear,The listener held his breath to hear!
A chieftain's daughter seemed the maid;Her satin snood, her silken plaid,noteHer golden brooch such birth betrayed.365And seldom was a snood amidSuch wild luxuriant ringlets hid,Whose glossy black to shame might bringThe plumage of the raven's wing;And seldom o'er a breast so fair,370Mantled a plaid with modest care,And never brooch the folds combinedAbove a heart more good and kind.Her kindness and her worth to spy,You need but gaze on Ellen's eye;375Not Katrine, in her mirror blue,Gives back the shaggy banks more true,Than every free-born glance confessedThe guileless movements of her breast;Whether joy danced in her dark eye,380Or woe or pity claimed a sigh,Or filial love was glowing there,Or meek devotion poured a prayer,Or tale of injury called forthThe indignant spirit of the North.385One only passion unrevealed,With maiden pride the maid concealed,Yet not less purely felt the flame—Oh! need I tell that passion's name!
A chieftain's daughter seemed the maid;Her satin snood, her silken plaid,noteHer golden brooch such birth betrayed.365And seldom was a snood amidSuch wild luxuriant ringlets hid,Whose glossy black to shame might bringThe plumage of the raven's wing;And seldom o'er a breast so fair,370Mantled a plaid with modest care,And never brooch the folds combinedAbove a heart more good and kind.Her kindness and her worth to spy,You need but gaze on Ellen's eye;375Not Katrine, in her mirror blue,Gives back the shaggy banks more true,Than every free-born glance confessedThe guileless movements of her breast;Whether joy danced in her dark eye,380Or woe or pity claimed a sigh,Or filial love was glowing there,Or meek devotion poured a prayer,Or tale of injury called forthThe indignant spirit of the North.385One only passion unrevealed,With maiden pride the maid concealed,Yet not less purely felt the flame—Oh! need I tell that passion's name!
Impatient of the silent horn,390Now on the gale her voice was borne:"Father!" she cried; the rocks aroundLoved to prolong the gentle sound.A while she paused, no answer came—"Malcolm, was thine the blast?" the name395Less resolutely uttered fell,The echoes could not catch the swell."A stranger I," the Huntsman said,Advancing from the hazel shade.The maid, alarmed, with hasty oar,400Pushed her light shallop from the shore,And when a space was gained between,Closer she drew her bosom's screen—So forth the startled swan would swing,So turn to prune his ruffled wing.405Then safe, though fluttered and amazed,She paused, and on the stranger gazed.Not his the form, nor his the eye,That youthful maidens wont to fly.
Impatient of the silent horn,390Now on the gale her voice was borne:"Father!" she cried; the rocks aroundLoved to prolong the gentle sound.A while she paused, no answer came—"Malcolm, was thine the blast?" the name395Less resolutely uttered fell,The echoes could not catch the swell."A stranger I," the Huntsman said,Advancing from the hazel shade.The maid, alarmed, with hasty oar,400Pushed her light shallop from the shore,And when a space was gained between,Closer she drew her bosom's screen—So forth the startled swan would swing,So turn to prune his ruffled wing.405Then safe, though fluttered and amazed,She paused, and on the stranger gazed.Not his the form, nor his the eye,That youthful maidens wont to fly.
On his bold visage middle age410Had slightly pressed its signet sage,Yet had not quenched the open truthAnd fiery vehemence of youth;Forward and frolic glee was there,The will to do, the soul to dare,415The sparkling glance, soon blown to fire,Of hasty love, or headlong ire.His limbs were cast in manly mold,For hardy sports or contest bold;And though in peaceful garb arrayed,420And weaponless, except his blade,His stately mien as well impliedA high-born heart, a martial pride,As if a Baron's crest he wore,And sheathed in armor trod the shore.425Slighting the petty need he showed,He told of his benighted road;His ready speech flowed fair and free,In phrase of gentlest courtesy;Yet seemed that tone, and gesture bland,430Less used to sue than to command.
On his bold visage middle age410Had slightly pressed its signet sage,Yet had not quenched the open truthAnd fiery vehemence of youth;Forward and frolic glee was there,The will to do, the soul to dare,415The sparkling glance, soon blown to fire,Of hasty love, or headlong ire.His limbs were cast in manly mold,For hardy sports or contest bold;And though in peaceful garb arrayed,420And weaponless, except his blade,His stately mien as well impliedA high-born heart, a martial pride,As if a Baron's crest he wore,And sheathed in armor trod the shore.425Slighting the petty need he showed,He told of his benighted road;His ready speech flowed fair and free,In phrase of gentlest courtesy;Yet seemed that tone, and gesture bland,430Less used to sue than to command.
A while the maid the stranger eyed,And, reassured, at length replied,That Highland halls were open stillTo wildered wanderers of the hill.435"Nor think you unexpected comeTo yon lone isle, our desert home;Before the heath had lost the dew,This morn, a couch was pulled for you;noteOn yonder mountain's purple head440Have ptarmigan and heath-cock bled,noteAnd our broad nets have swept the mere,To furnish forth your evening cheer.""Now, by the rood, my lovely maid,Your courtesy has erred," he said;445"No right have I to claim, misplaced,The welcome of expected guest.A wanderer here, by fortune tost,My way, my friends, my courser lost,I ne'er before, believe me, fair,450Have ever drawn your mountain air,Till on this lake's romantic strand,I found a fay in fairy land!"
A while the maid the stranger eyed,And, reassured, at length replied,That Highland halls were open stillTo wildered wanderers of the hill.435"Nor think you unexpected comeTo yon lone isle, our desert home;Before the heath had lost the dew,This morn, a couch was pulled for you;noteOn yonder mountain's purple head440Have ptarmigan and heath-cock bled,noteAnd our broad nets have swept the mere,To furnish forth your evening cheer.""Now, by the rood, my lovely maid,Your courtesy has erred," he said;445"No right have I to claim, misplaced,The welcome of expected guest.A wanderer here, by fortune tost,My way, my friends, my courser lost,I ne'er before, believe me, fair,450Have ever drawn your mountain air,Till on this lake's romantic strand,I found a fay in fairy land!"
"I well believe," the maid replied,As her light skiff approached the side,455"I well believe, that ne'er beforeYour foot has trod Loch Katrine's shore;But yet, as far as yesternight,Old Allan-bane foretold your plight,A gray-haired sire, whose eye intent460Was on the visioned future bent.noteHe saw your steed, a dappled gray,Lie dead beneath the birchen way;Painted exact your form and mien,Your hunting suit of Lincoln green,465That tasselled horn so gaily gilt,That falchion's crooked blade and hilt,That cap with heron plumage trim,And yon two hounds so dark and grim.He bade that all should ready be,470To grace a guest of fair degree;But light I held his prophecy,And deemed it was my father's horn,Whose echoes o'er the lake were borne."
"I well believe," the maid replied,As her light skiff approached the side,455"I well believe, that ne'er beforeYour foot has trod Loch Katrine's shore;But yet, as far as yesternight,Old Allan-bane foretold your plight,A gray-haired sire, whose eye intent460Was on the visioned future bent.noteHe saw your steed, a dappled gray,Lie dead beneath the birchen way;Painted exact your form and mien,Your hunting suit of Lincoln green,465That tasselled horn so gaily gilt,That falchion's crooked blade and hilt,That cap with heron plumage trim,And yon two hounds so dark and grim.He bade that all should ready be,470To grace a guest of fair degree;But light I held his prophecy,And deemed it was my father's horn,Whose echoes o'er the lake were borne."
The stranger smiled: "Since to your home475A destined errant-knight I come,Announced by prophet sooth and old,Doomed, doubtless, for achievement bold,I'll lightly front each high emprise,For one kind glance of those bright eyes.480Permit me, first, the task to guideYour fairy frigate o'er the tide."The maid with smile suppressed and sly,The toil unwonted saw him try;For seldom sure, if e'er before,485His noble hand had grasped an oar.Yet with main strength his strokes he drew,And o'er the lake the shallop flew;With heads erect, and whimpering cry,The hounds behind their passage ply.490Nor frequent does the bright oar breakThe dark'ning mirror of the lake,Until the rocky isle they reach,And moor their shallop on the beach.
The stranger smiled: "Since to your home475A destined errant-knight I come,Announced by prophet sooth and old,Doomed, doubtless, for achievement bold,I'll lightly front each high emprise,For one kind glance of those bright eyes.480Permit me, first, the task to guideYour fairy frigate o'er the tide."The maid with smile suppressed and sly,The toil unwonted saw him try;For seldom sure, if e'er before,485His noble hand had grasped an oar.Yet with main strength his strokes he drew,And o'er the lake the shallop flew;With heads erect, and whimpering cry,The hounds behind their passage ply.490Nor frequent does the bright oar breakThe dark'ning mirror of the lake,Until the rocky isle they reach,And moor their shallop on the beach.
The stranger viewed the shore around,495'Twas all so close with copsewood bound,Nor track nor pathway might declareThat human foot frequented there,Until the mountain-maiden showedA clambering, unsuspected road,500That winded through the tangled screen,And opened on a narrow green,Where weeping birch and willow roundWith their long fibres swept the ground.Here, for retreat in dangerous hour,note505Some chief had framed a rustic bower.
The stranger viewed the shore around,495'Twas all so close with copsewood bound,Nor track nor pathway might declareThat human foot frequented there,Until the mountain-maiden showedA clambering, unsuspected road,500That winded through the tangled screen,And opened on a narrow green,Where weeping birch and willow roundWith their long fibres swept the ground.Here, for retreat in dangerous hour,note505Some chief had framed a rustic bower.
It was a lodge of ample size,But strange of structure and device;Of such materials as aroundThe workman's hand had readiest found.510Lopped of their boughs, their hoar trunks bared,And by the hatchet rudely squared,To give the walls their destined height,The sturdy oak and ash unite;While moss and clay and leaves combined515To fence each crevice from the wind.The lighter pine-trees overhead,Their slender length for rafters spread,And withered heath and rushes drySupplied a russet canopy.520Due westward, fronting to the green,A rural portico was seen,Aloft on native pillars borne,Of mountain fir with bark unshorn,Where Ellen's hand had taught to twine525The ivy and Idaean vine,The clematis, the favored flowerWhich boasts the name of virgin-bower,And every hardy plant could bearLoch Katrine's keen and searching air.530An instant in this porch she stayedAnd gaily to the stranger said,"On heaven and on thy lady call,And enter the enchanted hall!"
It was a lodge of ample size,But strange of structure and device;Of such materials as aroundThe workman's hand had readiest found.510Lopped of their boughs, their hoar trunks bared,And by the hatchet rudely squared,To give the walls their destined height,The sturdy oak and ash unite;While moss and clay and leaves combined515To fence each crevice from the wind.The lighter pine-trees overhead,Their slender length for rafters spread,And withered heath and rushes drySupplied a russet canopy.520Due westward, fronting to the green,A rural portico was seen,Aloft on native pillars borne,Of mountain fir with bark unshorn,Where Ellen's hand had taught to twine525The ivy and Idaean vine,The clematis, the favored flowerWhich boasts the name of virgin-bower,And every hardy plant could bearLoch Katrine's keen and searching air.530An instant in this porch she stayedAnd gaily to the stranger said,"On heaven and on thy lady call,And enter the enchanted hall!"
"My hope, my heaven, my trust must be,535My gentle guide, in following thee."He crossed the threshold—and a clangOf angry steel that instant rang.To his bold brow his spirit rushed,But soon for vain alarm he blushed,540When on the floor he saw displayed,Cause of the din, a naked bladeDropped from the sheath, that careless flungUpon a stag's huge antlers swung;For all around, the walls to grace,545Hung trophies of the fight or chase:A target there, a bugle here,noteA battle-ax, a hunting spear,And broadswords, bows, and arrows store,With the tusked trophies of the boar.550Here grins the wolf as when he died,And there the wild-cat's brindled hideThe frontlet of the elk adorns,Or mantles o'er the bison's horns;Pennons and flags defaced and stained,555That blackening streaks of blood retained,And deer-skins, dappled, dun, and white,With otter's fur and seal's unite,In rude and uncouth tapestry all,To garnish forth the silvan hall.
"My hope, my heaven, my trust must be,535My gentle guide, in following thee."He crossed the threshold—and a clangOf angry steel that instant rang.To his bold brow his spirit rushed,But soon for vain alarm he blushed,540When on the floor he saw displayed,Cause of the din, a naked bladeDropped from the sheath, that careless flungUpon a stag's huge antlers swung;For all around, the walls to grace,545Hung trophies of the fight or chase:A target there, a bugle here,noteA battle-ax, a hunting spear,And broadswords, bows, and arrows store,With the tusked trophies of the boar.550Here grins the wolf as when he died,And there the wild-cat's brindled hideThe frontlet of the elk adorns,Or mantles o'er the bison's horns;Pennons and flags defaced and stained,555That blackening streaks of blood retained,And deer-skins, dappled, dun, and white,With otter's fur and seal's unite,In rude and uncouth tapestry all,To garnish forth the silvan hall.
560The wondering stranger round him gazed,And next the fallen weapon raised—Few were the arms whose sinewy strength,Sufficed to stretch it forth at length.And as the brand he poised and swayed,565"I never knew but one," he said,"Whose stalwart arm might brook to wieldnoteA blade like this in battle-field."She sighed, then smiled and took the word:"You see the guardian champion's sword;570As light it trembles in his hand,As in my grasp a hazel wand;My sire's tall form might grace the partOf Ferragus, or Ascabart;noteBut in the absent giant's hold575Are women now, and menials old."
560The wondering stranger round him gazed,And next the fallen weapon raised—Few were the arms whose sinewy strength,Sufficed to stretch it forth at length.And as the brand he poised and swayed,565"I never knew but one," he said,"Whose stalwart arm might brook to wieldnoteA blade like this in battle-field."She sighed, then smiled and took the word:"You see the guardian champion's sword;570As light it trembles in his hand,As in my grasp a hazel wand;My sire's tall form might grace the partOf Ferragus, or Ascabart;noteBut in the absent giant's hold575Are women now, and menials old."
The mistress of the mansion came,Mature of age, a graceful dame;Whose easy step and stately portHad well become a princely court,580To whom, though more than kindred knew,noteYoung Ellen gave a mother's due.Meet welcome to her guest she made,And every courteous rite was paid,That hospitality could claim,585Though all unasked his birth and name.Such then the reverence to a guest,That fellest foe might join the feast,And from his deadliest foeman's doorUnquestioned turn, the banquet o'er.590At length his rank the stranger names,"The Knight of Snowdoun, James Fitz-James;noteLord of a barren heritage,Which his brave sires, from age to age,By their good swords had held with toil;595His sire had fallen in such turmoil,And he, God wot, was forced to standOft for his right with blade in hand.This morning, with Lord Moray's trainHe chased a stalwart stag in vain,600Outstripped his comrades, missed the deer,Lost his good steed, and wandered here."
The mistress of the mansion came,Mature of age, a graceful dame;Whose easy step and stately portHad well become a princely court,580To whom, though more than kindred knew,noteYoung Ellen gave a mother's due.Meet welcome to her guest she made,And every courteous rite was paid,That hospitality could claim,585Though all unasked his birth and name.Such then the reverence to a guest,That fellest foe might join the feast,And from his deadliest foeman's doorUnquestioned turn, the banquet o'er.590At length his rank the stranger names,"The Knight of Snowdoun, James Fitz-James;noteLord of a barren heritage,Which his brave sires, from age to age,By their good swords had held with toil;595His sire had fallen in such turmoil,And he, God wot, was forced to standOft for his right with blade in hand.This morning, with Lord Moray's trainHe chased a stalwart stag in vain,600Outstripped his comrades, missed the deer,Lost his good steed, and wandered here."
Fain would the Knight in turn requireThe name and state of Ellen's sire.Well showed the elder lady's mien,605That courts and cities she had seen;Ellen, though more her looks displayedThe simple grace of silvan maid,In speech and gesture, form and face,Showed she was come of gentle race.610'Twere strange in ruder rank to findSuch looks, such manners, and such mind.Each hint the Knight of Snowdoun gave,Dame Margaret heard with silence grave;Or Ellen, innocently gay,615Turned all inquiry light away:"Weird women we—by dale and downWe dwell, afar from tower and town.We stem the flood, we ride the blast,On wandering knights our spells we cast;620While viewless minstrels touch the string,'Tis thus our charméd rimes we sing."She sung, and still a harp unseennoteFilled up the symphony between.
Fain would the Knight in turn requireThe name and state of Ellen's sire.Well showed the elder lady's mien,605That courts and cities she had seen;Ellen, though more her looks displayedThe simple grace of silvan maid,In speech and gesture, form and face,Showed she was come of gentle race.610'Twere strange in ruder rank to findSuch looks, such manners, and such mind.Each hint the Knight of Snowdoun gave,Dame Margaret heard with silence grave;Or Ellen, innocently gay,615Turned all inquiry light away:"Weird women we—by dale and downWe dwell, afar from tower and town.We stem the flood, we ride the blast,On wandering knights our spells we cast;620While viewless minstrels touch the string,'Tis thus our charméd rimes we sing."She sung, and still a harp unseennoteFilled up the symphony between.
"Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,625Sleep the sleep that knows no breaking;Dream of battled fields no more,Days of danger, nights of waking.In our isle's enchanted hall,Hands unseen thy couch are strewing,630Fairy strains of music fall,Every sense in slumber dewing.Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,Dream of fighting fields no more;Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,635Morn of toil, nor night of waking."No rude sound shall reach thine ear,Armor's clang, or war-steed champing,Trump nor pibroch summon herenoteMustering clan, or squadron tramping.640Yet the lark's shrill fife may comeAt the day-break from the fallow,And the bittern sound his drum,noteBooming from the sedgy shallow.Ruder sounds shall none be near,645Guards nor warders challenge here,Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing,Shouting clans or squadrons stamping."
"Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,625Sleep the sleep that knows no breaking;Dream of battled fields no more,Days of danger, nights of waking.In our isle's enchanted hall,Hands unseen thy couch are strewing,630Fairy strains of music fall,Every sense in slumber dewing.Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,Dream of fighting fields no more;Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,635Morn of toil, nor night of waking.
"No rude sound shall reach thine ear,Armor's clang, or war-steed champing,Trump nor pibroch summon herenoteMustering clan, or squadron tramping.640Yet the lark's shrill fife may comeAt the day-break from the fallow,And the bittern sound his drum,noteBooming from the sedgy shallow.Ruder sounds shall none be near,645Guards nor warders challenge here,Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing,Shouting clans or squadrons stamping."
She paused—then, blushing, led the layTo grace the stranger of the day.650Her mellow notes awhile prolongThe cadence of the flowing song,Till to her lips in measured frameThe minstrel verse spontaneous came.
She paused—then, blushing, led the layTo grace the stranger of the day.650Her mellow notes awhile prolongThe cadence of the flowing song,Till to her lips in measured frameThe minstrel verse spontaneous came.
"Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done,655While our slumbrous spells assail ye,Dream not, with the rising sun,Bugles here shall sound reveillé.noteSleep! the deer is in his den;Sleep! thy hounds are by thee lying;660Sleep! nor dream in yonder glen,How thy gallant steed lay dying.Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done,Think not of the rising sun,For at dawning to assail ye,665Here no bugles sound reveillé."
"Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done,655While our slumbrous spells assail ye,Dream not, with the rising sun,Bugles here shall sound reveillé.noteSleep! the deer is in his den;Sleep! thy hounds are by thee lying;660Sleep! nor dream in yonder glen,How thy gallant steed lay dying.Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done,Think not of the rising sun,For at dawning to assail ye,665Here no bugles sound reveillé."
The hall was cleared—the stranger's bedWas there of mountain heather spread,Where oft a hundred guests had lain,And dreamed their forest sports again.670But vainly did the heath-flower shedIts moorland fragrance round his head;Not Ellen's spell had lulled to restThe fever of his troubled breast.In broken dreams the image rose675Of varied perils, pains, and woes:His steed now flounders in the brake,Now sinks his barge upon the lake;Now leader of a broken host,His standard falls, his honor's lost.680Then—from my couch may heavenly mightChase that worst phantom of the night!Again returned the scenes of youth,Of confident undoubting truth;Again his soul he interchanged685With friends whose hearts were long estranged.They come, in dim procession led,The cold, the faithless, and the dead;As warm each hand, each brow as gay,As if they parted yesterday.690And doubt distracts him at the view—O were his senses false or true?Dreamed he of death, or broken vow,Or is it all a vision now?
The hall was cleared—the stranger's bedWas there of mountain heather spread,Where oft a hundred guests had lain,And dreamed their forest sports again.670But vainly did the heath-flower shedIts moorland fragrance round his head;Not Ellen's spell had lulled to restThe fever of his troubled breast.In broken dreams the image rose675Of varied perils, pains, and woes:His steed now flounders in the brake,Now sinks his barge upon the lake;Now leader of a broken host,His standard falls, his honor's lost.680Then—from my couch may heavenly mightChase that worst phantom of the night!Again returned the scenes of youth,Of confident undoubting truth;Again his soul he interchanged685With friends whose hearts were long estranged.They come, in dim procession led,The cold, the faithless, and the dead;As warm each hand, each brow as gay,As if they parted yesterday.690And doubt distracts him at the view—O were his senses false or true?Dreamed he of death, or broken vow,Or is it all a vision now?
At length, with Ellen in a grove695He seemed to walk, and speak of love;She listened with a blush and sigh,His suit was warm, his hopes were high.He sought her yielded hand to clasp,And a cold gauntlet met his grasp;700The phantom's sex was changed and gone,Upon its head a helmet shone;Slowly enlarged to giant size,With darkened cheek and threatening eyes,The grisly visage, stern and hoar,705To Ellen still a likeness bore.He woke, and, panting with affright,Recalled the vision of the night.The hearth's decaying brands were red.And deep and dusky luster shed,710Half showing, half concealing, allThe uncouth trophies of the hall.Mid those the stranger fixed his eye,Where that huge falchion hung on high,And thoughts on thoughts, a countless throng,715Rushed, chasing countless thoughts along.Until, the giddy whirl to cure,He rose, and sought the moonshine pure.
At length, with Ellen in a grove695He seemed to walk, and speak of love;She listened with a blush and sigh,His suit was warm, his hopes were high.He sought her yielded hand to clasp,And a cold gauntlet met his grasp;700The phantom's sex was changed and gone,Upon its head a helmet shone;Slowly enlarged to giant size,With darkened cheek and threatening eyes,The grisly visage, stern and hoar,705To Ellen still a likeness bore.He woke, and, panting with affright,Recalled the vision of the night.The hearth's decaying brands were red.And deep and dusky luster shed,710Half showing, half concealing, allThe uncouth trophies of the hall.Mid those the stranger fixed his eye,Where that huge falchion hung on high,And thoughts on thoughts, a countless throng,715Rushed, chasing countless thoughts along.Until, the giddy whirl to cure,He rose, and sought the moonshine pure.
The wild-rose, eglantine, and broom,Wasted around their rich perfume:720The birch-trees swept in fragrant balm,The aspens slept beneath the calm;The silver light, with quivering glance,Played on the water's still expanse—Wild were the heart whose passion's sway725Could 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?730Can 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 fevered dream,735But still the Douglas is the theme?I'll dream no more—by manly mindNot even in sleep is will resigned.My midnight orisons said o'er,I'll turn to rest, and dream no more."740His midnight orisons he told,A prayer with every bead of gold,Consigned to heaven his cares and woes,And sunk in undisturbed repose,Until the heath-cock shrilly crew,745And morning dawned on Benvenue.
The wild-rose, eglantine, and broom,Wasted around their rich perfume:720The birch-trees swept in fragrant balm,The aspens slept beneath the calm;The silver light, with quivering glance,Played on the water's still expanse—Wild were the heart whose passion's sway725Could 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?730Can 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 fevered dream,735But still the Douglas is the theme?I'll dream no more—by manly mindNot even in sleep is will resigned.My midnight orisons said o'er,I'll turn to rest, and dream no more."740His midnight orisons he told,A prayer with every bead of gold,Consigned to heaven his cares and woes,And sunk in undisturbed repose,Until the heath-cock shrilly crew,745And morning dawned on Benvenue.