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Served too in hastier swell to show
Short glimpses of a breast of snow:
What though no rule of courtly grace
To measured mood had train’d her pace,—
A foot more light, a step more true,
Ne'er from the heath-flower dash'd the dew ;
E’en the slight harebell raised its head,
Elastic from her airy tread:
What though upon her speech there hung
The accents of the mountain tongue-
Those silver sounds, so soft, so dear,
The list’ner held his breath to hear !

XIX.
A Chieftain's daughter seem'd the maid;
Her satin smood,” her silken plaid,
Her golden brooch, such birth betray’d.
And seldom was a snood amid
Such wild luxuriant ringlets hid,
Whose glossy black to shame might bring
The plumage of the raven's wing;
And seldom o'er a breast so fair,
Mantled a plaid with modest care,
And never brooch the folds combined
Above a heart more good and kind.
Her kindness and her worth to spy,
You need but gaze on Ellen's eye :
Not Katrine, in her mirror blue,

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Gives back the shaggy banks more true,
Than every freeborn glance confess'd
The guileless movements of her breast;
Whether joy danced in her dark eye,
Or woe or pity claim’d a sigh,
Or filial love was glowing there,
Or meek devotion pour’d a prayer,
Or tale of injury called forth
The indignant spirit of the North.
One only passion unreveal’d,
With maiden pride the maid conceal’d,
Yet not less purely felt the flame;—
O need I tell that passion's name !

XX. Impatient of the silent horn, Now on the gale her voice was borne:– “Father l’” she cried; the rocks around Loved to prolong the gentle sound. A while she paused, no answer came, * “Malcolm, was thine the blast P’’ the name Less resolutely utter'd fell, The echoes could not catch the swell.

! [MS.—“A space she paused, no answer came=
‘Alpine, was thine the blast?” the name
Less resolutely utter'd fell,
The echoes could not catch the swell.
“Nor foe nor friend,’ the stranger said,
Advancing from the hazel shade.
The startled maid, with hasty oar,
Push'd her light shallop from the shore.”

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“A stranger I,” the Huntsman said,
Advancing from the hazel shade.
The maid, alarmed, with hasty oar,
Push'd 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 :)
Then safe, though flutter'd and amazed,
She paused, and on the stranger gazed.
Not his the form, nor his the eye,
That youthful maidens wont to fly.

XXI. On his bold visage middle age Had slightly press'd its signet sage, Yet had not quench'd the open truth And fiery vehemence of youth ; Forward and frolic glee was there, The will to do, the soul to dare, The sparkling glance, soon blown to fire, Of hasty love, or headlong ire. His limbs were cast in manly mould, For hardy sports or contest bold; And though in peaceful garb array'd, And weaponless, except his blade, His stately mien as well implied A high-born heart, a martial pride,

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As if a Baron's crest he wore,
And sheathed in armour trod the shore,
Slighting the petty need he show’d,
He told of his benighted road;
His ready speech flow'd fair and free,
In phrase of gentlest courtesy;
Yet seem'd that tone, and gesture bland,
Less used to sue than to command.

XXII. A while the maid the stranger eyed, And, reassured, at length replied, That Highland halls were open still' To wilder'd wanderers of the hill. “Nor think you unexpected come To yon lone isle, our desert home; Before the heath had lost the dew, This morn, a couch was pull'd for you ; On yonder mountain's purple head Have ptarmigan and heath-cock bled, And our broad nets have swept the mere, To furnish forth your evening cheer.”— “Now, by the rood, my lovely maid, Your courtesy has err'd,” he said; “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,

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I ne'er before, believe me, fair,
Have ever drawn your mountain air,
Till on this lake's romantic strard,"
I found a say in fairy land ' "

XXIII. “I well believe,” the maid replied, As her light skiff approach'd the side,“I well believe, that ne'er before Your foot has trod Loch Katrine's shore : But yet, as far as yesternight, Old Allan-bane foretold your plight, A grayhair’d sire, whose eye intent Was on the vision'd future bent.” He saw your steed, a dappled gray, Lie dead beneath the birchen way; Painted exact your form and mien, Your hunting suit of Lincoln green, That tassell'd horn, so gayly 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, To grace a guest of fair degree ; But light I held his prophecy, And deem'd it was my father's horn, Whose echoes o'er the lake were borne,”—

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