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 trained her pace,-

A foot more light, a step more true,

Ne'er from the heath-flower dashed the dew;

E'en the slight hare-bell 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 listener held his breath to hear.

XIX.

A chieftain's daughter seemed the maid;

Her sattin snood, 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,

Gives back the shaggy banks more true,
Than every free-born glance confessed
The guileless movements of her breast;
Whether joy danced in her dark eye,
Or woe or pity claimed a sigh,
Or filial love was glowing there,

Or meek devotion poured a prayer,

Or tale of injury called forth

The indignant spirit of the north.

One only passion, unrevealed,

With maiden pride the maid concealed, 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!" she cried; the rocks around

Loved to prolong the gentle sound.

A while she paused, no answer came,— "Malcolm, was thine the blast?" the name Less 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,
Pushed 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 fluttered 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 pressed its signet sage,
Yet had not quenched 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 arrayed,

And weaponless, except his blade,

His stately mien as well implied

A high-born heart, a martial pride,

As if a baron's crest he wore,

And sheathed in armour trod the shore.

Slighting 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,

Less used to sue than to command.

XXII.

A while the maid the stranger eyed,

And, reassured, at last replied,
That highland halls were open still
To wildered 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 pulled for

On yonder mountain's purple head

you;

Have ptarmigan and heath-cock bled,

And our broad nets have swept the mere,

To furnish forth your evening cheer."

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