This morn a couch was pulled 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 erred," 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,
I ne'er before, believe me, fair,
Have 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,
"I well believe that ne'er before
Your foot has trod Loch-Katrine shore ;
But yet, as far as yesternight,
Old Allan-bane foretold your plight,—
A grey-haired sire, whose eye intent,
Was on the visioned future bent.
He saw your steed, a dappled grey,
Lie dead beneath the birchen way;
Painted exact your form and mien,
Your hunting suit of Lincoln green,
That tassel'd horn so gayly gilt,
'That falchion's crooked blade and hilt,
That cap with heron's 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 deemed it was my father's horn,
Whose echoes o'er the lake were borne."
The stranger smiled :-" Since to your home
A destined errant knight I come,
Announced by prophet sooth and old,
Doomed, doubtless, for achievement bold,
I'll lightly front each high emprize,
For one kind glance of those bright eyes;
Permit me, first, the task to guide
Your fairy frigate o'er the tide."
The maid, with smiles suppressed and sly,
The toil unwonted saw him try;
For seldom sure, if e'er before,
His 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.
Nor frequent does the bright oar break
The darkening mirror of the lake,
Until the rocky isle they reach,
And moor their shallop on the beach.
The stranger viewed the shore around;
'Twas all so close with copse-wood bound,
Nor track nor pathway might declare
That human foot frequented there,
Until the mountain maiden showed
A clambering unsuspected road,
That winded through the tangled screen,.
And opened on a narow green.
Here, for retreat in dangerous hour,
Some chief had framed a rustic bower.
It was a lodge of ample size,
But strange of structure and device.
Due 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 twine
The ivy and Idæan vine,
The clematis, the favoured flower,
Which boasts the name of virgin-bower ;
And every hardy plant could bear
Loch-Katrine's keen and searching air.
An instant in the porch she stayed,
And gayly to the stranger said,
"On heaven and on thy lady call,
And enter the enchanted hall."
"My hope, my heaven, my trust must be,
My gentle guide, in following thee."-
Rokeby is an English story; the scene is in the north of England, and the date 1644. The most interesting characters in Rokeby are Redmond O'Neale, a young Irishman trained by the lord of Rokeby, and Matilda, the only daughter of Rokeby.
"Wreathed in its dark brown rings, her hair
Half hid Matilda's forehead fair,
Half hid and half revealed to view
Her full dark eye of hazel hue.
The rose, with faint and feeble streak,
So slightly tinged the maiden's check,
That you had said her hue was pale,
But if she faced the summer gale,
Or spoke, or sung, or quicker moved,
Or heard the praise of those she loved,
Or when of interest was expressed
Aught that waked feeling in her breast,
The mantling blood in ready play
Rivalled the blush of rising day.
There was a soft and pensive grace,
A cast of thought upon her face,
That suited well the forehead high,
The eye-lash dark, and downcast eye;
The mild expression spoke a mind
In duty firm, composed, resigned;-
'Tis that which Roman art has given,
To mark their maiden queen of heaven.
In hours of sport, that mood gave way
To Fancy's light and frolic play,
And when the dance, or tale, or song,
In harmless mirth sped time along,
Full oft her doating sire would call
His Maud the merriest of them all.
But days of war, and civil crime,
Allowed but ill such festal time,
And her soft pensiveness of brow
Had deepened into sadness now.
And boding thoughts that she must part
With a soft vision of her heart,—
All lowered around the lovely maid,
To darken her dejection's shade."
Some years before the time of the poem of Rokeby, the Irish had rebelled against the English government in Ireland, and the Ear! of Essex was employed to crush the rebellion; but O'Neale, a descendant of the ancient Irish princes, assumed the sovereignty of the province of Ulster, and for a while was acknowledged king. While O'Neale held out against the English, the author of the poem supposes that the Knight of Rokeby, with his confederate Mortham, was employed in the English military service in Ireland, and that falling into the power of O'Neale, they were treated with generosity and hospitality, and sent safe and unransomed home. On account of
the friendship thus commenced, on the reverse of his fortune, the grandson of Rokeby's preserver was sent to his protection, was afterwards trained under his roof, and in due time married to his daughter Matilda.
"Years sped away. On Rokeby's head
Some touch of early snow was shed;
Calm he enjoyed, by Greta's wave,
The peace which James the peaceful gave,
While Mortham, far beyond the main,
Waged his fierce wars on Indian Spain-
It chanced upon a wintry night,
That whitened Stanemore's stormy height,
The chase was o'er, the stag was killed,
In Rokeby-hall the cups were filled,
And, by the huge stone chimney, sate
The knight, in hospitable state.
Moonless the sky, the hour was late,
When a loud summons shook the gate.
And sore for entrance and for aid
A voice of foreign accent prayed.
The porter answered to the call,
And instant rushed into the hall
A man, whose aspect and attire
Startled the circle by the fire.
His plaited hair in elf-locks spread
Around his bare and matted head;
On leg and thigh, close stretched and trim,.
His vesture showed the sinewy limb;
In saffron dyed, a linen vest
Was frequent folded round his breast;
A mantle long and loose he wore,
Shaggy with ice, and stained with gore.
He clasped a burthen to his heart,
And, resting on a knotted dart,
The snow from hair and beard he shook,
And round him gazed with wildered look:
Then up the hall, with staggering pace,
He hastened by the blaze to place,
Half lifeless from the bitter air,
His load, a boy of beauty rare.
To Rokeby, next, he louted low,
Then stood erect his tale to show,
With wild majestic port and tone,
Like envoy of some barbarous throne.
'Sir Richard, lord of Rokeby, hear!
Turlough O'Neale salutes thee dear;
He graces thee, and to thy care
Young Redmond gives, his grandson fair.
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