Her faltering steps half led, half staid,
Through gallery fair, and high arcade,
Till, at his touch, its wings of pride
A portal arch unfolded wide.


Within 'twas brilliant all and light,
A thronging scene of figures bright;
It glow'd on Ellen's dazzled sight,
As when the setting sun has given
Ten thousand hues to summer even,
And from their tissue, fancy frames
Aerial knights and fairy dames.
Still by Fitz-James her footing staid;
A few faint steps she forward made,
Then slow her drooping head she raised,
And fearful round the presence gazed;
For him she sought, who own'd this state,
The dreaded Prince, whose will was fate.
She gazed on many a princely port,
Might well have ruled a royal court;
On many a splendid garb she gazed,
Then turn'd bewilder'd and amazed,
For all stood bare; and, in the room,
Fitz-James alone wore cap and plume.
To him each lady's look was lent;
On him each courtier's eye was bent;
Midst furs, and silks, and jewels sheen,
He stood, in simple Lincoln green,
The centre of the glittering ring,
And Snowdoun's Knight is Scotland's King!



As wreath of snow, on mountain-breast,
Slides from the rock that gave it rest,
Poor Ellen glided from her stay,
And at the Monarch's feet she lay;
No word her choking voice commands,
She show'd the ring she clasp'd her hands.
0! not a moment could he brook,
The generous Prince, that suppliant look!
Gently he raised her; and, the while,
Check'd with a glance the circle's smile;

Graceful, but grave, her brow he kiss'd, And bade her terrors be dismiss'd: “Yes, Fair; the wandering poor

Fitz-James The fealty of Scotland claims. To him thy woes, thy wishes, bring; He will redeem his signet ring. Ask nought for Douglas; yester even, His Prince and he have much forgiven: Wrong hath he had from slanderous tongue I, from his rebel kinsmen, wrong. We would not, to the vulgar crowd, Yield what they craved with clamour loud; Calmly we heard and judged his cause, Our council aided, and our laws. I stanch'd thy father's death-feud stern With stout De Vaux and Grey Glencairn; And Bothwell's Lord henceforth we own The friend and bulwark of our Throne. But, lovely infidel, how now? What clouds thy misbelieving brow? Lord James of Douglas, lend thine aid; Thou must confirm this doubting maid.


Then forth the noble Douglas sprung,
And on his neck his daughter hung.
The monarch drank, that happy hour,
The sweetest, holiest draught of Power,
When it can say, with godlike voice,
Arise, sad Virtue, and rejoice!
Yet would not James the general eye
On Nature's raptures long

should pry;
He stepp'd between , “Nay, Douglas, nay,
Steal not my proselyte away!
The riddle 'tis my right to read,
That brought this happy chance to speed.
Yes, Ellen, when disguised I stray
In life's more low but happier way,
'Tis under name which veils my power;
Nor falsely veils for Stirling's tower
Of yore the name of Snowdoun claims,
And Normans call me James Fitz-James.


Thus watch I o'er insulted laws,
Thus learn to right the injured cause.".
Then, in a tone apart and low,
“Ah, little traitress! none must know
What idle dream, what lighter thought,
What vanity full dearly bought,
Join'd to thine eye's dark witchcraft, drew
My spell--bound steps to Benvenue,
In dangerous hour, and all but gave
Thy monarch's life to mountain glaive!”.
Aloud he spoke – “Thou still dost hold
That little talisman of gold,
Pledge of my faith, Fitz-James' ring -
What seeks fair Ellen of the King ?”


Full well the conscious maiden guéss'd
He probed the weakness of her breast;
But, with that consciousness, there came
A lightening of her fears for Græme,
And more she deem'd the monarch's ire
Kindled 'gainst him, who for her sire,
Rebellious broadsword boldly drew;
And, to her generous feeling true,

She craved the grace of Roderick Dhu.
Forbear thy suit: the King of kings
Alone can stay life's parting wings:
I know his heart, I know his hand,
Have shared his cheer, and proved his brand -
My fairest earldom would I give.
To bid Clan Alpine's Chieftain live! -
Hast thou no other boon to crave?
No other captive friend to save?”
Blushing, she turn’d her from the King,
And to the Douglas gave the ring,
As if she wish'd her sire to speak

The suit that stain’d her glowing cheek. “Nay, then, my pledge has lost its force,

And stubborn justice holds her course. Malcolm, come forth!” — and, at the word, Down kneel'd the Græme to Scotland's Lord.

“For thee, rash youth, nó suppliant sues
From thee may Vengeance claim her dues,
Who, nurtured underneath our smile,
Hast paid our care by treacherous wile,
And sought, amid thy faithful clan,
A refuge for an outlaw'd man,
Dishonouring thus thy loyal name.
Fetters and warder for the Græme!”
His chain of gold the King unstrung,
The links o'er Malcolm's neck he flung,
Then gently drew the glittering band,

And laid the clasp on Ellen's hand.
HARP of the North, farewell! The hills grow dark,

On purple peaks a deeper shade descending;
In twilight copse the glow-worm lights her spark,

The deer, half-seen, are to the covert wending.
Resume thy wizard elm! the fountain lending,

And the wild breeze, thy wilder minstrelsy;
Thy numbers sweet with nature's vespers blending,

With distant echo from the fold and lea,
And herd-boy's evening pipe, and hum of housing bee.
Yet, once again, farewell, thou Minstrel harp!

Yet, once again, forgive my feeble sway!
And little reck I of the censure sharp

May idly cavil at an idle lay.
Much have I owed thy strains on life's long way,

Through secret woes the world has never known,
When on the weary night dawn'd wearier day,

And bitterer was the grief devour'd alone. That I o'erlived such woes,

Enchantress! is thine own. Hark! as my lingering footsteps slow retire,

Some Spirit of the Air has waked thy string! 'Tis now a seraph bold, with touch of fire

'Tis now the brush of Fairy's frolic wing; Receding now, the dying numbers ring

Fainter and fainter down the rugged dell And now the mountain breezes scarcely bring

A wandering witch-note of the distant spell And now, 'tis silent all!— Enchantress, fare thee well! NOTES TO THE LADY OF THE LAKE.

NOTE 1, page 321.

the heights of Vam-Var,
And roused the cavern, where, 'tis told,

A giant made his den of old. UA-VAR, as the name is pronounced, or more properly Unighmor, is a mountain to the north-east of the village of Callander in Menteith, deriving its name, which signifies the great den, or cavern, from a sort of retreat among the rocks on the south side, said, by tradition, to have been the abode of a giant. In latter times, it was the refuge of robbers and banditti, who have been only extirpated witbin these forty or fifty years. Strictly speaking, this stronghold is not a cave, as the name would imply, but a sort of small inclosure, or recess, surrounded with large rocks, and open above head.

NOTE 2, page 322.
Two dogs of black Saint Hubert's breed,

Unmatch'd for courage, breath, and speed. “The hounds which we call Saint Hubert's hounds, are commonly all blacke, yet neuertheless, the race is so mingled at these days, that we find them of all colours. These are the hounds which the abbots of St Hubert have always kept some of their race or kind, in honour or remembrance of the saint, which was a hunter with S. Eustace. Whereupon we may conceive that (by the grace of God) all good huntsmen shall follow them into paradise.” - The noble Art of Venerie or Hunting, translated and collected for the Use of all Noblemen and Gentlemen, Lond. 1611. 4to, p. 15.

NOTE 3, page 322.
For the death-wound and death-halloo,

Muster'd his breath, his whinyard drew. When the stag turned to bay, the ancient hunter had the perilous task of going in upon, and killing or disabling the desperate animal. At certain times of the year this was held particularly dangerous, a wound received from a stag's horn being then deemed poisonous, and more dangerous than one from the tusks of a boar, as the old rhyme testifies

“If thou be hurt with hart, it brings thee to thy bier,
But barber's hand will boar's hurt heal, therefore thou

need'st not fear." At all times, however, the task was dangerous, and to be adventured upon wisely and warily, either by getting behind the stag while he was gazing on the hounds, or by watching an opportunity to gallop roundly in upon him, and kill him with the sword. Scott, Poetical Works. I.


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