So still he sate, as those who wait

Till judgment speak the doom of fate; So still, as if no breeze might dare

To lift one lock of hoary hair;

So still, as life itself were fled,

In the last sound his harp had sped.

V.

Upon a rock with lichens wild,
Beside him Ellen sate and smiled.

Smiled she to see the stately drake
Lead forth his fleet upon the lake,
While her vexed spaniel, from the beach,
Bayed at the prize beyond his reach?
Yet tell me then the maid who knows,
Why deepened on her cheek the rose ?---
Forgive, forgive, Fidelity!

Perchance the maiden smiled to see
Yon parting lingerer wave adieu,

And stop and turn to wave anew;

And, lovely ladies, ere your ire

Condemn the heroine of my lyre,
Shew me the fair would scorn to spy,
And prize such conquest of her eye!

VI.

While yet he loitered on the spot,
It seemed as Ellen marked him not;
But when he turned him to the glade,
One courteous parting sign she made;
And after, oft that Knight would say,
That not when prize of festal day
Was dealt him by the brightest fair,
Who e'er wore jewel in her hair,
So highly did his bosom swell,
As at that simple mute farewell.
Now with a trusty mountain guide,
And his dark stag-hounds by his side,
He parts---the maid, unconscious still,
Watched him wind slowly round the hill;

But when his stately form was hid,

The guardian in her bosom chid--

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Thy Malcolm! vain and selfish maid!"
"Twas thus upbraiding conscience said,
"Not so had Malcolm idly hung

On the smooth phrase of southern tongue;
Not so had Malcolm strained his eye
The step of parting fair to spy."-

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Wake, Allan-bane," aloud she cried,
To the old minstrel by her side,
"Arouse thee from thy moody dream!
I'll give thy harp heroic theme,
And warm thee with a noble name;
Pour forth the glory of the Græme.".
Scarce from her lip the word had rushed,
When deep the conscious maiden blushed,
For of his clan, in hall and bower,

Young Malcolm Græme was held the flower.

VII.

The minstrel waked his harp-three times
Across the well-known martial chimes,
And thrice their high heroic pride
In melancholy murmurs died.

-“ Vainly thou bidst, O noble maid,” Clasping his withered hands, he said,

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Vainly thou bidst me wake the strain, Though all unwont to bid in vain.

Alas! than mine a mightier hand

Has tuned my harp, my strings has spanned;

I touch the chords of joy, but low
And mournful answer notes of woe;

And the proud march which victors tread,

Sinks in the wailing for the dead.--

O well for me, if mine alone

That dirge's deep prophetic tone!

If, as my tuneful fathers said,

This harp, which erst Saint Modan swayed,

Can thus its master's fate foretel,

Then welcome be the minstrel's knell!

VIII.

"But ah! dear lady, thus it sighed

The eve thy sainted mother died ;

And such the sounds which, while I strove
To wake a lay of war or love,

Came marring all the festal mirth,

Appalling me who gave them birth,

And, disobedient to my call,

Wailed loud through Bothwell's bannered hall,

Ere Douglasses, to ruin driven,

Were exiled from their native heaven.--

Oh! if yet worse mishap and woe
My master's house must undergo,
Or aught but weal to Ellen fair,
Brood in these accents of despair,
No future bard, sad harp! shall fling
Triumph or rapture from thy string;