But thundering as he came prepared, Less loud r unds of sylvan war

With ready arm and weapon bared, Disturbed .c weights of Uam-Var,

The wily quarry shunned the shock, And roused the carern, where, 'tis told,

And turned him from the opposing rock; A giant made his den of old:

Then, dashing down a dark some glen, For ere that steep ascent was won,

Soon lost to liound and hunter's ken, High in his pathway hung the sun,

In the deep Trosach's wildest nook And mary a gallant, stayed per force,

His solitary refuge took Was fain to breathe his faltering horse;

There while, close couched, the thicket shed And of the trackers of the deer

Cold dews and wild flowers on his head, Scarce half the lessening pack was near;

He heard the bafiled dogs in vain So shrecdly, on the mountain side,

Rave through the hollow pass amain,
Had the bold burst their mettle tried.

Chiding the rocks that yelled again.

The noble stag was pausing now,

Close on the hounds the hunter came, Upon the mountain's sorthern brow,

To cheer them on the vanished game; Where broad extended, far beneath,

But, stumbling in the rugged deil, The varied realms of fair Menteith.

The gallant horse exhausted fell. With anxious eye he wandered o'er

The impatient rider strove in vain Mountain and meadow, moss and moor,

To rouse him with the spur and rein, Aad pondered refuge from his toil,

For the good steed, his labours o'er, By far Lochard or Aberfoyle.

Stretched his stiff limbs to rise no more, But nearer was the copse-wood gray,

Then touched with pity and remorse, That wared and wept on Loch-Achray,

He sorrowed o'er the expiring horse: Aod mingled with the pine-trees blue

“I little thought, when first thy rein On the bold cliffs of Ben-venue.

I slacked upon the banks of Seine, Fresh vigour with the hope returned,

That highland eagle e'er should feed Wil flying foot the heath he spurned,

On thy fleet limbs, my matchless steed; Held westward with unwearied race,

Wo worth the chase, wo worth the day, And left behind the panting chase.

That costs thy life, my gallant gray!”VI. Tvere long to tell what steeds gave o'er,

Then through the dell bis horn resounds, As swept the hunt through Cambus-more;

From vain pursuit to call the hounds.
What reins were tightened in despair,
When rose Bepledi's ridge in air;

Back limped, with slow and crippled pace,

The suiky leaders of the chase;
Who flagged upon Bochastic's heath,
Who shunned to stem the flooded Teith,

Close to their master's side they pressed,

With drooping tail and humbled crest; For twice, that day, from shore to shore,

But still the dingle's hollow throat The gallant stag swam stoutly o’er.

Prolonged the swelling bugle-note. Few were the stragglers, following far,

The owlets started from their dream, That reached the lake of Vennachar;

The eagles answered with their scream, And when the Brigs of Turk was won,

Round and around the sounds were cast, The headmost horseman rode alone.

Till echo seemed an answering blast;

And on the hunter hied his way,
Alone, bat with unbated zeal,

To join some comrades of the day; That horseman plied the scourge and steel; Yet often paused, so strange the road, For jaded now, and spent with toil,

So wondrous were the scenes it showed. Embossed with foam, and dark with soil,

While every gasp with sobs he drew,
The labouring stag strained full in view.

| The western waves of ebbing day Two dogs of blaek Saint Hubert's breed,

Rolled o'er the glen their level way; Unmatched for courage, breath, and speed, 2

Each purple peak, each Minty spire, Fast on his flying traces came,

Was bathed in floods of living fire, And all but won that desperate game;

But not a setting beam could glow For, scarce a spear's length from his haunch,

Within the dark ravines below, Vindictive toiled the blood-hounds staunch;

Where twined the path in shadow.hid,

Round many a rocky pyramid,
Nor nearer might the dogs attain,
Nor farther might the quarry strain.

Shooting abruptly from the dell
Thus up the margin of the lake,

Its thunder-splintered pinnacle; Between the precipice and brake,

Round many an insulated mass, O'er stock and rock their race they take.

The native bulwarks of the pass,

Huge as the tower which builders vain VIII.

Presumptuous piled on Shinar's plain. The hunter marked that mountain high,

The rocky summits, split and rent, The lone lake's western boundary,

Formed turret, dome, or battlement, And deemed the stag must turn to bay,

Or seemed fantastically set Where that huge rampart barred the way; With cupola or minaret, Already glorying in the prize,

Wild crests as pagod ever decked, Measured his antlers with his eyes;

Or mosque of eastern architect. For the death-wound, and death-halloo,

Nor were these earth-born castles bare, Master'd his breath, his whinyard drew;

Nor lacked they many a banner fair;

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For, from their shiver'd brows display'd,

A wildering forest feathered o'er Far o'er the unfathomable glade,

His ruined sides and summit hoar,
All twinkling with the dew-drops sheen, While on the north, through middle air,
The briar-rose fell in streamers green,

Ben-an heaved high his forehead bare.
And creeping shrubs, of thousand dyes,
Wared in the west-wind's summer sighs.

From the steep promontory gazed
Boon nature scatter'd, free and wild,

The stranger, raptured and amazed.

And “ What a scene were here,” he cried, Each plant, or flower, the mountain's child.

“For princely pomp, or churchman's pride! Here eglantine embalm'd the air, Hawthorn and hazel mingled there;

On this bold brow, a lordly tower; The primrose pale, and violet flower,

In that soft vale, a lady's bower:

On yonder meadow, far away,
Found in each cliff a narrow bower;
Fox-glove and night-shade, side by side,

The turrets of a cloister gray,
Emblems of punishment and pride,

How blithly might the bugle horn Group'd their dark hues with every stain

Chide, on the lake, the lingering morn! The weather-beaten crags retain.

How sweet, at eve, the lover's lute With boughs that quaked at every breath,

Chime, when the groves were still and mute ! Gray birch and aspen wept beneath;

And, when the midnight moon should lave

Her forehead in the silver wave,
Aloft, the ash and warrior oak

How solemn on the ear would come
Cast anchor in the rifted rock;
And, higher yet, the pine-tree hung

The holy matin's distant hum,
His shatter'd trunk, and frequent flung,

While the deep peal's commanding tone Where seem'd the cliffs to meet on high,

Should wake, in yonder islet lone, His boughs athwart the narrow'd sky.

A sainted hermit from his cell, Highest of all, where white peaks glanced,

To drop a bead with every knellWhere glist'ning streamers waved and danced,

And bugle, lute, and bell, and all, The wanderer's eye could barely view

Should each bewildered stranger call
The summer heaven's delicious blue;

To friendly feast, and lighted hall.
So wond'rous wild, the whole might seem
The scenery of a fairy dream.

“ Blith were it then to wander here!

But now,-beshrew yon nimble deer, Onward, amid the copse 'gan peep

Like that same hermit's, thin and spare, A narrow inlet, still and deep,

The copse must give my evening fare;
Affording scarce such breadth of brim,

Some mossy bank my couch must be,
As served the wild duck's brood to swim. Some rustling oak my canopy.
Lost for a space, through thickets veering, Yet pass we that;-the war and chase
But broader when again appearing,

Give little choice of resting place;
Tall rocks and tufted knolls their face

A summer night, in green wood spent, Could on the dark-blue mirror trace;

Were but to-morrow's merriment: And farther as the hunter strayed,

But hosts may in these wilds abound, Still broader sweep its channels made.

Such as are better missed than found; The shaggy mounds no longer stood,

To meet with highland plunderers here Emerging from entangled wood,

Were worse than loss of steed or deer.5 But, wave-encircled, seemed to float,

I am alone;-my bugle strain Like castle girdled with its moat;

May call some straggler of the train; Yet broader floods extending still,

Or, fall the worst that may betide,
Divide them from their parent hill,

Ere now this falchion has been tried.”
Till each, retiring, claims to be
An islet in an inland sea.


But scarce again his horn he wound,

When lo! forth starting at the sound,
And now, to issue from the glen,

From underneath an aged oak, No pathway meets the wanderer's ken,

That slanted from the islet rock, Unless he climb, with footing nice,

A damsel guider of its way,
A ar projecting precipice.'

A little skiff shot to the bay,
The broom's tough root his ladder made, That round the promontory steep
The hazel saplings lent their aid;

Led its deep line in graceful sweep,
And thus an airy point he won,

Eddying, in almost viewless wave, Where, gleaming with the setting sun.

The weeping-willow twig to lave, One burnished sheet of living gold,

And kiss, with whispering sound and slot, Loch-Katrine lay beneath him rolled,

The beach of pebbles bright as snow. In all her length far winding lay,

The boat had touched this silver strand. With promontory, creek, and bay,

Just as the hunter left his stand, And islands that, empurpled bright,

And stood concealed amid the brake, Floated amid the livelier light,

To view this lady of the lake. And mountains, that like giants stand,

The maiden paused, as if again To sentinel enchanted land.

She thought to catch the distant strain. High on the south, huge Ben-venue

With head up-raised, and look intent, Down on the lake in masses threw

And eye and ear attentive bent, Crags, knolls, and mounds, confusedly hurled, And locks flung back, and lips apart, The fragments of an earlier world;

I Like monument of Grecian art,

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 boru 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 bis 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.


In listening mood, she seemed to stand,
The guardian naiad of the strand.

And ne'er did Grecian chisel trace
A nymph, a naiad, or a grace,
Ot finer form, or lovelier face!
What though the sun, with ardent frown,
Had slightly tinged her cheek with brown,
The sportive toil, which, short and light,
Had died her glowing hue so bright,
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,
Elastie 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.

A chieftain's daughter seemed the maid;
Her satin snood, her silken plaid,
Her golden brooch, such birth betrayed.
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 lo spy,
You need but gaze on Elleu's eye;
Not Katrine, in her mirror blue,
Gives back the shaggy banks more true,
Than every free-boro glance confessed
The guileless movements of her breast;
Whether joy danced in her dark eye,
Or wo or pity claimed a sighi,
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 vride the maid concealed,
Yet not less purely felt the flame
O need I tell that passion's name!

Impatient of the silent horn,
Now on the gale her voice was bornc:
« Father!" she cried; the rocks around
Loved to prolong the gentle sound. -
A while she paused, no answer came, -
« Malcolm, w is thine the blast?" the name
Less resolutely uttered fell,
The echoes could not catch the swell.
" A stranger 1," the huntsman said,
Advancing from the hazel shade.
The maid, alarıned, with hasty oar,
Pushed her light shallop from the shore,
And, when a space was gained between,
Closer she drew her bosom screen;
(So forth the startled swan would swing,
So turn to prune his ruffled wing;)
Then safe, though futtered and amazed,
She paused, and on the stranger guzed,
Not his the form, nor his the eye,
That youthful maidens wont to fly.

Awhile the maid the stranger eged,
And, re-assured, at length 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 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, | 1 found a fay in fairy land.”

« 1 well believe,” the maid replied,
As her light skiff approached the side,
“I well believe, that ne'er before
Your fout has lrod Loch-Katrine's shore;
But yet, as far as yesternight,
Old Allan-bane foretold your plight,
A gray-haired sire, whose eye intent
Was on the visioned future ber... 6
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 tasseled 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,

For all around, the walls to grace, Doomed doubtless, for achievement bold,

Hung trophies of the fight or chase: l'll lightly front each high emprize,

A target there, a bugle here, For one kind glance of those bright eyes.

A battle-axe, a hunting spear, Permit me, first, the task to guide

And broad-swords, bows, and arrows, store, Your fairy frigate o'er the tide.”

With the tusked trophies of the boar. The maid, with smile suppressed and sly,

Here grins the wolf as when he died, The toil unwonted saw him try;

And there the wild-cat's brindled hide For seldom, sure, if e'er before,

The frontet of the elk adorns,
His noble hand had grasped an oar:

Or mantles o’er the bison's horns:
Yet with main strength his strokes he drew, Pennons and flags defaced and stained,
And o'er the lake the shallop flew:

That blackening streaks of blood retained, With heads erect, and whimpering cry,

And deer-skins, dappled. dun and white. The hounds behind their passage ply.

With otter's fur and seal's unite, Nor frequent does the bright oar break

In rude and uncouth tapestry all, The darkening mirror of the lake,

To garnish forth the sylvan hall. Until the rocky isle they reach,

XXVIII. And moor their shallop on the beach.

The wondering stranger round him gazed, XXV.

And next the fallen weapon raised; The stranger viewed the shore around;

Few were the arms whose sinewy strength Twas all so close with copse-wood bound, Sufficed to stretch it forth at length. Nor track nor pathway might declare

And as the brand he poised and swayed, That human foot frequented there,

“I never knew but one,” he said, Until the mountain maiden showed

“ Whose stalwart arm might brook to wield A clambering unsuspected road,

A blade like this in battle field.” That winded through the tangled screen, She sighed, then smiled, and took the word; And opened on a narrow green,

“ You see the guardian champion's sword; Where weeping birch and willow round

As light it trembles in his hand, With their long fibres swept the ground.

As in my grasp a hazel wand; Here, for retreat in dangerous hour,

My sire's tall form might grace the part
Some chief had framed a rustic bower. 7

Of Ferragus, or Ascapart:

But in the absent giant's hold
It was a lodge of ample size,

Are women now, and menials old." But strange of structure and device;

XXIX. Of such materials, as around

The mistress of the mansion came, The workman's hand had readiest found.

Mature of age, a graceful dame; Lopped of their boughs, their hoar trunks bared, Whose easy step and stately port And by the hatchet rudely squared,

Had well become a princely court, To give the walls their destined height,

To whom, though more than kindred knew, The sturdy oak and ash unite;

Young Ellen gave a mother's due. While moss and clay and leaves combined Meet welcome to her guest she made, To fence each crevice from the wind.

And every courteous rite was paid, The lighter pine-trees, over head,

That hospitality could claim, Their slender length for rafters spread.

Though all unasked his birth and name. And withered heath and rushes dry

Such then the reverence to a guest, Supplied a russet canopy.

That fellest foe might join the feast, Due westward, fronting to the green,

And from his deadliest foeman's door A rural portico was seen,

Unquestioned turn, the banquet o'er. Aloft on native pillars borne,

At length his rank the stranger names, Of mountain fir with bark unshorn.

“The knight of Snowdoun, James Fitz-James: Where Ellen's hand had taught to twine

Lord of a barren heritage, The ivy and Idæan vine,

Which his brave sires, from age to age, The clematis, the favoured flower

By their good swords had held with toil; Which boasts the name of virgin-bower,

His sire had fallen in such turmoil, And every hardy plant could bear

And he, God wot, was forced to stand Loch-Katrine's keen and searching air.

Oft for his right with blade in band. An instant in this porch she staid,

This morning with lord Moray's train And gayly to the stranger said,

He chased a stalwart stag in vain, “On heaven and on thy lady call,

Outstripped bis comrades, missed ie deer, And enter the enchanted hall!"

Lost his good steed, and wandered here."

“ My hope, my heaven, my trust must be, Fain would the knight in turn require
My gentle guide, in following thee.”-

The name and state of Ellen's sire; He crossed the threshold—and a clang

Well showed the elder lady's mien, Of angry steel that instant rang.

That courts and cities she had seen; To his bold brow his spirit rushed,

Ellen, though more her looks displayed But soon for vain alarm he blushed,

The simple grace of sylvan maid, When on the floor he saw displayed,,

In speech and gesture, form and face, Cause of the din, a naked blade

Showed she was come of gentle race; Dropped from the sheath, that careless flung, "Twere strange in ruder rank to find Upon a stag's huge antlers swung;

Such looks, such manners, and such mind.

Each hint the knight of Snowdoun gave,

Now leader of a broken host,
Dame Margaret heard with silence grave; His standard falls, his honour's lost.
Or Ellen, innocently gay,

Then, from my couch may heavenly might Turned all inquiry light away:

Chase that worst phantom of the night! « Wierd women we! by dale and down

Again returned the scenes of youth, We dwell, afar from tower and town.

of confident undoubting truth; We stem the flood, we ride the blast,

Again his soul he interchanged On wandering knights our spells we cast; With friends whose hearts were long estranged While viewless minstrels.touch the string, They come, in dim procession led, Tis thus our charmed rhymes we sing."

The cold, the faithless, and the dead; She sung, and still a harp unseen

As warm each hand, each brow as gay,
Filled up the symphony between. 10

As if they parted yesterday.

And doubts distract him at the view,

O were his senses false or true? “ Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,

Dreamed he of death, or broken vow,
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking;

Or is it all a vision now?
Dream of batiled fields no more,
Days of danger, nights of waking.

In our isle's enchanted hall,

At length, with Ellen in a grove Hands unseen thy couch are strewing,

He seemed to walk, and speak of love; Fairy strains of music fall,

She listened with a blush and sigh, Every sense in slumber dewing.

His suit was warm, his hopes were high. Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,

He sought her yielded hand to clasp, Dream of fighting fields no more;

And a cold gauntlet met his grasp; Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,

The phantom's sex was changed and gone, Morn of toil, nor night of waking.

Upon its head a helmet shone; « No rude sound sball reach thine ear,

Slowly enlarged to giant size,

With darkened cheek and threatening eyes, Armour's clang, or war-steed champing,

The grisly visage, stern and hoar,
Trump nor pibroch summon here

To Eilen still a likeness bore. -
Mustering clan, or squadron tramping.
Yet the lark's shrill fife may come,

He woke, and, panting with affright,

Recalled the vision of the night. At the day-break from the fallow,

The hearth's decaying brands were red, And the bittern sound his drum,

And deep and dusky lustre shed, Booming from the sedgy shallow,

Half showing, half concealing all
Ruder sounds shall none be near,

The uncouth trophies of the hall.
Guards nor warders challenge here,
Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing,

'Mid those the stranger fixed his eye

Where that huge falchion hung on high, Shouting clans or squadrons stamping.”

And thoughts on thoughts, a countless throng. XXXII.

Rushed, chasing countless thoughts along, She paused—then, blushing, led the lay

Until, the giddy whirl to cure,
To grace the stranger of the day.

He rose, and sought the moonshine pure.
Her mellow notes awhile prolong
The cadence of the flowing song,

Till to her lips in measured frame

The wild rose, eglantine, and broont,
The minstrel verse spontaneous came.

Wasted around their rich perfume;

The birch trees wept in fragrant balm, « Huntsman, rem! thy chase is done,

The aspen slept beneath the calm; While our slumbrous spells assail ye,

The silver light, with quivering glance, Dream not, with the rising sun,

Played on the water's still expanse, Bugles here shall sound reveillie,

Wild were the heart whose passion's sway Sleep! the deer is in his

Could rage beneath the sober ray! Sleep! the hounds are by thee lying;

He felt its calm, that warrior guest, Sleep! nor dream in yonder glen,

While thus he communed with his breast:How thy gallant steed lay dying.

“ Why is it, at each turn I trace Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done,

Some memory of that exiled race! Think not of the rising sun,

Can I not mountain maiden spy, For at dawning, to assail ye,

But she must bear the Douglas eye?
Here no bugles sound reveillie.

Can I not view a highland brand,

But it must match the Douglas hand?
The hall was cleared the stranger's bed

Can I not frame a fevered dream, Was there of mountain heather spread,

But still the Douglas is the theme? Where oft an hundred guests had lain,

l'll dream no more-by manly mind And dreamed their forest sports again.

Not e'en in sleep is will resigned. But vainly did the heath-flower shed

My midnight orisons said o'er, Its moorland fragrance round his head;

I'll turn to rest, and dream no more." Not Ellen's spell had lulled to rest

His midnight orison he told, The fever of his troubled breast.

A prayer with every bead of gold, In broken dreams the image rose

Consigned to heaven his cares and woes, Of varied perils, pains, and woes;

And sunk in undisturbed repose; His steed now flounders in the brake,

Until the heath cock shrilly crew, Now sinks his barge upon the lake:

And morning dawned on Ben-vende.

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