As light it trembles in his hand,
As in my grasp a hazel wand ;
My sire's tall form might grace the part
of Ferragus, or Ascabart;
But in the absent giant's hold
Are women now, and menials old.”-

The mistress of the mansion came,
Mature of age, a graceful dame;
Whose easy step and stately port
Had well become a princely court,
To whom, though more than kindred knew,
Young Ellen gave a mother's due.
Meet welcome to her guest she made,
And every courteous rite was paid,
That hospitality could claim,
Though all unasked his birth and name.
Such then the reverence to a guest,
That fellest foe might join the feast,
And from his deadliest foeman's door
Unquestioned turn, the banquet o'er.
At length his rank the Stranger names,
“The Knight of Snowdoun, James Fitz-Jaincs ;
Lord of a barren heritage,
Which his brave sires, from age to age,
By their good swords had held with toil ; .
His sire had fallen in such turmoil,
And he, God wot, was forced to stand
Oft for his right with blade in hand.
This morning with Lord Moray's train
He chased a stalwart stag in vain,
Out-stripped his comrades, missed the deer,
Lost his good steed, and wandered here."-

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Fain would the Knight in turn require
The name and state of Ellen's sire;
Well showed the elder lady's mien,
That courts and cities she had seen;
Ellen, though more her looks displayed
The simple grace of sylvan maid,
In speech and gesture, form and face,
Showed she was come of gentle race;
'Twere strange in ruder rank to find
Such looks, such manners, and such mind.
Each hint the Kpight of Snowdoun gave,
Dame Margaret heard with silence grave;
Or Ellen, innocently gay,
Turned all inquiry light away:-
Wierd women we! by dale and down
We dwell, afar from tower and town.
We stem the flood, we ride the blast,
On wandering knights our spells we cast;

While viewless minstrels touch the string,
'Tis thus our charmèd rhymes we sing."
She sung, and still a barp unseen
Filled up the symphony between.


“Soldier, rest ! thy warfare o'er,

Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking ;
Dream of battled fields no more,

Days of danger, nights of waking.
In our isle's enchanted hall,

Hands unseen thy couch are strewing,
Fairy strains of music fall,

Every sense in slumber dewing.
Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,
Dream of fighting fields no more;
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,
Morn of toil, nor night of waking.
“No rude sound shall reach thine ear,

Armour's clang, or war-steed champing,
Trump nor pibroch summon here

Mustering clan, or squadron tramping.
Yet the lark's sbrill fife may come

At the day-break from the fallow,
And the bittern sound his drum.

Booming from the sedgy shallow.
Ruder sounds shall none be near,
Guards nor warders challenge here,
Here's no war-steed's neigh and cbamping,
Shouting clans or squadrons stamping."

She paused—then, blushing, led the lay
To grace the stranger of the day;
Her mellow potes awhile prolong
The cadence of the flowing song,
Till to her lips in measured frame
The minstrel verse spontaneous came.

Song continued.
“Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done,

While our slumbrous spells assail ye,
Dream not, with the rising sun

Bugles here shall sound reveillié.
Sleep! the deer is in his den ;

Sleep! thy hounds are by thee lying;
Sleep ! nor dream in yonder glen,

How thy gallant steed lay dying.
Huntsman, rest; thy chase is done,
Think not of the rising sun,

For at dawning to assail ye,
Here no bugles sound reveillié.”—

The hall was cleared—the Stranger's bed
Was there of mountain heather spread,
Where oft an hundred guests had lain,
And dreamed their forest sports again.
But vainly did the heath-flower shed
Its moorland fragrance round his head;
Not Ellen's spell had lulled to rest
The fever of his troubled breast.
In broken dreams the image rose
Of varied perils, pains, and woes;.
His steed now flounders in the brake,
Now sinks his barge upon the lake;
Now leader of a broken host,
His standard falls, his honour's lost.
Then,-from my couch may heavenly might
Chase that worst phantom of the night!
Again returned the scenes of youth,
of confident undoubting truth;
Again his soul he interchanged
With friends whose hearts were long estranged.
They come, in dim procession led,
The cold, the faithless, and the dead;
As warm each hand, each brow as gay,
As if they parted yesterday
And doubt distracts him at the view,
O were his senses false or true!
Dreamed he of death, or broken vow,
Or is it all a vision now !

At length, with Ellen in a grove,
He seemed to walk, and speak of love;
She listened with a blush and sigh,
His suit was warm, his hopes were high.
He sought her yielded hand to clasp,
And a cold gauntlet met his grasp :
The phantom's sex was changed and gone,
Upon its head a helmet shone;
Slowly enlarged to giant size,
With darkened cheek and threatening eyes,
The grisly visage, stern and hoar,
To Ellen still a likeness bore.
He woke, and, panting with affright,
Recalled the vision of the night.
The hearth's decaying brands were red,
And deep and dusky lustre shed,
Half showing, half concealing all
The uncouth trophies of the hall.
Mid those the Stranger fixed his eye
Where that huge falchion hung on high,

And thoughts on thoughts, a countless throng,
Rushed, chasing countless thoughts along,
Until, the giddy whirl to cure,
He rose, and sought the moon-shine pure.

The wild rose, eglantine, and broom,
Wasted around their rich perfume;
The birch-trees wept in fragrant balm,
The aspens slept beneath the calm ;
The silver light, with quivering glance,
Played on the water's still expanse, -
Wild were the heart whose passion's sway
Could rage beneath the sober ray!
He felt its calm, that warrior guest,
While thus he communed with his breast:
" Why is it at each turn I trace
Some memory of that exiled race ?
Can I not mountain maiden spy,
But she must bear the Douglas eye?
Can I not view a Highland brand.
But it must match the Douglas hand ?
Can I not frame a fevered dream,
But still the Douglas is the theme?-
I'll dream no more-by manly mind
Not even in sleep is will resigned.
My midnight orisons said o'er,
I'll turn to rest, and dream nó more.”-
His midnight orison he told,
A prayer with every bead of gold,
Consigned to heaven his cares and woes,
And sunk in undisturbed repose;
Until the heath-cock shrilly crew,
And morning dawned on Benvenue.



At morn the black-cock trims his jetty wing,

'Tis morning prompts the linnet's blithest lay, All Nature's children feel the matin spring

Of life reviving, with reviving day;'.
And while yon little bark glides down the bay,

Wafting the stranger on his way again,
Morn's genial influence roused a minstrel grey,

And sweetly o'er the lake was heard thy strain, Mix'd with the sounding harp, O white-haired Allan


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