"Not faster yonder rowers' might Flings from their oars the spray, Not faster yonder rippling bright, That tracks the shallop's course in light, Melts in the lake away,
Than men from memory erase The benefits of former days;
Then, Stranger, go! good speed the while, Nor think again of the lonely isle.
"High place to thee in royal court, High place in battled line,
Good hawk and hound for sylvan sport, Where Beauty sees the brave resort, The honoured meed be thine! True be thy sword, thy friend sincere, Thy lady constant, kind and dear, And lost in love's and friendship's smile, Be memory of the lonely isle.
"But if beneath yon southern sky A plaided stranger roam, Whose drooping crest and stifled sigh, And sunken cheek and heavy eye, Pine for his Highland home; Then, warrior, then be thine to show The care that soothes a wanderer's woe; Remember then thy hap ere while, A stranger in the lonely isle.
"Or if on life's uncertain main Mishap shall mar thy sail;
If faithful, wise, and brave in vain, Woe, want, and exile thou sustain Beneath the fickle gale;
Waste not a sigh on fortune changed,
On thankless courts, or friends estranged,
But come where kindred worth shall smile,
To greet thee in the lonely isle."
As died the sounds upon the tide,
The shallop reached the main-land side, And ere hís onward way he took, The Stranger cast a lingering look, Where easily his eye might reach The Harper on the islet beach,
Reclined against a blighted tree, As wasted, grey, and worn as he. To minstrel meditation given,
His reverend brow was raised to heaven, As from the rising sun to claim A sparkle of inspiring flame. His hand, reclined upon the wire, Seemed watching the awakening fire; 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.
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, Show me the fair would scorn to spy, And prize such conquest of her eye!
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 the 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- "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, Another step than thine to spy.- Wake, Allan-bane," aloud she cried, To the old Minstrel by her side, "Arouse thee from thy moody dream! I'll give thy heart 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.
The Minstrel waked his harp-three times Arose 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, "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 foretell,
Then welcome be the minstrel's knell !
"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; One short, one final strain shall flow, Fraught with unutterable woe,
Then shivered shall thy fragments lie, Thy master cast him down and die."-
Soothing she answered him, "Assuage, Mine honoured friend, the fears of age; All melodies to thee are known,
That harp has rung, or pipe has blown, In Lowland vale or Highland glen, From Tweed to Spey-what marvel, then, At times, unbidden notes should rise, Confusedly bound in memory's ties, Entangling, as they rush along,
The war-march with the funeral song?- Small ground is now for boding fear; Obscure, but safe, we rest us here. My sire, in native virtue great, Resigning lordship, lands, and state, Not then to fortune more resigned, Than yonder oak might give the wind; The graceful foliage storms may reave, The noble stem they cannot grieve.
For me," she stooped, and, looking round, Plucked a blue hare-bell from the ground, "For me, whose memory scarce conveys An image of more splendid days, This little flower, that loves the lea, May well my simple emblem be; It drinks heaven's dew as blithe as rose That the King's own garden grows, And when I place it in my hair, Allan, a bard is bound to swear He ne'er saw coronet so fair."- Then playfully the chaplet wild
She wreathed in her dark locks, and smiled.
Her smile, her speech, with winning sway. Wiled the old harper's mood away. With such a look as hermits throw When angels stoop to soothe their woe, Ile gazed, till fond regret and pride Thrilled to a tear, then thus replied: "Loveliest and best!-thou little know'st The rank, the honours thou hast lost! O might Í live to see thee grace,
In Scotland's court, thy birth-right place, To see my favourite's step advance, The lightest in the courtly dance, The cause of every gallant's sigh, And leading star of every eye, And theme of every minstrel's art, The Lady of the Bleeding Heart!"
* The well-known cognizance of the Douglas family.
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