XXXIV.

At length, with Ellen in a grove
He seem'd to walk, and speak of love;
She listen'd 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 darken'd cheek and threatening eyes,

The grisly visage, stern and hoar,

To Ellen still a likeness bore.

He woke, and, panting with affright,
Recall'd the vision of the night.

The hearth's decaying brands were red,

And deep and dusky lustre shed,

Half shewing, half concealing all

The uncouth trophies of the hall.

Mid those the Stranger fix'd his eye,

Where that huge faulchion hung on high,
And thoughts on thoughts, a countless throng,
Rush'd, chasing countless thoughts along,
Until, the giddy whirl to cure,

He rose, and sought the moon-shine pure.

XXXV.

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,
Play'd 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 fever'd dream,

But still the Douglas is the theme ?—
I'll dream no more-by manly mind
Not even in sleep is will resign'd.
My midnight orisons said o'er,

I'll turn to rest, and dream no more."

His midnight orisons he told,

A prayer with every bead of gold, Consign'd to heaven his cares and woes, And sunk in undisturb'd repose;

Until the heath-cock shrilly crew,

And morning dawn'd on Benvenue.

END OF CANTO FIRST.

THE

LADY OF THE LAKE.

CANTO SECOND.

The Island.