'Twere long to tell what steeds gave o'er,
As swept the hunt through Cambus
What reins were tighten'd in despair, When rose Benledi's ridge in air; Who flagg'd upon Bochastle's heath, Who shunn'd to stem the flooded Teith,-
For twice that day, from shore to shore, The gallant stag swam stoutly o'er. Few were the stragglers, following far, That reach'd the lake of Vennachar; And when the Brigg of Turk was won, The headmost horseman rode alone.
Alone, but with unbated zeal,
Already glorying in the prize, Measured his antlers with his eyes; For the death-wound and death-halloo, Muster'd his breath, his whinyard drew;-
But thundering as he came prepared, With ready arm and weapon bared, The wily quarry shunn'd the shock, And turn'd him from the opposing rock;
Then, dashing down a darksome glen, Soon lost to hound and hunter's ken, In the deep Trosachs' wildest nook His solitary refuge took.
There, while close couch'd, the thicket shed
Cold dews and wild-flowers on his head, He heard the baffled dogs in vain Rave through the hollow pass amain, ⚫
That horseman plied the scourge and Chiding the rocks that yell'd again.
Close to their master's side they press'd, With drooping tail and humbled crest; But still the dingle's hollow throat Prolong'd the swelling bugle-note. The owlets started from their dream, The eagles answer'd with their scream,
Round and around the sounds were cast,
Till echo seem'd an answering blast; And on the hunter hied his way, To join some comrades of the day; Yet often paused, so strange the road, So wondrous were the scenes it show'd.
The western waves of ebbing day Roll'd o'er the glen their level way; Each purple peak, each flinty spire, Was bathed in floods of living fire. But not a setting beam could glow Within the dark ravines below, Where twined the path in shadow hid, Round many a rocky pyramid, Shooting abruptly from the dell Its thunder-splinter'd pinnacle; Round many an insulated mass, The native bulwarks of the pass, Huge as the tower which builders vain Presumptuous piled on Shinar's plain. The rocky summits, split and rent, Form'd turret, dome, or battlement, Or seem'd fantastically set With cupola or minaret, Wild crests as pagod ever deck'd, Or mosque of Eastern architect. Nor were these earth-born castles bare, Nor lack'd they many a banner fair; For, from their shiver'd brows dis- play'd,
Far o'er the unfathomable glade, All twinkling with the dewdrop sheen, The brier-rose fell in streamers green, And creeping shrubs, of thousand dyes, Waved in the west-wind's summer sighs.
Boon nature scatter'd, free and wild, Each plant or flower, the mountain's child.
Here eglantine embalm'd the air, Hawthorn and hazel mingled there; The primrose pale, and violet flower, Found in each cliff a narrow bower; Fox-glove and night-shade, side by side,
Emblems of punishment and pride, Group'd their dark hues with every stain
The weather-beaten crags retain. With boughs that quaked at every breath,
Grey birch and aspen wept beneath; Aloft, the ash and warrior oak
Cast anchor in the rifted rock; And, higher yet, the pine-tree hung His shatter'd trunk, and frequent flung, Where seem'd the cliffs to meet on high,
His boughs athwart the narrow'd sky. Highest of all, where white peaks
The shaggy mounds no longer stood, Emerging from entangled wood, But, wave-encircled, seem'd to float, Like castle girdled with its moat; Yet broader floods extending still Divide them from their parent hill, Till each, retiring, claims to be An islet in an inland sea.
And now, to issue from the glen, No pathway meets the wanderer's ken, Unless he climb, with footing nice, A far projecting precipice.
The broom's tough roots his ladder made,
The hazel saplings lent their aid; And thus an airy point he won, Where, gleaming with the setting sun, One burnish'd sheet of living gold, Loch Katrine lay beneath him roll'd; In all her length far winding lay, With promontory, creek, and bay, And islands that, empurpled bright, Floated amid the livelier light, And mountains, that like giants stand, To sentinel enchanted land. High on the south, huge Benvenue Down to the lake in masses threw Crags, knolls, and mounds, confusedly hurl'd,
The fragments of an earlier world; A wildering forest feather'd o'er His ruin'd sides and summit hoar, While on the north, through middle air,
Ben-an heaved high his forehead bare.
From the steep promontory gazed The stranger, raptured and amazed. And, 'What a scene were here,' he cried,
For princely pomp, or churchman's pride!
On this bold brow, a lordly tower; In that soft vale, a lady's bower;
On yonder meadow, far away, The turrets of a cloister grey; How blithely might the bugle-horn Chide, on the lake, the lingering morn! How sweet, at eve, the lover's lute Chime, when the groves were still and mute!
And, when the midnight moon should lave
Her forehead in the silver wave, How solemn on the ear would come The holy matins' distant hum, While the deep peal's commanding
Should wake, in yonder islet lone, A sainted hermit from his cell, To drop a bead with every knell— And bugle, lute, and bell, and all, Should each bewilder'd stranger call To friendly feast, and lighted hall.
'Blithe were it then to wander here! But now, beshrew yon nimble deer,— Like that same hermit's, thin and spare, The copse must give my evening fare; Some mossy bank my couch must be, Some rustling oak my canopy.
Yet pass we that; the war and chase Give little choice of resting-place ;A summer night, in greenwood spent, Were but to-morrow's merriment : But hosts may in these wilds abound, Such as are better miss'd than found; To meet with Highland plunderers here
Were worse than loss of steed or deer.
I am alone; my bugle-strain
May call some straggler of the train; Or, fall the worst that may betide, Ere now this falchion has been tried.'.
But scarce again his horn he wound, When lo! forth starting at the sound, From underneath an aged oak, That slanted from the islet rock,
A damsel guider of its way, A little skiff shot to the bay, That round the promontory steep Led its deep line in graceful sweep, Eddying, in almost viewless wave, The weeping willow-twig to lave, And kiss, with whispering sound and slow,
The beach of pebbles bright as snow. The boat had touch'd this silver strand, Just as the Hunter left his stand, And stood conceal'd amid the brake, To view this Lady of the Lake. The maiden paused, as if again She thought to catch the distant strain. With head up-raised, and look intent, And eye and ear attentive bent, And locks flung back, and lips apart, Like monument of Grecian art, In listening mood, she seem'd to stand, The guardian Naiad of the strand.
And ne'er did Grecian chisel trace A Nymph, a Naiad, or a Grace Of finer form, or lovelier face! What though the sun, with ardent frown,
Had slightly tinged her cheek with
The sportive toil, which, short and light, Had dyed 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 train'd her pace;
A foot more light, a step more true, Ne'er from the heath-flower dash'd
A Chieftain's daughter seem'd the maid;
Her satin snood, her silken plaid, Her golden brooch, such birth betray'd. 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 combin'd Above a heart more good and kind. Her kindness and her worth to spy, You need but gaze on Ellen's eye; Not Katrine, in her mirror blue, Gives back the shaggy banks more true,
Than every free-born glance confess'd The guileless movements of her breast; Whether joy danced in her dark eye, Or woe or pity claim'd a sigh, Or filial love was glowing there, Or meek devotion pour'd a prayer, Or tale of injury call'd forth The indignant spirit of the North. One only passion unreveal'd, With maiden pride the maid conceal'd, 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 borne :
'Father!' she cried; the rocks around Loved to prolong the gentle sound. A while she paused, no answer came;
E'en the slight harebell raised its head, 'Malcolm, was thine the blast?' the Elastic from her airy tread:
What though upon her speech there
The accents of the mountain tongue; Those silver sounds, so soft, so dear, The listener held his breath to hear!
Less resolutely utter'd fell;
The echoes could not catch the
'A stranger I,' the Huntsman said, Advancing from the hazel shade.
The maid, alarm'd, with hasty oar, Push'd her light shallop from the shore, And when a space was gain'd between, Closer she drew her bosom's screen; (So forth the startled swan would swing,
So turn to prune his ruffled wing.) Then safe, though flutter'd and amazed, She paused, and on the stranger gazed. Not his the form, nor his the eye, That youthful maidens wont to fly.
On his bold visage middle age Had slightly press'd its signet sage, Yet had not quench'd 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 array'd, And weaponless, except his blade, His stately mien as well implied A high-born heart, a martial pride, As if a Baron's crest he wore, And sheathed in armour trode the shore.
Slighting the petty need he show'd, He told of his benighted road; His ready speech flow'd fair and free, In phrase of gentlest courtesy ; Yet seem'd that tone, and gesture bland,
Less used to sue than to command.
A while the maid the stranger eyed, And, reassured, at length replied, That Highland halls were open still To wilder'd 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 pull'd 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 err'd,' 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 I found a fay in fairy land!'
'I well believe,' the maid replied, As her light skiff approach'd the side, "I well believe that ne'er before Your foot has trod Loch Katrine's shore ;
But yet, as far as yesternight, Old Allan-Bane foretold your plight,— A grey-hair'd sire, whose eye intent
Was on the vision'd future bent. He saw your steed, a dappled grey, Lie dead beneath the birchen way; Painted exact your form and mien, Your hunting suit of Lincoln green, That tassell'd horn so gaily gilt, That falchion's crooked blade and hilt, That cap with heron 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 deem'd 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, Doom'd, doubtless, for achievement bold,
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