I'll lightly front each high emprise For one kind glance of those bright eyes.

Permit me, first, the task to guide
Your fairy frigate o'er the tide.'

The maid, with smile suppress'd and sly,

The toil unwonted saw him try;
For seldom sure, if e'er before,
His noble hand had grasp'd an oar:
Yet with main strength his strokes
he drew,

And o'er the lake the shallop flew ;
With heads erect, and whimpering cry,
The hounds behind their passage ply.
Nor frequent does the bright oar break
The dark'ning mirror of the lake,
Until the rocky isle they reach,
And moor their shallop on the beach.

To give the walls their destined height
The sturdy oak and ash unite ;
While moss and clay and leaves

combin'd

To fence each crevice from the wind.
The lighter pine-trees, over-head,
Their slender length for rafters
spread,

And wither'd heath and rushes dry
Supplied a russet canopy.

Due westward, fronting to the green,
A rural portico was seen,

Aloft on native pillars borne,

Of mountain fir, with bark unshorn, Where Ellen's hand had taught to twine

The ivy and Idaean vine,

The clematis, the favour'd flower
Which boasts the name ofvirgin-bower,
And every hardy plant could bear
Loch Katrine's keen and searching air.
An instant in this porch she staid,
And gaily to the stranger said,
'On heaven and on thy lady call,
And enter the enchanted hall!'

XXVII.

'My hope, my heaven, my trust must be,
My gentle guide, in following thee.'
He cross'd the threshold-and a clang
Of angry steel that instant rang.
To his bold brow his spirit rush'd,
But soon for vain alarm he blush'd
When on the floor he saw display'd,
Cause of the din, a naked blade
Dropp'd from the sheath, that careless
flung,

Upon a stag's huge antlers swung ;
For all around, the walls to grace,
Hung trophies of the fight or chase :
A target there, a bugle here,
A battle-axe, a hunting-spear,
And broadswords, bows, and arrows
store,

With the tusk'd trophies of the boar.
Here grins the wolf as when he died,
And there the wild-cat's brindled hide

The frontlet of the elk adorns,
Or mantles o'er the bison's horns;
Pennons and flags defaced and stain'd,
That blackening streaks of blood
retain'd,

And deer-skins, dappled, dun, and white,
With otter's fur and seal's unite,
In rude and uncouth tapestry all,
To garnish forth the silvan hall.

XXVIII.

The wondering stranger round him gazed,

And next the fallen weapon raised: Few were the arms whose sinewy strength

Sufficed to stretch it forth at length;
And as the brand he poised and sway'd,
'I never knew but one,' he said,
'Whose stalwart arm might brook to
wield

A blade like this in battle-field.'
She sigh'd, then smiled and took the

word:

'You see the guardian champion's sword;

As light it trembles in his hand,
As in my grasp a hazel wand;

And from his deadliest foeman's door Unquestion'd turn, the banquet o'er. At length his rank the stranger names, 'The Knight of Snowdoun, James Fitz-James;

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, Outstripp'd his comrades, miss'd the deer,

Lost his good steed, and wander'd here.'

XXX.

Fain would the Knight in turn require
The name and state of Ellen's sire.
Well show'd the elder lady's mien,
That courts and cities she had seen;

Ellen, though more her looks display'd
The simple grace of silvan maid,
In speech and gesture, form and face,
Show'd she was come of gentle race.

Of Ferragus or Ascabart;

But in the absent giant's hold
Are women now, and menials old.'

XXIX.

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 unask'd his birth and

name.

Such then the reverence to a guest, That fellest foe might join the feast,

Such looks, such manners, and such

XXXI.

SONG.

'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 shrill 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 champing,

Shouting clans, or squadrons stamping.'

XXXII.

She paused- then, blushing, led the lay
To grace the stranger of the day.
Her mellow notes 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 reveillé. ·

Sleep! the deer is in his den;

Sleep! thyhounds 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 reveillé.'

XXXIII.

The hall was clear'd-the stranger's bed

Was there of mountain heather spread,
Where oft a hundred guests had lain,
And dream'd their forest sports again.
But vainly did the heath-flower shed
Its moorland fragrance round his head;
Not Ellen's spell had lull'd 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 return'd 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?
Dream'd he of death, or broken vow,
Or is it all a vision now?

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 waswarm, his hopes were high.

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.

Canto Second. The Joland.

I.

Ar 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 whitehair'd Allan-Bane!

II.

SONG.

'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;

Reclined against a blighted tree,

As wasted, grey, and worn as he.