Scott's Lady of the Lake
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Fitz-James winds his horn, which is answered by four mounted attendants. He leaves the wounded man with two of them, with orders to bring him to Stirling, and hastens towards the Castle with the others. As they approach it, they perceive Douglas, who comes to surrender himself to the King, hoping thereby to secure the release of Malcolm Græme and avert the danger that threatens Roderick Dhu. The town is preparing for the burghers’ sports, in which Douglas decides to join in order that he may attract the attention of the King. He surpasses all other competitors, and receives the prize from the King, who does not recognize him. Douglas endures this in silence, but he cannot refrain from resenting a huntsman’s cruelty to Lufra, the hound, Ellen’s companion. This results in his being seized and taken as a prisoner to the Castle. Meantime a messenger brings to the King tidings of the rising of Clan-Alpine. He sends a hasty message to avert an encounter, as Roderick is already his prisoner in Stirling stronghold.
Canto Sixth.– “This canto introduces us to the guard room in Stirling Castle, amid the remains of the debauch which has followed the games of the previous day. While the few soldiers who remain awake are finishing their carouse, and talking over the rumors of yesterday’s battle, they are joined by one of their mates, who has been in the field, and brings with him a maiden and a minstrel (Ellen and Allan-Bane). They are at first disposed to treat the maiden roughly; but the sight of her innocent beauty, and her story of misfortune, touch the heart of one of the roughest in the company, who becomes her champion. Presently they are joined by the officer of the guard, who, at first sight of Fitz-James’s ring, commits the lady to proper care, while John of Brent, the guardsman who had interfered, grants Allan’s request to see his master; but, fancying that the minstrel is one of Roderick’s clansmen, he shows him into the wrong cell, where he finds the wounded chief. After anxious inquiries as to the safety of his kindred, Roderick asks anew of the fight; and the minstrel, in spirited verse, sings of the battle of Beal’ an Duine, whose issue was left doubtful by the arrival of a messenger from the King with orders to stay the fight. But before he had finished his song the stern spirit had fled, and the minstrel’s harp changes its tune from battle song to death dirge.
“Meanwhile Ellen waits anxiously and impatiently for her audience with the King. At last Fitz-James appears to escort her to the audience chamber. Faltering, she looks round to find the King, and sees, to her surprise, that her companion alone remains covered, and ‘Snowdoun’s Knight is Scotland’s King.’ He tells her how the feud with Douglas is at an end, and that her father is now to be ‘the friend and bulwark of his throne.’ But she still has the ring, still some boon to ask. She begs for Roderick’s life, but that is past giving; and when she shrinks from further request, the King calls forth Malcolm, and throws over him a golden chain, which he gives to Ellen to keep.” —R. W. Taylor.
CANTO FIRST
THE CHASE
Harp of the North!1 that moldering long hast hungOn the witch-elm2 that shades St. Fillan’s3 spring,And down the fitful breeze thy numbers flung,Till envious ivy did around thee cling,Muffling with verdant ringlet every string, —O minstrel Harp! still must thine accents sleep?Mid rustling leaves and fountain’s murmuring,Still must thy sweeter sounds their silence keep,Nor bid a warrior smile, nor teach a maid to weep?Not thus, in ancient days of Caledon,4Was thy voice mute amid the festal crowd,When lay of hopeless love, or glory won,Aroused the fearful, or subdued the proud.At each according pause, was heard aloudThine ardent symphony sublime and high!Fair dames and crested chiefs attention bow’d;For still the burden of thy minstrelsyWas Knighthood’s dauntless deed, and Beauty’s matchless eye.Oh, wake once more! how rude soe’er the handThat ventures o’er thy magic maze to stray;Oh, wake once more! though scarce my skill commandSome feeble echoing of thine earlier lay:Though harsh and faint, and soon to die away,And all unworthy of thy nobler strain,Yet if one heart throb higher at its sway,The wizard note has not been touch’d in vain.Then silent be no more! Enchantress, wake again!
IThe stag at eve had drunk his fill,Where danced the moon on Monan’s5 rill,And deep his midnight lair had madeIn lone Glenartney’s hazel shade;But, when the sun his beacon redHad kindled on Benvoirlich’s head,The deep-mouth’d bloodhound’s heavy bayResounded up the rocky way,And faint, from farther distance borne,Were heard the clanging hoof and horn. IIAs Chief, who hears his warder7 call,“To arms! the foemen storm the wall,”The antler’d monarch of the wasteSprung from his heathery8 couch in haste.But, ere his fleet career he took,The dewdrops from his flanks he shook;Like crested leader proud and high,Toss’d his beam’d9 frontlet to the sky;A moment gazed adown the dale,A moment snuff’d the tainted gale,10A moment listen’d to the cry,That thicken’d as the chase drew nigh;Then, as the headmost foes appear’d,With one brave bound the copse he clear’d,And, stretching forward free and far,Sought the wild heaths of Uam-Var.IIIYell’d on the view the opening12 pack;Rock, glen, and cavern, paid them back;To many a mingled sound at onceThe awaken’d mountain gave response.A hundred dogs bay’d deep and strong,Clatter’d a hundred steeds along,Their peal the merry horns rung out,A hundred voices join’d the shout;With hark and whoop and wild halloo,No rest Benvoirlich’s echoes knew.Far from the tumult fled the roe,Close in her covert cower’d the doe,The falcon, from her cairn on high,Cast on the rout13 a wondering eye,Till far beyond her piercing ken14The hurricane had swept the glen.Faint, and more faint, its failing dinReturn’d from cavern, cliff, and linn,15And silence settled, wide and still,On the lone wood and mighty hill.IVLess loud the sounds of silvan warDisturb’d the heights of Uam-Var,And roused the cavern, where, ’tis told,A giant made his den of old;For ere that steep ascent was won,High in his pathway hung the sun,And many a gallant, stay’d perforce,Was fain to breathe his faltering horse,And of the trackers of the deer,Scarce half the lessening pack was near;So shrewdly16 on the mountain sideHad the bold burst their mettle tried.VThe noble stag was pausing nowUpon the mountain’s southern brow,Where broad extended, far beneath,The varied realms of fair Menteith.17With anxious eye he wander’d o’erMountain and meadow, moss and moor,And ponder’d refuge from his toil,By far Lochard or Aberfoyle.But nearer was the copsewood gray,That waved and wept on Loch Achray,And mingled with the pine trees blueOn the bold cliffs of Benvenue.Fresh vigor with the hope return’d,With flying foot the heath he spurn’d,Held westward with unwearied race,And left behind the panting chase. VI’Twere long to tell what steeds gave o’er,As swept the hunt through Cambus-more;18What 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 Brigg19 of Turk was won,The headmost horseman rode alone.VIIAlone, but with unbated zeal,That horseman plied the scourge and steel;20For jaded now, and spent with toil,Emboss’d with foam, and dark with soil,While every gasp with sobs he drew,The laboring stag strain’d full in view.Two dogs of black St. Hubert’s breed,Unmatch’d for courage, breath, and speed,Fast on his flying traces came,And all but won that desperate game;For, scarce a spear’s length from his haunch,Vindictive toil’d the bloodhounds stanch,Nor nearer might the dogs attain,Nor farther might the quarry strain.Thus up the margin of the lake,Between the precipice and brake,21O’er stock22 and rock their race they take.VIIIThe Hunter mark’d that mountain23 high,The lone lake’s western boundary,And deem’d the stag must turn to bay,24Where that huge rampart barr’d the way;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’25 wildest nookHis solitary refuge took.There, while close couch’d, the thicket shedCold dews and wild flowers on his head,He heard the baffled dogs in vainRave through the hollow pass amain,Chiding the rocks that yell’d26 again. IXClose on the hounds the Hunter came,To cheer them on the vanish’d game;But, stumbling on27 the rugged dell,The gallant horse exhausted fell.The impatient rider strove in vainTo rouse him with the spur and rein,For the good steed, his labors o’er,Stretch’d his stiff limbs, to rise no more;Then, touch’d with pity and remorse,He sorrow’d o’er the expiring horse.“I little thought, when first thy reinI slack’d upon the banks of Seine,28That Highland eagle e’er should feedOn thy fleet limbs, my matchless steed!Woe worth29 the chase, woe worth the day,That costs thy life, my gallant gray!” XThen through the dell his horn resounds,From vain pursuit to call the hounds.Back limp’d, with slow and crippled pace,The sulky leaders of the chase;Close to their master’s side they press’d,With drooping tail and humbled crest;But still the dingle’s hollow throatProlong’d the swelling bugle note.The owlets started from their dream,The eagles answer’d with their scream,Round and around the sounds were castTill echo seem’d an answering blast;And on the Hunter hied his way,30To join some comrades of the day;Yet often paused, so strange the road,And wondrous were the scenes it show’d.XIThe western waves of ebbing dayRoll’d o’er the glen their level way;31Each purple peak, each flinty spire,Was bathed in floods of living fire.But not a setting beam could glowWithin the dark ravines below,Where twined the path in shadow hid,Round many a rocky pyramid,Shooting abruptly from the dellIts thunder-splinter’d pinnacle;Round many an insulated32 mass,The native bulwarks of the pass,Huge as the tower33 which builders vainPresumptuous piled on Shinar’s plain.The rocky summits, split and rent,Form’d turret, dome, or battlement,Or seem’d fantastically setWith cupola or minaret,Wild crests as pagod34 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 display’d,Far o’er the unfathomable glade,All twinkling with the dewdrop sheen,35The brier-rose fell in streamers green,And creeping shrubs, of thousand dyes,Waved in the west wind’s summer sighs.XIIBoon36 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 cleft a narrow bower;Foxglove and nightshade, side by side,Emblems of punishment and pride,Group’d their dark hues with every stainThe weather-beaten crags retain.With boughs that quaked at every breath,Gray birch and aspen37 wept beneath;Aloft, the ash and warrior oakCast anchor in the rifted rock;And, higher yet, the pine tree hungHis 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 glanced,Where glist’ning streamers waved and danced,The wanderer’s eye could barely viewThe summer heaven’s delicious blue;So wondrous wild, the whole might seemThe scenery of a fairy dream.XIIIOnward, amid the copse ’gan peepA narrow inlet, still and deep,Affording scarce such breadth of brimAs served the wild duck’s brood to swim.Lost for a space, through thickets veering,But broader when again appearing,Tall rocks and tufted knolls their faceCould on the dark-blue mirror trace;And farther as the Hunter stray’d,Still broader sweep its channel made.The shaggy mounds no longer stood,Emerging from the tangled wood,But, wave-encircled, seem’d to float,Like castle girdled with its moat;Yet broader floods extending stillDivide them from their parent hill,Till each, retiring, claims to beAn islet in an inland sea.XIVAnd now, to issue from the glen,No pathway meets the wanderer’s ken,Unless he climb, with footing nice,38A far projecting precipice.The broom’s39 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,40Floated amid the livelier light,And mountains, that like giants stand,To sentinel enchanted land.High on the south, huge BenvenueDown on the lake in masses threwCrags, knolls, and mounds, confusedly hurl’d,The fragments of an earlier world;A wildering forest feather’d o’erHis ruin’d sides and summit hoar,While on the north, through middle air,Ben-an41 heaved high his forehead bare.XVFrom the steep promontory gazedThe 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 gray;How blithely might the bugle hornChide, on the lake, the lingering morn!How sweet, at eve, the lover’s luteChime, when the groves were still and mute!And, when the midnight moon should laveHer forehead in the silver wave,How solemn on the ear would comeThe holy matins’42 distant hum,While the deep peal’s commanding toneShould wake, in yonder islet lone,A sainted hermit from his cell,To drop a bead43 with every knell —And bugle, lute, and bell, and all,Should each bewilder’d stranger callTo friendly feast, and lighted hall.XVI“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 chaseGive 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 hereWere worse than loss of steed or deer. —I am alone; – my bugle strainMay call some straggler of the train;Or, fall44 the worst that may betide,Ere now this falchion has been tried.”XVIIBut 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 steepLed 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 againShe thought to catch the distant strain.With head upraised, 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 Naiad45 of the strand.XVIIIAnd ne’er did Grecian chisel traceA Nymph, a Naiad, or a Grace,46Of finer form, or lovelier face!What though the sun, with ardent frown,Had slightly tinged her cheek with brown, —The sportive toil, which, short and light,Had dyed her glowing hue so bright,Served too in hastier swell to showShort glimpses of a breast of snow:What though no rule of courtly graceTo measured mood had train’d her pace, —A foot more light, a step more true,Ne’er from the heath flower dash’d the dew,E’en the slight harebell raised its head,Elastic from her airy tread:What though upon her speech there hungThe accents of the mountain tongue, —Those silver sounds, so soft, so dear,The list’ner held his breath to hear!XIXA chieftain’s daughter seem’d the maid;Her satin snood,47 her silken plaid,48Her golden brooch such birth betray’d.And seldom was a snood amidSuch wild luxuriant ringlets hid,Whose glossy black to shame might bringThe plumage of the raven’s wing;And seldom o’er a breast so fairMantled a plaid with modest care,And never brooch the folds combinedAbove 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 freeborn glance confess’dThe 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 forthThe indignant spirit of the North.One only passion unreveal’d,With maiden pride the maid conceal’d,Yet not less purely felt the flame; —Oh! need I tell that passion’s name?XXImpatient of the silent horn,Now on the gale her voice was borne: —“Father!” she cried; the rocks aroundLoved to prolong the gentle sound.A while she paused, no answer came, —“Malcolm, was thine the blast?” the nameLess resolutely utter’d fell,The echoes could not catch the swell.“A stranger I,” the Huntsman said,Advancing from the hazel shade.The maid, alarm’d, with hasty oar,Push’d her light shallop49 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 prune50 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.XXIOn his bold visage middle ageHad slightly press’d its signet sage,51Yet had not quench’d the open truthAnd 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 mold,For hardy sports or contest bold;And though in peaceful garb array’d,And weaponless, except his blade,His stately mien as well impliedA high-born heart, a martial pride,As if a baron’s crest he wore,And sheathed in armor trode the shore.Slighting the petty need52 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.XXIIA while the maid the stranger eyed,And, reassured, at length replied,That Highland halls were open stillTo wilder’d53 wanderers of the hill.“Nor think you unexpected comeTo yon lone isle, our desert home;Before the heath had lost the dew,This morn, a couch54 was pull’d for you;On yonder mountain’s purple headHave ptarmigan55 and heath cock bled,And our broad nets have swept the mere,56To furnish forth your evening cheer.” —“Now, by the rood,57 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 strandI found a fay in fairyland!”XXIII“I well believe,” the maid replied,As her light skiff approach’d the side, —“I well believe, that ne’er beforeYour foot has trod Loch Katrine’s shore;But yet, as far as yesternight,Old Allan-Bane foretold your plight, —A gray-hair’d sire, whose eye intentWas on the vision’d future58 bent.He saw your steed, a dappled gray,Lie dead beneath the birchen way;Painted exact your form and mien,Your hunting suit of Lincoln green,59That tassel’d horn so gayly 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 beTo grace a guest of fair degree;60But light I held his prophecy,And deem’d it was my father’s hornWhose echoes o’er the lake were borne.”XXIVThe stranger smiled: – “Since to your homeA destined errant61 knight I come,Announced by prophet sooth62 and old,Doom’d, doubtless, for achievement bold,I’ll lightly front each high emprise63For one kind glance of those bright eyes.Permit me, first, the task to guideYour 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 breakThe dark’ning mirror of the lake,Until the rocky isle they reach,And moor their shallop on the beach.XXVThe stranger view’d the shore around;’Twas all so close with copsewood bound,Nor track nor pathway might declareThat human foot frequented there,Until the mountain maiden show’dA clambering unsuspected roadThat winded through the tangled screen,And open’d on a narrow green,Where weeping birch and willow roundWith their long fibers swept the ground.Here, for retreat in dangerous hour,Some chief had framed a rustic bower.XXVIIt was a lodge of ample size,But strange of structure and device;Of such materials, as aroundThe workman’s hand had readiest found;Lopp’d off their boughs, their hoar trunks bared,And by the hatchet rudely squared.To give the walls their destined height,The sturdy oak and ash unite;While moss and clay and leaves combinedTo fence each crevice from the wind.The lighter pine trees, overhead,Their slender length for rafters spread,And wither’d heath and rushes drySupplied 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 twineThe ivy and Idæan vine,64The clematis, the favor’d flowerWhich boasts the name of virgin bower,And every hardy plant could65 bearLoch Katrine’s keen and searching air.An instant in this porch she staid,And gayly 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 clangOf 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 bladeDropp’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 target66 there, a bugle here,A battle-ax, 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 hideThe 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 deerskins, dappled, dun, and white,With otter’s fur and seal’s unite,In rude and uncouth tapestry67 all,To garnish forth the silvan hall.XXVIIIThe wondering stranger round him gazed,And next the fallen weapon raised: —Few were the arms whose sinewy strengthSufficed 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 brook68 to wieldA blade like this in battlefield.”She sighed, 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;My sire’s tall form might grace the partOf Ferragus, or Ascabart;69But in the absent giant’s holdAre women now, and menials old.”XXIXThe mistress of the mansion came,Mature of age, a graceful dame;Whose easy step and stately portHad well become a princely court;To whom, though more than kindred knew,70Young Ellen gave a mother’s due.Meet welcome to her guest she made,And every courteous rite was paidThat hospitality could claim,Though all unask’d his birth and name.Such then the reverence to a guest,That fellest71 foe might join the feast,And from his deadliest foeman’s doorUnquestion’d turn, the banquet o’er.At length his rank the stranger names,“The Knight of Snowdoun,72 James Fitz-James;73Lord of a barren heritage,74Which his brave sires, from age to age,By their good swords had held with toil;His sire had fall’n in such turmoil,And he, God wot,75 was forced to standOft for his right with blade in hand.This morning with Lord Moray’s76 trainHe chased a stalwart stag in vain,Outstripp’d his comrades, miss’d the deer,Lost his good steed, and wander’d here.”XXXFain would the Knight in turn requireThe name and state of Ellen’s sire.Well show’d the elder lady’s mienThat courts and cities she had seen;Ellen, though more her looks display’dThe simple grace of silvan maid,In speech and gesture, form and face,Show’d she was come of gentle race.’Twere strange in ruder rank to findSuch looks, such manners, and such mind.Each hint the Knight of Snowdoun gave,Dame Margaret heard with silence grave;Or Ellen, innocently gay,Turn’d all inquiry light away: —“Weird women we! by dale and down77We 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 charmed rhymes we sing.”She sung, and still a harp unseenFill’d up the symphony between. XXXISONG“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.78Soldier, 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,Armor’s clang, or war steed champing,Trump nor pibroch79 summon hereMustering clan, or squadron tramping.Yet the lark’s shrill fife may comeAt the daybreak from the fallow,80And the bittern81 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.”XXXIIShe paused – then, blushing, led the layTo grace the stranger of the day.Her mellow notes awhile prolongThe cadence of the flowing song,Till to her lips in measured frameThe 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 reveille.82Sleep! 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 reveille.”XXXIIIThe hall was clear’d – the stranger’s bedWas 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 shedIts moorland fragrance round his head;Not Ellen’s spell had lull’d to restThe fever of his troubled breast.In broken dreams the image roseOf 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 honor’s lost.Then, – from my couch may heavenly mightChase that worse phantom of the night! —Again return’d the scenes of youth,Of confident undoubting truth;Again his soul he interchangedWith 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 —Oh, were his senses false or true?Dream’d he of death, or broken vow,Or is it all a vision now?XXXIVAt length, with Ellen in a groveHe 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 gauntlet83 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 luster shed,Half showing, half concealing, allThe uncouth trophies of the hall.’Mid those the stranger fix’d his eyeWhere that huge falchion 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 moonshine pure.XXXVThe wild rose, eglantine, and broomWasted 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 swayCould 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 traceSome 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 mindNot 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,84A 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.