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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 display'd,
Far o'er th' unfathomable glade,
All twinkling with the dewdrops sheen,
The brier rose fell in streamers green,
And creeping shrubs, of thousand dyes,
Waved in the west wind's summer sighs.

XII. 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 parrow 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, Gray birch and aspen wept beneath ; Aloft, the ash and warrior oak Cast anchor in the risted 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 bows athwart the narrow'd sky. Highest of all, where white peaks glanced, Where glistening streamers waved and danced, The wanderer's eye could barely view The summer beaven's delicious blue; So wondrous wild, the whole might seeni The scenery of a fairy dream.

Unless he climb, with footing nice,
A far-projecting precipice,
The broom's tough root 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 rollid,
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 Ben-venue
Down on the lake in masses threw
Crags, knolls, and mounds, confusedly hurla,
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 was 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 horn
Chide, on the lake, the lingering morn!
How sweet, at eve, the lover's lute
Chimes, 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 matin's distant hum,
While the deep peal's commanding tone
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 hermits, 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 green wood 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 plunderer's 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.”

XIII. Onward, amid the copse 'gan peep A narrow inlet, still and deep, Affording scarce such breadth of brim, As 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 face Could on the dark blue mirror trace ; And farther as the hunter stray'd, Still broader sweep its channels made. The shaggy mounds no longer stood, Emerging from entangled wood, But, wave-encircled, secm'd to float, Like castle girdled with its moat; Yet broader foods extending still, Divide them from their parent hill, Till each, retiring, claims to be An inlet in an island sea.

XIV. And now, to issue from the glen, No pathway meets the wanderer's ken,

Whether joy danced in her dark eye,
Or wo 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
Th’ indignant spirit of the north.
One only passion, unreveald,
With maiden pride the maid conceal'd,
Yet not less purely felt the flame-
O need I tell that passion's name!

XVII. 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 concealid 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 Aung back, and lips apart, Like monument of Grecian art, In listening mood, she seem'd to stand, The guardian naiad of the strand.

XX. 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 :“Malcolm, was thine the blast?" the name Less 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 shallop from the shore, And, when a space was gain'd between Closer she drew her bosom screen; (So forth the startled swan would swing, So turn to prune his ruffled wing ;) Then safe, though, Autter'd and amazed, She paused, and on the stranger gazed, Not his the form, nor his the eye, That youthful maidens wont to fly.

XVIII. 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 brown, The sportive toil, which, short and light, Had died 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 traind her pace, A foot more light, a step more true, Ne'er from the heath power dash'd the dew ; E'en the slight harebell raised its head, Elastic from her airy tread : What though upon her speech there hung The accents of the mountain tongue,Those silver sounds, so soft, so dear, The list'ner held his breath to hear.

XXI. 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 sheath'd in armour trod the shore. Slighting the petty need he show'd, He told of his benighted road; His ready speech Now'd fair and free, In phrase of gentlest courtesy: Yet seem'd that tone, and gesture bland, Less used to sue than to command.

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XIX. A chieftain's daughter seem'd the maid ; Her satin snood, her silken plaid, Her golden brooch, such birth betrayed. 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 combined 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;

XXII. 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 pullid 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.”

Until the mountain maiden show'd
A clambering unsuspected road,
That winded through the tangled screen,
And open'd on a narrow green,
Where weeping birch and willow round
With their long fibres swept the ground.
Here, for retreat in dangerous hour,
Some chief had framed a rustic bower.

XXIII. “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 plightA grayhair'd sire, whose eye intent Was on the vision'd future 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, That tassled horn so gayly gilt, That falchion's crooked blade and hilt, That cap with heron's plumag 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."

XXVI. It was a lodge of ample size, But strange of structure and device; Of such materials, as around The workman's hand had readiest found. Lopp'd of 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 combined 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 greed, 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 Idæan vine, The clematis, the favour'd flower Which boasts the name of virgin-bower And every hardy plant could bear Loch-Katrine's keen and searching air. An instant in this porch she stay'd, And gayly to the stranger said, “ On heaven and on thy lady call, And enter the enchanted hall!”

XXIV. 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, I'll lightly front each high emprize, 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 wbimpering cry, The hounds behind their passage ply. Nor frequent does the bright oar break The darkening mirror of the lake, Until the rocky isle they reach, And moor their shallop on the beach.

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 wildcat'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 sylvan hall.

XXV. The stranger view'd the shore around; 'Twas all so close with copse-wood bound, Nor track nor pathway might declare That human foot frequented there,

While viewless minstrels touch the string, XXVIII.

'Tis thus our charmed rhymes we sing." The wandering stranger round him gazed,

She sung, and still a harp unseen
And next the fallen weapon raised;

Fill'd up the symphony between.
Few were the arms whose sinewy strength
Sufficed to stretch it forth at length.

And as the brand he poised and sway'd,

SONG. “I never knew but one,” he said,

“ Soldier rest! thy warfare o'er, “ Whose stalwart arm might brook to wield

Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking; A blade like this in battle field.”

Dream of battled fields no more, She sigh’d, then smiled, and took the word; “ You see the guardian champion's sword;

Days of danger, nights of waking.

In our isle's enchanted hall, As light it trembles in his hand,

Hands unseen thy couch are strewing, As in my grasp a hazel wand; My sire's tall form might grace the part

Fairy strains of music fall,

Every sense in slumber dewing. Of Ferragus, or Ascapart:

Soldier rest! thy warfare o'er, But in the absent giant's hold

Dream of fighting fields no more ; Are women now, and menials old.”

Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking, XXIX.

Morn of toil, nor night of waking. The mistress of the mansion came,

“No rude sound shall reach thine ear, Mature of age, a graceful dame;

Armour's clang, or war-steed champing, Whose easy step and stately port

Trump nor pibroch summon here Had well become a princely court,

Mustering clan, or squadron tramping. To whom, though more than kindred knew,

Yet the lark's shrill fife may come, Young Ellen gave a mother's due.

At the daybreak, from the fallow, Meet welcome to her guest she made,

And the bittern sound his drum, And every courteous rite was paid,

Booming from the sedgy shallow, That hospitality could claim,

Ruder sounds shall none be near, Though all unask'd his birth and name.

Guards nor warders challenge here, Such then the reverence to a guest,

Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing, That fellest foe might join the feast,

Shouting clans or squadrons stamping.” And from his deadliest foeman's door Unquestion'd turn, the banquet o'er.

XXXII. At length his rank the stranger names,

She paused—then, blushing, led the lay « The knight of Snowdoun, James Fitz-James ; To grace the stranger of the day. Lord of a barren heritage,

Her mellow notes a while prolong Which his brave sires, from age to age,

The cadence of the flowing song, By their good swords had held with toil;

Till to her lips in measured frame
His sire had fallen in such turmoil,

The minstrel verse spontaneous came.
And he, God wot, was forced to stand
Oft for his right with blade in hand.
This morning with Lord Moray's train

“Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done, He chased a stalwart stag in vain,

While our slumbrous spells assail ye, Outstripp'd his comrades, miss'd the deer,

Dream not, with the rising sun, Lost his good steed, and wander'd here.”

Bugles here shall sound reveillie,

Sleep! the deer is in his den;

Sleep! the hounds are by thee lying; Fain would the knight in turn require

Sleep! nor dream in yonder glen The name and state of Ellen's sire;

How thy gallant steed lay dying. Well show'd the elder lady's mien,

Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done, That courts and cities she had seen ;

Think not of the rising sun, Ellen, though more her looks display'd

For at dawning, to assail ye,
The simple grace of sylvan maid,

Here no bugles sound reveillie."
In speech and gesture, form and face,
Show'd she was come of gentle race;

XXXIII. 'Twere strange in ruder rank to find

The hall was clear'd—the stranger's bed Such looks, such manners, and such mind.

Was there of mountain heather spread, Each hint the knight of Snowdoun gave,

Where oft an hundred guests had lain, Dame Margaret heard with silence grave;

And dream'd their forest sports again. Or Ellen, innocently gay,

But vainly did tne heath flower shed Turn'd all inquiry light away:

Its moorland fragrance round his head; “ Wierd women we! by dale and down

Not Ellen's speil had lull'd to rest We dwell, afar from tower and town.

The fever of his troubled breast. We stem the flood, we ride the blast,

In broken dreams the image rose On wandering knights our spells we cast; Of varied perils, pains, and woes ;


My midnight orisons said o'er,
I'll turn to rest, and dream no more."
His midnight orison be 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 Ben-venue.

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;
A3 warm each hand, each brow as gay,
As if they parted yesterday.
And doubts distract him at the view,
O were bis 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 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, l'pon 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 showing, half concealing all The uncouth trophies of the hall. 'Mid those the stranger fix'd his eye Where 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, lle rose, and sought the moonshine pure.


Ar morn the black-cock trims his jetty wing,

'Tis morning prompts the lipnet'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 gray,

And sweetly o'er the lake was heard thy strain, Mix'd with the sounding harp, 0 white hair'd Allan-bane!


“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 battle line,
Good hawk and hound for sylvan sport,
Where beauty sees the brave resort,

The honour'd 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.



XXXV. The wild rose, eglantine, and broom, Wasted around their rich perfume ; The birch trees wept in fragrant balm, The aspen 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 maply mind Not e’en in sleep is will resign'd.

“ But if beneath yon southern sky

A plaided stranger roam,
Whose drooping crest and stified sigh,
And sunken cheek and heavy eye,

Pine for his bighland home;
Then, warrior, then be thine to show
The care that soothes a wanderer's wo;
Remember then thy hap erewhile,
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,
Wo, want, and exile thou sustain

Beneath the tickle 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.”

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