The Lady of the Lake – Canto I – Sir Walter Scott (1771-1832)

The Chase

     Harp of the North! that mouldering long hast hung
        On the witch-elm that shades Saint Fillan’s 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 fountains 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,
        Was 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 aloud
        Thine ardent symphony sublime and high!
     Fair dames and crested chiefs attention bowed;
        For still the burden of thy minstrelsy
     Was Knighthood’s dauntless deed, and Beauty’s matchless eye.

     O, wake once more! how rude soe’er the hand
        That ventures o’er thy magic maze to stray;
     O, wake once more! though scarce my skill command
        Some 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 touched in vain.
     Then silent be no more! Enchantress, wake again!

     The stag at eve had drunk his fill,
     Where danced the moon on Monan’s rill,
     And deep his midnight lair had made
     In lone Glenartney’s hazel shade;
     But when the sun his beacon red
     Had kindled on Benvoirlich’s head,
     The deep-mouthed bloodhound’s heavy bay
     Resounded up the rocky way,
     And faint, from farther distance borne,
     Were heard the clanging hoof and horn.

     As Chief, who hears his warder call,
     ‘To arms! the foemen storm the wall,’
     The antlered monarch of the waste
     Sprung from his heathery couch in haste.
     But ere his fleet career he took,
     The dew-drops from his flanks he shook;
     Like crested leader proud and high
     Tossed his beamed frontlet to the sky;
     A moment gazed adown the dale,
     A moment snuffed the tainted gale,
     A moment listened to the cry,
     That thickened as the chase drew nigh;
     Then, as the headmost foes appeared,
     With one brave bound the copse he cleared,
     And, stretching forward free and far,
     Sought the wild heaths of Uam-Var.

     Yelled on the view the opening pack;
     Rock, glen, and cavern paid them back;
     To many a mingled sound at once
     The awakened mountain gave response.
     A hundred dogs bayed deep and strong,
     Clattered a hundred steeds along,
     Their peal the merry horns rung out,
     A hundred voices joined 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 cowered the doe,
     The falcon, from her cairn on high,
     Cast on the rout a wondering eye,
     Till far beyond her piercing ken
     The hurricane had swept the glen.
     Faint, and more faint, its failing din
     Returned from cavern, cliff, and linn,
     And silence settled, wide and still,
     On the lone wood and mighty hill.

     Less loud the sounds of sylvan war
     Disturbed the heights of Uam-Var,
     And roused the cavern where, ‘t is 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, stayed perforce,
     Was fain to breathe his faltering horse,
     And of the trackers of the deer
     Scarce half the lessening pack was near;
     So shrewdly on the mountain-side
     Had the bold burst their mettle tried.

     The noble stag was pausing now
     Upon the mountain’s southern brow,
     Where broad extended, far beneath,
     The varied realms of fair Menteith.
     With anxious eye he wandered o’er
     Mountain and meadow, moss and moor,
     And pondered 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 blue
     On the bold cliffs of Benvenue.
     Fresh vigour with the hope returned,
     With flying foot the heath he spurned,
     Held westward with unwearied race,
     And left behind the panting chase.

     ‘Twere long to tell what steeds gave o’er,
     As swept the hunt through Cambusmore;
     What reins were tightened in despair,
     When rose Benledi’s ridge in air;
     Who flagged upon Bochastle’s heath,
     Who shunned 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 reached the lake of Vennachar;
     And when the Brigg of Turk was won,
     The headmost horseman rode alone.

     Alone, but with unbated zeal,
     That horseman plied the scourge and steel;
     For jaded now, and spent with toil,
     Embossed with foam, and dark with soil,
     While every gasp with sobs he drew,
     The labouring stag strained full in view.
     Two dogs of black Saint Hubert’s breed,
     Unmatched 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 toiled 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,
     O’er stock and rock their race they take.

     The Hunter marked that mountain high,
     The lone lake’s western boundary,
     And deemed the stag must turn to bay,
     Where that huge rampart barred the way;
     Already glorying in the prize,
     Measured his antlers with his eyes;
     For the death-wound and death-halloo
     Mustered his breath, his whinyard drew:—
     But thundering as he came prepared,
     With ready arm and weapon bared,
     The wily quarry shunned the shock,
     And turned 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 couched the thicket shed
     Cold dews and wild flowers on his head,
     He heard the baffled dogs in vain
     Rave through the hollow pass amain,
     Chiding the rocks that yelled again.

     Close on the hounds the Hunter came,
     To cheer them on the vanished game;
     But, stumbling in the rugged dell,
     The gallant horse exhausted fell.
     The impatient rider strove in vain
     To rouse him with the spur and rein,
     For the good steed, his labours o’er,
     Stretched his stiff limbs, to rise no more;
     Then, touched with pity and remorse,
     He sorrowed o’er the expiring horse.
     ‘I little thought, when first thy rein
     I slacked upon the banks of Seine,
     That Highland eagle e’er should feed
     On thy fleet limbs, my matchless steed!
     Woe worth the chase, woe worth the day,
     That costs thy life, my gallant grey!’

     Then through the dell his horn resounds,
     From vain pursuit to call the hounds.
     Back limped, with slow and crippled pace,
     The sulky leaders of the chase;
     Close to their master’s side they pressed,
     With drooping tail and humbled crest;
     But still the dingle’s hollow throat
     Prolonged the swelling bugle-note.
     The owlets started from their dream,
     The eagles answered with their scream,
     Round and around the sounds were cast,
     Till echo seemed an answering blast;
     And on the Hunter tried his way,
     To join some comrades of the day,
     Yet often paused, so strange the road,
     So wondrous were the scenes it showed.

     The western waves of ebbing day
     Rolled 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-splintered 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,
     Formed turret, dome, or battlement.
     Or seemed fantastically set
     With cupola or minaret,
     Wild crests as pagod ever decked,
     Or mosque of Eastern architect.
     Nor were these earth-born castles bare,
     Nor lacked they many a banner fair;
     For, from their shivered brows displayed,
     Far o’er the unfathomable glade,
     All twinkling with the dewdrop sheen,
     The briar-rose fell in streamers green,
     kind creeping shrubs of thousand dyes
     Waved in the west-wind’s summer sighs.


     Boon nature scattered, free and wild,
     Each plant or flower, the mountain’s child.
     Here eglantine embalmed the air,
     Hawthorn and hazel mingled there;
     The primrose pale and violet flower
     Found in each cliff a narrow bower;
     Foxglove and nightshade, side by side,
     Emblems of punishment and pride,
     Grouped 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 shattered trunk, and frequent flung,
     Where seemed the cliffs to meet on high,
     His boughs athwart the narrowed sky.
     Highest of all, where white peaks glanced,
     Where glistening streamers waved and danced,
     The wanderer’s eye could barely view
     The summer heaven’s delicious blue;
     So wondrous wild, the whole might seem
     The scenery of a fairy dream.


     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 strayed,
     Still broader sweep its channels made.
     The shaggy mounds no longer stood,
     Emerging from entangled wood,
     But, wave-encircled, seemed 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 burnished sheet of living gold,
     Loch Katrine lay beneath him rolled,
     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 hurled,
     The fragments of an earlier world;
     A wildering forest feathered o’er
     His ruined 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 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 bewildered 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 missed 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 rave,
     And kiss, with whispering sound and slow,
     The beach of pebbles bright as snow.
      The boat had touched this silver strand
     Just as the Hunter left his stand,
     And stood concealed 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 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 seemed 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 brown,—
     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 trained her pace,—
     A foot more light, a step more true,
     Ne’er from the heath-flower dashed 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 listener held his breath to hear!

     A chieftain’s daughter seemed 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 confessed
     The guileless movements of her breast;
     Whether joy danced in her dark eye,
     Or woe or pity claimed a sigh,
     Or filial love was glowing there,
     Or meek devotion poured a prayer,
     Or tale of injury called forth
     The indignant spirit of the North.
     One only passion unrevealed
     With maiden pride the maid concealed,
     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.
     Awhile she paused, no answer came;—
     ‘Malcolm, was thine the blast?’ the name
     Less resolutely uttered fell,
     The echoes could not catch the swell.
     ‘A stranger I,’ the Huntsman said,
     Advancing from the hazel shade.
     The maid, alarmed, with hasty oar
     Pushed her light shallop from the shore,
     And when a space was gained 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 fluttered 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 pressed its signet sage,
     Yet had not quenched 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 could
     For hardy sports or contest bold;
     And though in peaceful garb arrayed,
     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 bode the shore.
     Slighting the petty need he showed,
     He told of his benighted road;
     His ready speech flowed fair and free,
     In phrase of gentlest courtesy,
     Yet seemed that tone and gesture bland
     Less used to sue than to command.

     Awhile the maid the stranger eyed,
     And, reassured, at length replied,
     That Highland halls were open still
     To wildered 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 pulled 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 erred,’ he said;
     ‘No right have I to claim, misplaced,
     The welcome of expected guest.
     A wanderer, here by fortune toss,
     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 fey in fairy land!’—

     ‘I well believe,’ the maid replied,
     As her light skiff approached 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-haired sire, whose eye intent
     Was on the visioned 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 tasselled 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 be
     To grace a guest of fair degree;
     But light I held his prophecy,
     And deemed 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,
     Doomed, doubtless, for achievement bold,
     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 suppressed and sly,
     The toil unwonted saw him try;
     For seldom, sure, if e’er before,
     His noble hand had grasped 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 darkening mirror of the lake,
     Until the rocky isle they reach,
     And moor their shallop on the beach.

     The stranger viewed the shore around;
     ‘T was all so close with copsewood bound,
     Nor track nor pathway might declare
     That human foot frequented there,
     Until the mountain maiden showed
     A clambering unsuspected road,
     That winded through the tangled screen,
     And opened 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.

     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.
     Lopped 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 overhead
     Their slender length for rafters spread,
     And withered 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 favoured 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 stayed,
     And gayly to the stranger said:
     ‘On heaven and on thy lady call,
     And enter the enchanted hall!’

     ‘My hope, my heaven, my trust must be,
     My gentle guide, in following thee!’—
     He crossed the threshold,—and a clang
     Of angry steel that instant rang.
     To his bold brow his spirit rushed,
     But soon for vain alarm he blushed
     When on the floor he saw displayed,
     Cause of the din, a naked blade
     Dropped 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 tusked 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 stained,
     That blackening streaks of blood retained,
     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.

     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 swayed,
     ‘I never knew but one,’ he said,
     ‘Whose stalwart arm might brook to wield
     A blade like this in battle-field.’
     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 part
     Of Ferragus or Ascabart,
     But in the absent giant’s hold
     Are women now, and menials old.’

     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 unasked his birth and name.
     Such then the reverence to a guest,
     That fellest foe might join the feast,
     And from his deadliest foeman’s door
     Unquestioned 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,
     Outstripped his comrades, missed the deer,
     Lost his good steed, and wandered here.’

     Fain would the Knight in turn require
     The name and state of Ellen’s sire.
     Well showed the elder lady’s mien
     That courts and cities she had seen;
     Ellen, though more her looks displayed
     The simple grace of sylvan maid,
     In speech and gesture, form and face,
     Showed she was come of gentle race.
     ‘Twere strange in ruder rank to find
     Such looks, such manners, and such mind.
     Each hint the Knight of Snowdoun gave,
     Dame Margaret heard with silence grave;
     Or Ellen, innocently gay,
     Turned all inquiry light away:—
     ‘Weird women we! by dale and down
     We 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 unseen
     Filled up the symphony between.

     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,
          Armor’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 daybreak 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.’

     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 reveille.
     Sleep! 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.’

     The hall was cleared,—the stranger’s bed,
     Was there of mountain heather spread,
     Where oft a hundred guests had lain,
     And dreamed their forest sports again.
     But vainly did the heath-flower shed
     Its moorland fragrance round his head;
     Not Ellen’s spell had lulled 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 returned 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?
     Dreamed he of death or broken vow,
     Or is it all a vision now?

     At length, with Ellen in a grove
     He seemed to walk and speak of love;
     She listened 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 darkened cheek and threatening eyes,
     The grisly visage, stern and hoar,
     To Ellen still a likeness bore.—
     He woke, and, panting with affright,
     Recalled 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 fixed his eye
     Where that huge falchion hung on high,
     And thoughts on thoughts, a countless throng,
     Rushed, chasing countless thoughts along,
     Until, the giddy whirl to cure,
     He rose and sought the moonshine pure.

     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,
     Played 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 fevered dream,
     But still the Douglas is the theme?
     I’ll dream no more,—by manly mind
     Not even in sleep is will resigned.
     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,
     Consigned to heaven his cares and woes,
     And sunk in undisturbed repose,
     Until the heath-cock shrilly crew,
     And morning dawned on Benvenue.