The Lady of the Lake annotated by William J. Rolfe E-Book

Sir Walter Scott

• Herausgeber: Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Seitenzahl: 363

Beschreibung

"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?"

Leseprobe

The Lady of the Lake annotated by William J. Rolfe

The Lady of the Lake annotated by William J. RolfePrefaceARGUMENT.CANTO FIRST.CANTO SECOND.CANTO THIRD.CANTO FOURTH.CANTO FIFTH.CANTO SIXTH.ABBREVIATIONS USED IN THE NOTES.NOTES.Introduction.Canto First.Canto Second.Canto Third.Canto Fourth.Canto Fifth.Canto Sixth.FOOTNOTES:Copyright

The Lady of the Lake annotated by William J. Rolfe

Sir Walter Scott

Preface

When I first saw Mr. Osgood's beautiful illustrated edition of The Lady of the Lake, I asked him to let me use some of the cuts in a cheaper annotated edition for school and household use; and the present volume is the result.The text of the poem has given me unexpected trouble. When I edited some of Gray's poems several years ago, I found that they had not been correctly printed for more than half a century; but in the case of Scott I supposed that the text of Black's so-called "Author's Edition" could be depended upon as accurate. Almost at the start, however, I detected sundry obvious misprints in one of the many forms in which this edition is issued, and an examination of others showed that they were as bad in their way. The "Shilling" issue was no worse than the costly illustrated one of 1853, which had its own assortment of slips of the type. No two editions that I could obtain agreed exactly in their readings. I tried in vain to find a copy of the editio princeps (1810) in Cambridge and Boston, but succeeded in getting one through a London bookseller. This I compared, line by line, with the Edinburgh edition of 1821 (from the Harvard Library), with Lockhart's first edition, the "Globe" edition, and about a dozen others English and American. I found many misprints and corruptions in all except the edition of 1821, and a few even in that. For instance in i. 217 Scott wrote "Found in each cliff a narrow bower," and it is so printed in the first edition; but in every other that I have seen "cliff" appears in place of clift,, to the manifest injury of the passage. In ii. 685, every edition that I have seen since that of 1821 has "I meant not all my heart might say," which is worse than nonsense, the correct reading being "my heat." In vi. 396, the Scottish "boune" (though it occurs twice in other parts of the poem) has been changed to "bound" in all editions since 1821; and, eight lines below, the old word "barded" has become "barbed." Scores of similar corruptions are recorded in my Notes, and need not be cited here.I have restored the reading of the first edition, except in cases where I have no doubt that the later reading is the poet's own correction or alteration. There are obvious misprints in the first edition which Scott himself overlooked (see on ii. 115, 217,, Vi. 527, etc.), and it is sometimes difficult to decide whether a later reading—a change of a plural to a singular, or like trivial variation—is a misprint or the author's correction of an earlier misprint. I have done the best I could, with the means at my command, to settle these questions, and am at least certain that the text as I give it is nearer right than in any edition since 1821 As all the variae lectiones are recorded in the Notes, the reader who does not approve of the one I adopt can substitute that which he prefers.I have retained all Scott's Notes (a few of them have been somewhat abridged) and all those added by Lockhart.1My own I have made as concise as possible. There are, of course, many of them which many of my readers will not need, but I think there are none that may not be of service, or at least of interest, to some of them; and I hope that no one will turn to them for help without finding it.Scott is much given to the use of Elizabethan words and constructions, and I have quoted many "parallelisms" from Shakespeare and his contemporaries. I believe I have referred to my edition of Shakespeare in only a single instance (on iii. 17), but teachers and others who have that edition will find many additional illustrations in the Notes on the passages cited.While correcting the errors of former editors, I may have overlooked some of my own. I am already indebted to the careful proofreaders of the University Press for the detection of occasional slips in quotations or references; and I shall be very grateful to my readers for a memorandum of any others that they may discover.Cambridge, June 23, 1883..

ARGUMENT.

CANTO FIRST.

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,10        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!I.      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.II.      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.III.      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.IV.      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.V.      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 vigor with the hope returned,      With flying foot the heath he spurned,      Held westward with unwearied race,      And left behind the panting chase.VI.      'T were 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.VII.      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 laboring 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.VIII.      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.IX.      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 labors 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 gray!'X.      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.XI.      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.XII.      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,      Gray 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.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 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.XIV.      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.XV.      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 gray;      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.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 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.'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 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.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 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!XIX.      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?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.      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.XXI.      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 armor 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.XXII.      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!'—XXIII.      '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 gray-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.'XXIV.      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.XXV.      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.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.      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 favored 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!'XXVII.      '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.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 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.'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 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.'XXX.      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.      'T were 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.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,           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.'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,

CANTO SECOND.

The Island.I.      At morn the black-cock trims his jetty wing,           'T is 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 gray,           And sweetly o'er the lake was heard thy strain,      Mixed with the sounding harp, O white-haired 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;      Then, stranger, go! good speed the while,      Nor think again of the lonely isle.      'High place to thee in royal court,           High place in battled line,      Good hawk and hound for sylvan sport!      Where beauty sees the brave resort,           The honored 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!III.      Song Continued.      'But if beneath yon southern sky           A plaided stranger roam,      Whose drooping crest and stifled sigh,      And sunken cheek and heavy eye,           Pine for his Highland home;      Then, warrior, then be thine to show      The care that soothes a wanderer's woe;      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,      Woe, want, and exile thou sustain           Beneath the fickle 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.'IV.      As died the sounds upon the tide,      The shallop reached the mainland side,      And ere his onward way he took,      The stranger cast a lingering look,      Where easily his eye might reach      The Harper on the islet beach,      Reclined against a blighted tree,      As wasted, gray, and worn as he.      To minstrel meditation given,      His reverend brow was raised to heaven,      As from the rising sun to claim      A sparkle of inspiring flame.      His hand, reclined upon the wire,      Seemed watching the awakening fire;      So still he sat as those who wait      Till judgment speak the doom of fate;      So still, as if no breeze might dare      To lift one lock of hoary hair;      So still, as life itself were fled      In the last sound his harp had sped.V.      Upon a rock with lichens wild,      Beside him Ellen sat and smiled.—      Smiled she to see the stately drake      Lead forth his fleet upon the lake,      While her vexed spaniel from the beach      Bayed at the prize beyond his reach?      Yet tell me, then, the maid who knows,      Why deepened on her cheek the rose?—      Forgive, forgive, Fidelity!      Perchance the maiden smiled to see      Yon parting lingerer wave adieu,      And stop and turn to wave anew;      And, lovely ladies, ere your ire      Condemn the heroine of my lyre,      Show me the fair would scorn to spy      And prize such conquest of her eve!VI.      While yet he loitered on the spot,      It seemed as Ellen marked him not;      But when he turned him to the glade,      One courteous parting sign she made;      And after, oft the knight would say,      That not when prize of festal day      Was dealt him by the brightest fair      Who e'er wore jewel in her hair,      So highly did his bosom swell      As at that simple mute farewell.      Now with a trusty mountain-guide,      And his dark stag-hounds by his side,      He parts,—the maid, unconscious still,      Watched him wind slowly round the hill;      But when his stately form was hid,      The guardian in her bosom chid,—      'Thy Malcolm! vain and selfish maid!'      'T was thus upbraiding conscience said,—      'Not so had Malcolm idly hung      On the smooth phrase of Southern tongue;      Not so had Malcolm strained his eye      Another step than thine to spy.'—      'Wake, Allan-bane,' aloud she cried      To the old minstrel by her side,—      'Arouse thee from thy moody dream!      I 'll give thy harp heroic theme,      And warm thee with a noble name;      Pour forth the glory of the Graeme!'      Scarce from her lip the word had rushed,      When deep the conscious maiden blushed;      For of his clan, in hall and bower,      Young Malcolm Graeme was held the flower.VII.      The minstrel waked his harp,—three times      Arose the well-known martial chimes,      And thrice their high heroic pride      In melancholy murmurs died.       'Vainly thou bidst, O noble maid,'      Clasping his withered hands, he said,      'Vainly thou bidst me wake the strain,       Though all unwont to bid in vain.      Alas! than mine a mightier hand      Has tuned my harp, my strings has spanned!      I touch the chords of joy, but low      And mournful answer notes of woe;      And the proud march which victors tread      Sinks in the wailing for the dead.      O, well for me, if mine alone      That dirge's deep prophetic tone!      If, as my tuneful fathers said,      This harp, which erst Saint Modan swayed,      Can thus its master's fate foretell,      Then welcome be the minstrel's knell.'VIII.      'But ah! dear lady, thus it sighed,      The eve thy sainted mother died;      And such the sounds which, while I strove      To wake a lay of war or love,      Came marring all the festal mirth,      Appalling me who gave them birth,      And, disobedient to my call,      Wailed loud through Bothwell's bannered hall.      Ere Douglases, to ruin driven,      Were exiled from their native heaven.—      O! if yet worse mishap and woe      My master's house must undergo,      Or aught but weal to Ellen fair      Brood in these accents of despair,      No future bard, sad Harp! shall fling      Triumph or rapture from thy string;      One short, one final strain shall flow,      Fraught with unutterable woe,      Then shivered shall thy fragments lie,      Thy master cast him down and die!'IX.      Soothing she answered him: 'Assuage,      Mine honored friend, the fears of age;      All melodies to thee are known      That harp has rung or pipe has blown,      In Lowland vale or Highland glen,      From Tweed to Spey—what marvel, then,      At times unbidden notes should rise,      Confusedly bound in memory's ties,      Entangling, as they rush along,      The war-march with the funeral song?—      Small ground is now for boding fear;      Obscure, but safe, we rest us here.      My sire, in native virtue great,      Resigning lordship, lands, and state,      Not then to fortune more resigned      Than yonder oak might give the wind;      The graceful foliage storms may reeve,      'Fine noble stem they cannot grieve.      For me'—she stooped, and, looking round,      Plucked a blue harebell from the ground,—      'For me, whose memory scarce conveys      An image of more splendid days,      This little flower that loves the lea      May well my simple emblem be;      It drinks heaven's dew as blithe as rose      That in the King's own garden grows;      And when I place it in my hair,      Allan, a bard is bound to swear      He ne'er saw coronet so fair.'      Then playfully the chaplet wild      She wreathed in her dark locks, and smiled.X.      Her smile, her speech, with winning sway      Wiled the old Harper's mood away.      With such a look as hermits throw,      When angels stoop to soothe their woe      He gazed, till fond regret and pride      Thrilled to a tear, then thus replied:      'Loveliest and best! thou little know'st      The rank, the honors, thou hast lost!      O. might I live to see thee grace,      In Scotland's court, thy birthright place,      To see my favorite's step advance      The lightest in the courtly dance,      The cause of every gallant's sigh,      And leading star of every eye,      And theme of every minstrel's art,      The Lady of the Bleeding Heart!'XI.      'Fair dreams are these,' the maiden cried,—      Light was her accent, yet she sighed,—      'Yet is this mossy rock to me      Worth splendid chair and canopy;      Nor would my footstep spring more gay      In courtly dance than blithe strathspey,      Nor half so pleased mine ear incline      To royal minstrel's lay as thine.      And then for suitors proud and high,      To bend before my conquering eye,—      Thou, flattering bard! thyself wilt say,      That grim Sir Roderick owns its sway.      The Saxon scourge, Clan-Alpine's pride,      The terror of Loch Lomond's side,      Would, at my suit, thou know'st, delay      A Lennox foray—for a day.'—XII..      The ancient bard her glee repressed:      'Ill hast thou chosen theme for jest!      For who, through all this western wild,      Named Black Sir Roderick e'er, and smiled?      In Holy-Rood a knight he slew;      I saw, when back the dirk he drew,      Courtiers give place before the stride      Of the undaunted homicide;      And since, though outlawed, hath his hand      Full sternly kept his mountain land.      Who else dared give—ah! woe the day,      That I such hated truth should say!—      The Douglas, like a stricken deer,      Disowned by every noble peer,      Even the rude refuge we have here?      Alas, this wild marauding      Chief Alone might hazard our relief,      And now thy maiden charms expand,      Looks for his guerdon in thy hand;      Full soon may dispensation sought,      To back his suit, from Rome be brought.      Then, though an exile on the hill,      Thy father, as the Douglas, still      Be held in reverence and fear;      And though to Roderick thou'rt so dear      That thou mightst guide with silken thread.      Slave of thy will, this chieftain dread,      Yet, O loved maid, thy mirth refrain!      Thy hand is on a lion's mane.'—XIII.      Minstrel,' the maid replied, and high      Her father's soul glanced from her eye,      'My debts to Roderick's house I know:      All that a mother could bestow      To Lady Margaret's care I owe,      Since first an orphan in the wild      She sorrowed o'er her sister's child;      To her brave chieftain son, from ire      Of Scotland's king who shrouds my sire,      A deeper, holier debt is owed;      And, could I pay it with my blood, Allan!      Sir Roderick should command      My blood, my life,—but not my hand.      Rather will Ellen Douglas dwell      A votaress in Maronnan's cell;      Rather through realms beyond the sea,      Seeking the world's cold charity      Where ne'er was spoke a Scottish word,      And ne'er the name of Douglas heard      An outcast pilgrim will she rove,      Than wed the man she cannot love.XIV.      'Thou shak'st, good friend, thy tresses gray,—      That pleading look, what can it say      But what I own?—I grant him brave,      But wild as Bracklinn's thundering wave;      And generous,—save vindictive mood      Or jealous transport chafe his blood:      I grant him true to friendly band,      As his claymore is to his hand;      But O! that very blade of steel      More mercy for a foe would feel:      I grant him liberal, to fling      Among his clan the wealth they bring,      When back by lake and glen they wind,      And in the Lowland leave behind,      Where once some pleasant hamlet stood,      A mass of ashes slaked with blood.      The hand that for my father fought      I honor, as his daughter ought;      But can I clasp it reeking red      From peasants slaughtered in their shed?      No! wildly while his virtues gleam,      They make his passions darker seem,      And flash along his spirit high,      Like lightning o'er the midnight sky.      While yet a child,—and children know,      Instinctive taught, the friend and foe,—      I shuddered at his brow of gloom,