His steed now flounders in the brake,

Now sinks his barge upon the lake:
Now leader of a broken host,

His standard falls, his honour's lost.

Then, from my couch may heavenly might
Chase that worst phantom of the night!-
Again return'd the scenes of youth,

Of confident undoubting truth;
Again his soul he interchanged

With friends whose hearts were long estranged.
They come, in dim procession led,

The cold, the faithless, and the dead;

As warm each hand, each brow as gay,
As if they parted yesterday.
And doubts distract him at the view,
O were his senses false or true?
Dream'd he of death, or broken vow,
Or is it all a vision now?

XXXIV.

At length, with Ellen in a grove
He seem'd to walk, and speak of love;
She listen'd with a blush and sigh,
His suit 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 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,

He rose, and sought the moonshine pure.

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 manly mind
Not e'en in sleep is will resign'd.

"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.

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 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 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 reach'd 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,
Seem'd watching the awakening fire;
So still he sate, 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 sate and smiled.
Smiled she to see the stately drake
Lead forth his fleet upon the lake,
While her vex'd spaniel, from the beach,
Bay'd at the prize beyond his reach!
Yet tell me, then, the maid who knows,
Why deepen'd 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 eye!

VI.

While yet he loiter'd on the spot,
It seem'd as Ellen mark'd him not;
But when he turn'd 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,
Watch'd 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!"
'Twas thus upbraiding conscience said,
"Not so had Malcolm idly hung

On the smooth phrase of southern tongue;
Not so had Malcolm strain'd 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 Græme."
Scarce from her lip the word had rush'd,
When deep the conscious maiden blush'd,
For of his clan, in hall and bower,

Young Malcolm Græme 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 bid'st, O noble maid,"
Clasping his wither'd hands, he said,
"Vainly thou bid'st me wake the strain,
Though all unwont to bid in vain.
Alas! than mine a mightier hand

Has tuned my harp, my strings has spann'd!

I touch the chords of joy, but low

And mournful answer notes of wo;

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 sway'd,

Can thus its master's fate foretell,
Then welcome be the minstrel's knell!

VIII.

"But ah! dear lady, thus it sigh'd

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 banner'd hall, Ere Douglasses, to ruin driven,

Were exiled from their native heaven.

Oh! if yet worse mishap and wo
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 wo,

Then shiver'd shall thy fragments lie,
Thy master cast him down and die."

IX.

Soothing she answer'd him," Assuage,
Mine honour'd 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 resign'd
Than yonder oak might give the wind;
The graceful foliage storms may reave,
The noble stem they cannot grieve.
For me"-she stoop'd, and, looking round,
Pluck'd 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 wreath'd 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 wo,
He gazed, till fond regret and pride
Thrill'd to a tear, then thus replied:
"Loveliest and best! thou little know'st
The rank, the honours thou hast lost!
O might I live to see thee grace,
In Scotland's court, thy birthright place,
To see my favourite'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 sigh'd,)
"This mossy rock, my friend, to me
Is worth gay 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 his glee repress'd:
"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 gave place before the stride
Of the undaunted homicide:

*The well-known cognizance of the Douglas family.

And since, though outlaw'd, hath his hand
Full sternly kept his mountain land.
Who else dare give-ah! wo the day,
That I such hated truth should say-
The Douglas, like a stricken deer,
Disown'd by every noble peer,
E'en 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 dipensation, sought

To back his suit, from Rome he brought.
Then, though an exile on the hill,
Thy father, as the Douglas, still
Be held in reverence and fear,
But though to Roderick thou'rt so dear,
That thou might'st 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 sorrow'd 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 shakest, good friend, thy tresses grayThat 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 honour, as his daughter ought;
But can I clasp it reeking red,
From peasants slaughter'd 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 shudder'd at his brow of gloom,
His shadowy plaid, and sable plume;
A maiden grown, I ill could bear
His haughty mien and lordly air;
But, if thou join'st a suitor's claim,
In serious mood, to Roderick's name,
I thrill with anguish! or, if e'er
A Douglas knew the word, with fear.

To change such odious theme were best,—
What think'st thou of our stranger guest?"

XV.

"What think I of him? wo the while
That brought such wanderer to our isle!
Thy father's battle brand, of yore
For Tyneman forged by fairy lore,
What time he leagued, no longer foes,
His border spears with Hotspur's bows,
Did, self-unscabbarded, foreshow
The footsteps of a secret foe.
If courtly spy had harbour'd here,
What may we for the Douglas fear?
What for this island, deem'd of old
Clan-Alpine's last and surest hold?
If neither spy nor foe, I pray,
What yet may jealous Roderick say!
Nay, wave not thy disdainful head!
Bethink thee of the discord dread
That kindled when at Beltane game
Thou led'st the dance with Malcolm Græme;
Still, though thy sire the peace renew'd,
Smoulders in Roderick's breast the feud;
Beware!-But hark, what sounds are these?
My dull ears catch no faltering breeze,
No weeping birch, nor aspen's wake,
Nor breath is dimpling in the lake,
Still is the canna's* hoary beard,-
Yet, by my minstrel faith, I heard-
And hark again! some pipe of war
Sends the bold pibroch from afar."

XVI.

Far up the lengthen'd lake were spied
Four darkening specks upon the tide,
That, slow enlarging on the view,
Four mann'd and masted barges grew,
And, bearing downwards from Glengyle,
Steer'd full upon the lonely isle;
The point of Brianchoil they pass'd,
And to the windward as they cast,
Against the sun they gave to shine
The bold Sir Roderick's banner'd pine.
Nearer and nearer as they bear,
Spears, pikes, and axes flash in air.
Now might you see the tartans brave,
And plaids and plumage dance and wave;
Now see the bonnets sink and rise,
As his tough oar the rower plies;

* Cotton grass.

See, flashing at each sturdy stroke,
The wave ascending into smoke;
See the proud pipers on the bow,
And mark the gaudy streamers flow
From their loud chanters down, and sweep
The furrow'd bosom of the deep,

As, rushing through the lake amain,
They plied the ancient highland strain.

XVII.

Ever, as on they bore, more loud
And louder rung the pibroch proud.
At first the sound, by distance tame,
Mellow'd along the waters came,
And, lingering long by cape and bay,
Wail'd every harsher note away;
Then bursting bolder on the ear,
The clan's shrill gathering they could hear;
Those thrilling sounds, that call the might
Of old Clan-Alpine to the fight.

Thick beat the rapid notes, as when
The mustering hundreds shake the glen,
And hurrying at the signal dread,

The batter'd earth returns their tread.
Then prelude light, of livelier tone,
Express'd their merry marching on,
Ere peal of closing battle rose,
With mingled outcry, shrieks, and blows:
And mimic din of stroke and ward,
As broadsword upon target jarr'd;
And groaning pause, e'er yet again,
Condensed, the battle yell'd amain;
The rapid charge, the rallying shout,
Retreat borne headlong into rout,
And bursts of triumph, to declare,
Clan-Alpine's conquest-all were there.
Nor ended thus the strain; but slow
Sunk in a moan prolong'd and low,
And changed the conquering clarion swell,
For wild lament o'er those that fell.

XVIII.

The war-pipes ceased; but lake and hill
Were busy with their echoes still;
And, when they slept, a vocal strain
Bade their hoarse chorus wake again,
While loud a hundred clansmen raise
Their voices in their chieftain's praise.
Each boatman, bending to his oar,
With measured sweep the burthen bore,
In such wild cadence, as the breeze
Makes through December's leafless trees.
The chorus first could Allen know,
"Roderigh Vich Alpine, ho! ieroe?"
And near, and
nearer, as they rowed,
Distinct the martial ditty flowed.

Widow and Saxon maid

Long shall lament our aid,

Think of Clan-Alpine with fear and with wo;
Lennox and Leven-glen

Shake when they hear agen,

"Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!"

Row, vassals, row, for the pride of the highlands!
Stretch to your oars for the ever-green pine!
O! that the rose-bud that graces yon islands
Were wreath'd in a garland around him to
twine!

O that some seedling gem,
Worthy such noble stem,

Honour'd and bless'd in their shadow might grow!

Loud should Clan-Alpine then

Ring from her deepmost glen, "Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe."

XXI.

With all her joyful female band,
Had lady Margaret sought the strand.
Loose on the breeze their tresses flew,
And high their snowy arms they threw;
As echoing back with shrill acclaim
And chorus wild, the chieftain's name;
While, prompt to please, with mother's art,
The darling passion of his heart,
The dame called Ellen to the strand,
To greet her kinsman ere he land:
"Come, loiterer, come! a Douglas thou,
And shun to wreath a victor's brow!"
Reluctantly, and slow, the maid
Th' unwelcome summoning obey'd,
And, when a distant bugle rung,
In the mid path aside she sprung:-
"List, Allan-bane! from main land cast,
I hear my father's signal blast.

Be ours," she cried, " the skiff to guide,
And waft him from the mountain side."
Then, like a sunbeam, swift and bright,
She darted to her shallop light,
And, eagerly while Roderick scann'd
For her dear form his mother's band,

The islet far behind her lay,

And she had landed in the bay.

XXII.

Some feelings are to mortals given,

With less of earth in them than heaven;
And if there be a human tear

From passion's dross refined and clear,
A tear so limpid and so meek,

It would not stain an angel's cheek,
'Tis that which pious fathers shed
Upon a duteous daughter's head!
And as the Douglas to his breast
His darling Ellen closely press'd,
Such holy drops her tresses steep'd,
Though 'twas a hero's eye that weep'd.
Nor while on Ellen's faltering tongue
Her filial welcomes crowded hung,
Mark'd she that fear (affection's proof)
Still held a graceful youth aloof:

No! not till Douglas named his name,
Although the youth was Malcolm Græme.

XXIII.

Allan, with wistful look the while,
Mark'd Roderick landing on the isle
His master piteously he eyed,

Then gazed upon the chieftain's pride,
Then dash'd, with hasty hand, away
From his dimm'd eye the gathering spray;
And Douglas, as his hand he laid

On Malcolm's shoulder, kindly said,
"Canst thou, young friend, no meaning spy
In my poor follower's glistening eye?
I'll tell thee:-he recalls the day,
When in my praise he led the lay

O'er the arch'd gate of Bothwell proud,
While many a minstrel answer'd loud.
When Percy's Norman pennon, won
In bloody field, before me shone,
And twice ten knights, the least a name
As mighty as yon chief may claim,
Gracing my pomp, behind me came.
Yet trust me, Malcolm, not so proud
Was I of all that marshall'd crowd,
Though the waned crescent own'd my might,
And in my train troop'd lord and knight,
Though Blantyre hymn'd her holiest lays,
And Bothwell's harps flung back my praise,
As when this old man's silent tear,
And this poor maid's affection dear,
A welcome give more kind and true
Than aught my better fortunes knew.
Forgive, my friend, a father's boast;
O! it outbeggars all I lost!"

XXIV.

Delightful praise !-like summer rose,
That brighter in the dewdrop glows,
The bashful maiden's cheek appear'd,
For Douglas spoke, and Malcolm heard.
The flush of shamefaced joy to hide,
The hounds, the hawk, her cares divide:
The loved caresses of the maid
The dogs with crouch and whimper paid;
And, at her whistle, on her hand
The falcon took his favourite stand,