As if a baron's crest he wore, And, sheath'd in armor, trode the shore. Yet seem'd that tone, and gesture bland, XXII. Awhile the maid the stranger eyed, To furnish forth your evening cheer." 66 Now, by the rood, my lovely maid, Your courtesy hath err'd," he said; A wanderer, here by fortune tost, XXIII. "I well believe," the maid replied, As her light skiff approach'd the side, "I well believe that ne'er before Your foot has trod Loch Katrine's shore; But yet, as far as yesternight, Old Allan-Bane foretold your plight, — A gray-hair'd sire, whose eye intent Was on the vision'd future bent. He saw your steed, a dappled gray, Lie dead beneath the birchen way; Painted exact your form and mien, Your hunting-suit of Lincoln green, That tassell'd horn, so gayly gilt, That falchion's crooked blade and hilt, That cap with heron plumage trim, And yon two hounds so dark and grim. He bade that all should ready be, To grace a guest of fair degree; But light I held his prophecy, And deem'd it was my father's horn, Whose echoes o'er the lake were borne." XXIV. The stranger smiled: :—“Since to your home Announced by prophet sooth and old, For seldom, sure, if e'er before, His noble hand had grasp'd an oar: Yet with main strength his strokes he drew, And moor their shallop on the beach. XXV. 'The stranger view'd the shore around; Until the mountain-maiden show'd Where weeping birch and willow round XXVI. It was a lodge of ample size, But strange of structure and device; Of such materials, as around The workman's hand had readiest found. Lopp'd of their boughs, their hoar trunks bared, And by the hatchet rudely squared, To give the walls their destined height, 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, Due westward, fronting to the green, A rural portico was seen, Of mountain fir with bark unshorn, Where Ellen's hand had taught to twine The clematis, the favor'd flower Which boasts the name of virgin-bower, XXVII. "My hope, my heaven, my trust must be, Dropp'd from the sheath, that, careless flung, For all around, the walls to grace, A battle-axe, a hunting-spear, And broadswords, bows, and arrows store, With the tusk'd trophies of the boar. |