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 stain'd,
That blackening streaks of blood retain'd,
And deer-skins, dappled, dun, and white,
With otter's fur and seal's unite,
In rude and uncouth tapestry all,
To garnish forth the sylvan hall.

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 sway'd,
"I never knew but one," he said,

"Whose stalwart arm might brook to wield A blade like this in battle-field."

She sigh'd, 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 kner
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 unask'd 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
Unquestion'd 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 fall'n 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,
Outstripp'd his comrades, miss'd the deer,
Lost his good steed, and wander'd here."

Fain would the Knight in turn require
The name and state of Ellen's sire.

Well show'd the elder lady's mien

That courts and cities she had seen;
Ellen, though more her looks display'd
The simple grace of sylvan maid,
In speech and gesture, form and face,
Show'd 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,

Turn'd all inquiry light away:

66

'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 charmèd rhymes we sing." She sung, and still a harp unseen Fill'd up the symphony between.

"Soldier, vest! 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,

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 reveillé.
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 reveillé."

XXXIII.

The hall was cleared,

the stranger's bed

Was there of mountain heather spread,
Where oft an hundred guests had lain,
And dream'd their forest sports again.