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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 stray'd,
Still broader sweep its channels made.
The shaggy mounds no longer stood,
Emerging from entangled wood,
But, wave-encircled, seem'd 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.

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The hazel saplings lent their aid;
And thus an airy point he won,
Where, gleaming with the setting sun,
One burnish'd sheet of living gold,
Loch Katrine lay beneath him roll'd,
In all her length far winding lay,
With promontory, creek, and bay,
And islands that, empurpled bright,
Floated amid the liveler light,
And mountains, that like giants stand,

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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 bewilder'd 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,

1 Benvenue is literally the little mountain--i.e., as contrasted with Benledi and Benlomond.

2 According to Graham, Ben-an, or Bennan, is a mere diminutive of Ben-Mountain.

Were but to-morrow's merriment:
But hosts may in these wilds abound,
Such as are better miss'd 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 lave,
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 conceal'd amid the brake,
To view this Lady of the Lake.
The maiden paused as if again
She thought to catch that distant strain.
With head up-raised, 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 seem'd to stand,
The guardian Naiad of the strand.

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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!

ΧΙΧ.

A Chieftain's daughter seem'd the maid;

Her satin snood, her silken plaid,
Her golden brooch, such birth betray'd.
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 confess'd
The guileless movements of her breast;
Whether joy danced in her dark eye,
Or woe or pity claim'd a sigh,
Or filial love was glowing there,

The

Or meek devotion pour'd a prayer,
Or tale of injury call'd forth
indignant spirit of the North.
indignant
One only passion unreveal'd,
With maiden pride the maid conceal'd,
Yet not less purely felt the flame;-
O need I tell that passion's name!

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And when a space was gain'd 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 flutter'd and amazed,
She paused, and on the stranger gazed.
Not his the form, nor his the eye,
That youthful maidens wont to fly.

ΧΧΙ.

On his bold visage middle age
Had slightly press'd its signet sage,
Yet had not quench'd 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 mould,
For hardy sports or contest bold;
And thoug though in peaceful garb array'd,
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 trode the

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I ne'er before, believe me, fair,
Have ever drawn your mountain air,
Till on this lake's romantic strand,
I found a fay in fairy land!”—

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 grey-hair'd sire, whose eye intent
Was on the vision'd future bent.

He saw your steed, a dappled grey,
Lie dead beneath the birchen way;
Painted exact your form and mien,
Your hunting suit of Lincoln green,
That tassell'd horn so gaily 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."

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To furnish forth your evening cheer." "Now, by the rood, my lovely maid, Your courtesy has err'd," he said: "No right have I to claim, misplaced, The welcome of expected guest.

A wanderer, here by fortune tost,

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 dark'ning mirror of the lake, Until the rocky isle they reach,

My way, my friends, my courser lost, | And moor their shallop on the beach.

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"My hope, my heaven, my trust must be,

My gentle guide, in following thee"

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."

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Or Ellen, innocently gay,
Turn'd all inquiry light away:--

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"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, Armour'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 day-break 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."

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