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Cast anchor in the rifted rock;
And, higher yet, the pine-tree hung
His shatter'd trunk, and frequent flung,
Where seem'd the cliffs to meet on

His boughs athwart the narrow'd sky. Highest of all, where white peaks glanced,

Where glist'ning streamers waved and danced,

The wanderer's eye could barely view The summer heaven's delicious blue; So wondrous wild, the whole might


The scenery of a fairy dream.


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

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, seen'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.


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

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 livelier light,
And mountains, that like giants stand,

To sentinel enchanted land.
High on the south, huge Benvenue1
Down on the lake in masses threw
Crags, knolls and mounds, confusedly

The fragments of an earlier world;
A wildering forest feather'd o'er
His ruin'd sides and summit hoar,
While on the north, through middle

Ben-an heaved high his forehead bare.


From the steep promontory gazed
The stranger, raptured and amazed.
And "What a scene were here," he

"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

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.


"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 green wood 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."


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

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.


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

The sportive toil, which, short and light,

E'en the slight harebell raised its head,
Elastic from her airy tread:
What though upon her speech there

The accents of the mountain tongue,-
Those silver sounds, so soft, so dear,
The listener held his breath to hear!


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

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,
Or meek devotion pour'd a prayer,
Or tale of injury call'd forth
The indignant spirit of the North.
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!


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. A while she paused, no answer came."Malcolm, was thine the blast?" the


Less resolutely utter'd fell,

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"A stranger I," the Huntsman said,

To measured mood had train'd her

A foot more light, a step more true, Ne'er from the heath-flower dash'd the dew;

The echoes could not catch the swell.

Advaneing from the hazel shade.
The maid, alarmed, with hasty oar,
Pushed her light shallop from the

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.


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 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

Slighting the petty need he show'd,
He told of his benighted road;
His ready speech flowed fair and free,
In phrase of gentlest courtesy ;
Yet seem'd that tone, and gesture

Less used to sue than to command.


A while the maid the stranger eyed,
And reassured at length replied,
That Highland halls were open still
To wilder'l 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 pull'd for you;
On yonder mountain's purple head
Have ptarmigan and heath-cock bled,
And our broad nets have swept the


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, 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 fay in fairy land!"-



"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

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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Permit me, first, the task to guide
Your fairy frigate o'er the tide."
The maid, with smile suppress'd and

The toil unwonted saw him try;
For seldom sure, if e'er before,
His noble hand had grasp'd an oar:
Yet with main strength his strokes he

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,
And moor their shallop on the beach.

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And open'd 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.

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 off 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 com-

To fence each crevice from the wind.
The lighter pine-trees, over-head,
Their slender length for rafters spread,
And wither'd 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 Idæan vine,

The clematis, the favour'd flower Which boasts the name of virginbower,

And every hardy plant could bear Lock Katrine's keen and searching air.

An instant in this porch she staid,
And gaily to the stranger said,
"On heaven and on thy lady call,
And enter the enchanted hall!"


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

My gentle guide, in following thee"

He cross'd the threshold-and a clang
Of angry steel that instant rang.
To his bold brow his spirit rush'd,
But soon for vain alarm he blush'd,
When on the floor he saw display'd,
Cause of the din, a naked blade
Dropp'd from the sheath, that careless

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

With the tusk'd trophies of the boar.
Here grins the wolf as when he died,
And there the wild-cat's brindled

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

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 silvan hall.

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As light it trembles in his hand,
As in my grasp a hazel wand;
My sire's tall form might grace the

Of Ferragus or Ascabart;
But in the absent giant's hold
Are women now, and meuials old."

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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

Lord of a barren heritage,
Which his brave sires, from age to

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, Outstripp'd his comrades, miss'd the deer,

Lost his good steed, and wander'd here."

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Or Ellen, innocently gay,

Turn'd 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 Fill'd up the symphony between.



"Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,
Sleep the sleep that knows not

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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