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 faulchion has been tried." XVII. But scarce again his horn he wound, When lo! forth starting at the sound, From underneath an aged oak, A Damsel guider of its way, A little skiff shot to the bay, The weeping willow twig to lave, And kiss, with whispering sound and slow, The beach of pebbles bright as snow. The boat had touch'd this silver strand, Just as the Hunter left his stand, And stood conceal'd amid the brake, To view this Lady of the Lake. With head up-raised, and look intent, And locks flung back, and lips apart, In listening mood, she seem'd to stand XVIII. 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 brown,The sportive toil, which, short and light, Had dyed her glowing hue so bright, Served too in hastier swell to show Short glimpses of a breast of snow : To measured mood had train'd her pace, A foot more light, a step more true, Ne'er from the heath-flower dash'd the dew; E'en the slight hare-bell raised its head, What though upon her speech there hung The accents of the mountain tongue, Those silver sounds, so soft, so dear, The list'ner held his breath to hear. XIX. 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 fold combined Her kindness and her worth to spy, 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, XX. 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 name Less resolutely utter'd fell, The echoes could not catch the swell. "A stranger I," the Huntsman said, Advancing from the hazel shade. The maid, alarm'd, with hasty oar |