So still he sate, as those who wait

Till judgment speak the doom of fate;

So still, as if no breeze might darə

To lift one lock of hoary hair;

So still, as life itself were fled,

In the last sound his harp had sped.

V.

Upon a rock with lichens wild,

Beside him Ellen sate and smiled.

Smiled she to see the stately drake

Lead forth his fleet upon the lake,
While her vex'd spaniel, from the beach,
Bay'd at the prize beyond his reach ?

Yet tell me then the maid who knows,

Why deepen'd on her cheek the rose?—

Forgive, forgive, Fidelity!

Perchance the maiden smiled to see

Yon parting lingerer wave adieu,

And stop and turn to wave anew;

And, lovely ladies, ere your ire

Condemn the heroine of my lyre,

Shew me the fair would scorn to

spy,

And prize such conquest of her eye!

VI.

While yet he loiter'd on the spot,
It seem'd as Ellen mark'd him not;
But when he turn'd him to the glade,
One courteous parting sign she made;
And after, oft the knight would say,
That not when prize of festal day
Was dealt him by the brightest fair,
Who e'er wore jewel in her hair,
So highly did his bosom swell,

As at that simple mute farewell.
Now with a trusty mountain-guide,
And his dark stag-hounds by his side,
He parts the maid, unconscious still,
Watch'd him wind slowly round the hill;

But when his stately form was hid,

The guardian in her bosom chid

"Thy Malcolm! vain and selfish maid !"
"Twas thus upbraiding conscience said,
"Not so had Malcolm idly hung

On the smooth phrase of southern tongue;
Not so had Malcolm strain'd his eye,

Another step than thine to spy.

Wake, Allan-bane," aloud she cried,

To the old Minstrel by her side,

"Arouse thee from thy moody dream!

I'll give thy harp heroic theme,

And warm thee with a noble name;

Pour forth the glory of the Græme.”—

Scarce from her lip the word had rush'd,
When deep the conscious maiden blush'd;
For of his clan, in hall and bower,

Young Malcolm Græme was held the flower.

VII.

The Minstrel waked his harp-three times

Arose the well-known martial chimes,

And thrice their high heroic pride
In melancholy murmurs died.

-"Vainly thou bid'st, O noble maid,”

Clasping his wither'd hands, he said,

66

Vainly thou bid'st me wake the strain,

Though all unwont to bid in vain.

Alas! than mine a mightier hand

Has tuned my harp, my strings has spann'd !.

I touch the chords of joy, but low

And mournful answer notes of woe;

And the proud march which victors tread,

Sinks in the wailing for the dead.—

O well for me, if mine alone

That dirge's deep prophetic tone!

If, as my tuneful fathers said,

This harp, which erst Saint Modan sway'd,

Can thus its master's fate foretel,

Then welcome be the Minstrel's knell !

VIII.

"But ah! dear lady, thus it sigh'd

The eve thy sainted mother died;

And such the sounds which, while I strove

To wake a lay of war or love,

Came marring all the festal mirth,

Appalling me who gave them birth,

And, disobedient to my call,

Wail'd loud through Bothwell's banner'd hall,

Ere Douglasses, to ruin driven,

Were exiled from their native heaven.

Oh! if yet worse mishap and woe

My master's house must undergo,

Or aught but weal to Ellen fair

Brood in these accents of despair,

No future bard, sad Harp! shall fling

Triumph or rapture from thy string;

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