Or Ellen, innocently gay,
Turned 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
Filled up the symphony between.

XXXI.

Song.

615

620

Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,

Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking; 625

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,

630

Every sense in slumber dewing.
Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,
Dream of fighting fields no more;
Sleep the sleep that knows nou breaking,
Morn of toil, nor night of waking.

635

"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."

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.

640

645

650

655

660

Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done;
Think not of the rising sun,
For at dawning to assail ye
Here no bugles sound reveillé."

665

XXXIII.

The hall was cleared, - the stranger's bed,
Was there of mountain heather spread,
Where oft a hundred guests had lain,
And dreamed their forest sports again.
But vainly did the heath-flower shed
Its moorland fragrance round his head;
Not Ellen's spell had lulled to rest
The fever of his troubled breast.
In broken dreams the image rose
Of varied perils, pains, and woes:
His steed now flounders in the brake,
Now sinks his barge upon the lake;
Now leader of a broken host,

His standard falls, his honor's lost.

670

675

Then, - from my couch may heavenly might 680 Chase that worst phantom of the night!

Again returned the scenes of youth,

Of confident, undoubting truth;

Again his soul he interchanged

With friends whose hearts were long estranged. 685

They come, in dim procession led,

The cold, the faithless, and the dead;

As warm each hand, each brow as gay,
As if they parted yesterday.

And doubt distracts him at the view, --
O were his senses false or true?
Dreamed he of death or broken vow,

690

Or is it all a vision now?

XXXIV.

At length, with Ellen in a grove
He seemed to walk and speak of love;

695

She listened with a blush and sigh,
His suit was warm, his hopes were high.

He sought her yielded hand to clasp,
And a cold gauntlet met his grasp:

'Mid those the stranger fixed his eye
Where that huge falchion hung on high,
And thoughts on thoughts, a countless throng,
Rushed, chasing countless thoughts along,
Until, the giddy whirl to cure,

715

He rose and sought the moonshine pure.

699. Gauntlet. A glove protected on the back with metal, and formerly used in battle. - 704. Grisly visage. Frightful face.

xxxv.

The wild rose, eglantine, and broom
Wasted around their rich perfume;
The birch-trees wept in fragrant balm;
The aspens slept beneath the calm;
The silver light, with quivering glance,
Played on the water's still expanse,
Wild were the heart whose passion's sway

720

Could rage beneath the sober ray!
He felt its calm, that warrior guest,
While thus he communed with his breast:

725

"Why is it, at each turn I trace
Some memory of that exiled race?
Can I not mountain maiden spy,
But she must bear the Douglas eye?
Can I not view a Highland brand,
But it must match the Douglas hand?
Can I not frame a fevered dream,
But still the Douglas is the theme?
I'll dream no more, - by manly mind
Not even in sleep is will resigned.
My midnight orisons said o'er,
I'll turn to rest, and dream no more."

730

735

740

His midnight orisons he told,
A prayer with every bead of gold,
Consigned to heaven his cares and woes,
And sunk in undisturbed repose,
Until the heath-cock shrilly crew,

And morning dawned on Benvenue.

745