Dream'd he of death, or broken vow,
Or is it all a vision now?
At length, with Ellen in a grove
He seem'd to walk, and speak of love; She listen'd with a blush and sigh, His suit was warm, his hopes were high. He sought her yielded hand to clasp, And a cold gauntlet 1 met his grasp: The phantom's sex was changed and gone, Upon its head a helmet shone;
Slowly enlarged to giant size,
With darken'd cheek and threatening eyes, The grisly visage, stern and hoar,
To Ellen still a likeness bore.— He woke, and, panting with affright, Recall'd the vision of the night. The hearth's decaying brands were red, And deep and dusky luster shed, Half showing, half concealing, all
The uncouth trophies of the hall. 'Mid those the stranger fix'd his eye Where that huge falchion hung on high, And thoughts on thoughts, a countless throng, Rush'd, chasing countless thoughts along, Until, the giddy whirl to cure,
He rose, and sought the moonshine pure.
The wild rose, eglantine, and broom Wasted around their rich perfume:
The birch trees wept in fragrant balm,
1 A mailed glove used by warriors in the middle ages to protect their hands from wounds.
The aspens slept beneath the calm; The silver light, with quivering glance, Play'd on the water's still expanse, Wild were the heart whose passion's sway Could rage beneath the sober ray!
He felt its calm, that warrior guest, While thus he communed with his breast: "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 fever'd dream, But still the Douglas is the theme? I'll dream no more - by manly mind
Not even in sleep is will resign'd.
My midnight orisons said o'er,
I'll turn to rest, and dream no more." His midnight orisons he told,1
A prayer with every bead of gold,
Consign'd to Heaven his cares and woes, And sunk in undisturb'd repose;
Until the heath cock shrilly crew,
And morning dawn'd on Benvenue.
T morn the blackcock trims his jetty wing, 'Tis morning prompts the linnet's 1 blithest lay, All Nature's children feel the matin 2 spring
Of life reviving, with reviving day;
And while yon little bark glides down the bay, Wafting the stranger on his way again, Morn's genial influence roused a minstrel gray, And sweetly o'er the lake was heard thy strain, Mix'd with the sounding harp, O white-hair'd Allan-Bane ! 3
"Not faster yonder rowers' might
Flings from their oars the spray,
Not faster yonder rippling bright, That tracks the shallop's course in light, Melts in the lake away,
Than men from memory erase
The benefits of former days;
Then, stranger, go! good speed the while,
Nor think again of the lonely isle.
1 A small European song bird.
2 (Măť'in.) Pertaining to the morning.
3 Highland chieftains often retained in their service a bard or minstrel, who was well versed not only in the genealogy and achievements of the particular clan or family to which he was attached, but in the more general history of Scotland as well.
"High place to thee in royal court,
High place in battled line,
Good hawk and hound for silvan sport, Where beauty sees the brave resort, The honor'd meed 2 be thine! True be thy sword, thy friend sincere, Thy lady constant, kind, and dear, And lost in love's and friendship's smile Be memory of the lonely isle.
"But if beneath yon southern sky A plaided stranger roam, Whose drooping crest and stifled sigh, And sunken cheek and heavy eye, Pine for his Highland home; Then, warrior, then be thine to show The care that soothes a wanderer's woe; Remember then thy hap erewhile,
A stranger in the lonely isle.
"Or if on life's uncertain main Mishap shall mar thy sail;
If faithful, wise, and brave in vain, Woe, want, and exile thou sustain
Beneath the fickle gale;
Waste not a sigh on fortune changed, On thankless courts, or friends estranged, But come where kindred worth shall smile, To greet thee in the lonely isle."
1 Ranged in order of battle.
As died the sounds upon the tide,
The shallop reach'd the mainland side, And ere his onward way he took, The stranger cast a lingering look, Where easily his eye might reach The Harper on the islet beach, Reclined against a blighted tree,
As wasted, gray, and worn as he. To minstrel meditation given,
His reverend brow was raised to heaven, As from the rising sun to claim A sparkle of inspiring flame. His hand, reclined upon the wire, Seem'd watching the awakening fire; So still he sate, as those who wait Till judgment speak the doom of fate; So still, as if no breeze might dare To lift one lock of hoary hair; So still, as life itself were fled, In the last sound his harp had sped.
Upon a rock with lichens wild,
Beside him Ellen sate and smiled. - Smiled she to see the stately drake
Lead forth his fleet 1 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
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