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"And art thou cold and lowly laid,
Thy foeman's dread, thy people's aid,
Breadalbane's boast, Clan-Alpine's shade!
For thee, shall none a requiem say?
For thee who loved the minstrel's lay,
For thee, of Bothwell's house the stay,
The shelter of her exiled line,
E'en in this prison-house of thine,
I'll wail for Alpine's honored Pine!

"What groans shall yonder valleys fill!
What shrieks of grief shall rend yon hill!
What tears of burning rage shall thrill,
When mourns thy tribe thy battles done,
Thy fall before the race was won,
Thy sword ungirt ere set of sun!

There breathes not clansman of thy line,
But would have given his life for thine,
O, woe for Alpine's honored Pine!

"Sad was thy lot on mortal stage!

The captive thrush may brook the cage,
The prisoned eagle dies for rage.
Brave spirit, do not scorn my strain!
And, when its notes awake again,
Even she, so long beloved in vain,
Shall with my harp her voice combine,
And mix her woe and tears with mine,
To wail Clan-Alpine's honored Pine."


Ellen the while, with bursting heart,
Remained in lordly bower apart,







Where played, with many-colored gleams,
Through storied pane the rising beams.
In vain on gilded roof they fall,
And lightened up a tapestried wall,
And for her use a menial train
A rich collation spread in vain.
The banquet proud, the chamber gay,
Scarce drew one curious glance astray;
Or if she looked, 'twas but to say,
With better omen dawned the day
In that lone isle, where waved on high
The dun-deer's hide for canopy ;
Where oft her noble father shared
The simple meal her care prepared,
While Lufra, crouching by her side,
Her station claimed with jealous pride,
And Douglas, bent on woodland game,
Spoke of the chase to Malcolm Græme,
Whose answer, oft at random made,
The wandering of his thoughts betrayed.
Those who such simple joys have known.
Are taught to prize them when they're gone.
But sudden, see, she lifts her head,
The window seeks with cautious tread.

What distant music has the


To win her in this woful hour?

'Twas from a turret that o'erhung

Her latticed bower, the strain was sung



"My hawk is tired of perch and hood,
My idle greyhound loathes his food,
My horse is weary of his stall,
And I am sick of captive thrall.








I wish I were as I have been,

Hunting the hart in forest green,
With bended bow and bloodhound free,
For that's the life is meet for me.

"I hate to learn the ebb of time
From yon dull steeple's drowsy chime,
Or mark it as the sunbeams crawl,

Inch after inch, along the wall.

The lark was wont my matins ring,



The sable rook my vespers sing;

These towers, although a king's they be,
Have not a hall of joy for me.


"No more at dawning morn I rise,

And sun myself in Ellen's eyes,

Drive the fleet deer the forest through,
And homeward wend with evening dew ;
A blithesome welcome blithely meet,
And lay my trophies at her feet,
While fled the eve on wing of glee,
That life is lost to love and me!"


The heart-sick lay was hardly said,
The listener had not turned her head,
It trickled still, the starting tear,

When light a footstep struck her ear,

And Snowdoun's graceful Knight was near.
She turned the hastier, lest again

The prisoner should renew his strain.

“O welcome, brave Fitz-James!" she said; “How may an almost orphan maid

Pay the deep debt — ”

“O say not so!

To me no gratitude you owe.




Not mine, alas! the boon to give,
And bid thy noble father live;

I can but be thy guide, sweet maid,
With Scotland's King thy suit to aid.
No tyrant he, though ire and pride
May lay his better mood aside.

Come, Ellen, come! 'tis more than time,
He holds his court at morning prime."
With beating heart, and bosom wrung,
As to a brother's arm she clung.
Gently he dried the falling tear,
And gently whispered hope and cheer;
Her faltering steps half led, half stayed,
Through gallery fair and high arcade,
Till at his touch its wings of pride
A portal arch unfolded wide.


Within 'twas brilliant all and light,
A thronging scene of figures bright;
It glowed on Ellen's dazzled sight,
As when the setting sun has given
Ten thousand hues to summer even,
And from their tissue fancy frames
Aerial knights and fairy dames.
Still by Fitz-James her footing staid,
A few faint steps she forward made,
Then slow her drooping head she raised,
And fearful round the presence gazed;
For him she sought who owned this state,
The dreaded Prince whose will was fate!
She gazed on many a princely port
Might well have ruled a royal court;
On many a splendid garb she gazed,
Then turned bewildered and amazed,

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For all stood bare; and in the room
Fitz-James alone wore cap and plume.
To him each lady's look was lent,
On him each courtier's eye was bent;
Midst furs and silks and jewels sheen,
He stood, in simple Lincoln green,
The centre of the glittering ring,-

And Snowdoun's Knight is Scotland's King!


As wreath of snow on mountain-breast
Slides from the rock that gave it rest,



Poor Ellen glided from her stay,

And at the Monarch's feet she lay ;

No word her choking voice commands,


She showed the ring, she clasped her hands.
O, not a moment could he brook,

The generous Prince, that suppliant look!
Gently he raised her, and, the while,
Checked with a glance the circle's smile;
Graceful, but grave, her brow he kissed,
And bade her terrors be dismissed:

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"Yes, fair; the wandering poor Fitz-James The fealty of Scotland claims.


To him thy woes, thy wishes, bring;
He will redeem his signet ring.


Ask naught for Douglas ;-yester even,
His Prince and he have much forgiven;

Wrong hath he had from slanderous tongue,
I, from his rebel kinsmen, wrong.
We would not, to the vulgar crowd,
Yield what they craved with clamor loud;
Calmly we heard and judged his cause,
Our council aided and our laws.

I stanched thy father's death-feud stern
With stout De Vaux and gray Glencairn ;



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