His darling Ellen closely pressed, Such holy drops her tresses steeped, Though 'twas an hero's eye that weeped. Nor while on Ellen's faltering tongue Her filial welcomes crowded hung, Marked she that fear-affection's proof- Still held a graceful youth aloof; No! not till Douglas named his name, Although the youth was Malcolm Græme.
Allan, with wistful look the while, Marked Roderick landing on the isle; His master piteously he eyed,
Then gazed upon the Chieftain's pride, Then dashed with hasty hand away
From his dimmed eye the gathering spray; And Douglas, as his hand he laid On Malcolm's shoulder, kindly said: "Canst thou, young friend, no meaning spy In my poor follower's glistening eye? I'll tell thee: he recalls the day When in my praise he led the lay O'er the arched gate of Bothwell proud, While many a minstrel answered loud, When Percy's Norman pennon, won In bloody field, before me shone, And twice ten knights, the least a name As mighty as yon Chief may claim, Gracing my pomp, behind me came. Yet trust me, Malcolm, not so proud Was I of all that marshalled crowd,
Though the waned crescent owned my might, And in my train trooped lord and knight, Though Blantyre hymned her holiest lays,
And Bothwell's bards flung back my praise, As when this old man's silent tear, And this poor maid's affection dear, A welcome give more kind and true Than aught my better fortunes knew. Forgive, my friend, a father's boast,- O, it out-beggars all I lost!"
Delightful praise! - like summer rose, That brighter in the dewdrop glows, The bashful maiden's cheek appeared, For Douglas spoke, and Malcolm heard. The flush of shame-faced joy to hide, The hounds, the hawk, her cares divide; The loved caresses of the maid
The dogs with crouch and whimper paid; And, at her whistle, on her hand The falcon took his favorite stand, Closed his dark wing, relaxed his eye, Nor, though unhooded, sought to fly. And, trust, while in such guise she stood, Like fabled Goddess of the wood, That if a father's partial thought O'erweighed her worth and beauty aught, Well might the lover's judgment fail To balance with a juster scale; For with each secret glance he stole, The fond enthusiast sent his soul.
Of stature fair, and slender frame, But firmly knit, was Malcolm Græme. The belted plaid and tartan hose
Did ne'er more graceful limbs disclose;
His flaxen hair, of sunny hue,
Curled closely round his bonnet blue. Trained to the chase, his eagle eye The ptarmigan in snow could spy; Each pass, by mountain, lake, and heath, He knew, through Lennox and Menteith; Vain was the bound of dark-brown doe When Malcolm bent his sounding bow, And scarce that doe, though winged with fear, Outstripped in speed the mountaineer:
Right up Ben Lomond could he press, And not a sob his toil confess. His form accorded with a mind Lively and ardent, frank and kind; A blither heart, till Ellen came, Did never love nor sorrow tame; It danced as lightsome in his breast As played the feather on his crest.
Yet friends, who nearest knew the youth, His scorn of wrong, his zeal for truth, And bards, who saw his features bold When kindled by the tales of old,
Said, were that youth to manhood grown, Not long should Roderick Dhu's renown Be foremost voiced by mountain fame, But quail to that of Malcolm Græme.
Now back they wend their watery way, And, "O my sire!" did Ellen say, "Why urge thy chase so far astray And why so late returned? And why" The rest was in her speaking eye. "My child, the chase I follow far,
"Tis mimicry of noble war;
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