"Now, by the rood, my lovely maid,

Your courtesy has err'd," he said;
"No right have I to claim, misplaced,
The welcome of expected guest.

A wanderer, here by fortune tost,
My way, my friends, my courser lost,
I ne'er before, believe me, fair,

Have ever drawn your mountain air,
Till on this lake's romantic strand,

I found a fay in Fairy Land.”

XXIII.

"I well believe," the maid replied,

As her light skiff approach'd the side,—

"I well believe, that ne'er before

Your foot has trod Loch-Katrine's shore;

But yet, as far as yesternight,

Old Allan-bane foretold your plight,-
A grey-hair'd sire, whose eye intent

Was on the vision'd future bent.

He saw your steed, a dappled grey,
Lie dead beneath the birchen way;

Painted exact your form and mien,

Your hunting suit of Lincoln green,
That tassel'd horn so gaily gilt,

That faulchion's crooked blade and hilt,

That cap with heron plumage trim,

And yon two hounds so dark and grim.

He bade that all should ready be,

To grace a guest of fair degree;

But light I held his prophecy,

And deem'd it was my father's horn,

Whose echoes o'er the lake were borne."

XXIV.

The Stranger smiled :-" Since to your home

A destined errant knight I come,

Announced by prophet sooth and old,

Doom'd, doubtless, for achievement bold,

I'll lightly front each high emprize,

For one kind glance of those bright eyes.

Permit me, first, the task to guide

Your fairy frigate o'er the tide."—.

The maid, with smile suppress'd and sly,

The toil unwonted saw him try;

For seldom, sure, if e'er before,

His noble hand had grasp'd an oar:

Yet with main strength his strokes he drew,
And o'er the lake the shallop flew ;

With heads erect, and whimpering cry,
The hounds behind their passage ply.
Nor frequent does the bright oar break

The darkening mirror of the lake,

Until the rocky isle they reach,

And moor their shallop on the beach.

XXV.

The Stranger view'd the shore around; "Twas all so close with copse-wood bound,

Nor track nor path-way might declare

That human foot frequented there,

Until the mountain-maiden show'd

A clambering unsuspected road,

That winded through the tangled screen,
And open'd on a narrow green,

Where weeping birch and willow round
With their long fibres swept the ground.

Here, for retreat in dangerous hour,

Some chief had framed a rustic bower.

XXVI.

It was a lodge of ample size,

But strange of structure and device;

Of such materials, as around

The workman's hand had readiest found.

Lopp'd of their boughs, their hoar trunks bared,

And by the hatchet rudely squared,

To give the walls their destined height,

The sturdy oak and ash unite;

While moss and clay and leaves combined

To fence each crevice from the wind.

The lighter pine-trees, over-head,

Their slender length for rafters spread,

And wither'd heath and rushes dry

Supplied a russet canopy.

Due westward, fronting to the green,

A rural portico was seen,

Aloft on native pillars borne,

Of mountain fir with bark unshorn,

Where Ellen's hand had taught to twine

The ivy and Idæan vine,

The clematis, the favour'd flower

Which boasts the name of virgin-bower,

And every hardy plant could bear
Loch-Katrine's keen and searching air.
An instant in this porch she staid,
And gaily to the Stranger said,
"On heaven and on thy lady call,
And enter the enchanted hall!"—