With such a look as hermits throw

When angels stoop to sooth their woe,

He gazed, till fond regret and pride
Thrill'd to a tear, then thus replied:
"Loveliest and best! thou little know'st

The rank, the honours thou hast lost!
O might I live to see thee grace,

In Scotland's court, thy birth-right place,
To see my favourite's step advance,

The lightest in the courtly dance,

The cause of every gallant's sigh,

And leading star of every eye,

And theme of every minstrel's art,

The Lady of the Bleeding Heart !"*—

XI.

"Fair dreams are these," the maiden cried,

(Light was her accent, yet she sigh'd,)

66

Yet is this mossy

rock to me

Worth splendid chair and canopy;

The well-known cognizance of the Douglas family.

Nor would my footstep spring more gay

In courtly dance than blithe strathspey,
Nor half so pleased mine ear incline

To royal minstrel's lay as thine;
And then for suitors proud and high,
To bend before my conquering eye,
Thou, flattering bard! thyself wilt say,
That grim Sir Roderick owns its sway.
The Saxon scourge, Clan-Alpine's pride
The terror of Loch-Lomond's side,
Would, at my suit, thou know'st, delay
A Lennox foray-for a day."-

XII.

The ancient bard his glee repress'd :

"Ill hast thou chosen theme for jest!

For who, through all this western wild, Named Black Sir Roderick e'er, and smiled!

In Holy-Rood a knight he slew;

I saw, when back the dirk he drew,

Courtiers give place before the stride
Of the undaunted homicide;

And since, though outlaw'd, hath his hand Full sternly kept his mountain land.

Who else dared give,-ah! woe the day,

That I such hated truth should say

The Douglas, like a stricken deer,
Disown'd by every noble peer,

Even the rude refuge we have here?
Alas, this wild marauding chief

Alone might hazard our relief,

And now thy maiden charms expand,
Looks for his guerdon in thy hand;
Full soon may dispensation sought,
To back his suit, from Rome be brought.
Then, though an exile on the hill,
Thy father, as the Douglas, still

Be held in reverence and fear;

And though to Roderick thou'rt so dear,

That thou might'st guide with silken thread,

Slave of thy will, this chieftain dread,

Yet, O loved maid, thy mirth refrain!

Thy hand is on a lion's mane.

XIII.

"Minstrel,” the maid replied, and high

Her father's soul glanced from her eye,
"My debts to Roderick's house I know:
All that a mother could bestow,
To Lady Margaret's care I owe,
Since first an orphan in the wild
She sorrow'd o'er her sister's child;
To her brave chieftain son, from ire

Of Scotland's king who shrouds my sire,
A deeper, holier debt is owed;

And, could I pay it with my blood, Allan! Sir Roderick should command

My blood, my life, but not my hand. Rather will Ellen Douglas dwell

A votaress in Maronnan's cell;

Rather through realms beyond the sea, Seeking the world's cold charity,

Where ne'er was spoke a Scottish word,

And ne'er the name of Douglas heard,

An outcast pilgrim will she rove,

Than wed the man she cannot love.

XIV.

"Thou shakest, good friend, thy tresses gray

That pleading look, what can it say
But what I own ?—I grant him brave,
But wild as Bracklinn's thundering wave;
And generous-save vindictive mood,
Or jealous transport, chafe his blood:
I grant him true to friendly band,
As his claymore is to his hand;
But O! that very blade of steel
More mercy for a foe would feel:
I grant him liberal, to fling

Among his clan the wealth they bring,
When back by lake and glen they wind,
And in the Lowland leave behind,

Where once some pleasant hamlet stood,

A mass of ashes slaked with blood.