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In our isle's enchanted hall,

Hands unseen thy couch are strewing,

Fairy strains of music fall,

Every sense in slumber dewing.

Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,

Dream of fighting fields no more;

Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,
Morn of toil, nor night of waking.

"No rude sound shall reach thine ear,

Armour's clang, or war-steed champing, Trump nor pibroch summon here

Mustering clan, or squadron tramping. Yet the lark's shrill fife

may come

At the day-break from the fallow,
And the bittern sound his drum,

Booming from the sedgy shallow.
Ruder sounds shall none be near,
Guards nor warders challenge here,
Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing,
Shouting clans or squadrons stamping."-

XXXII.

She paused-then, blushing, led the lay

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To grace the Stranger of the day.
Her mellow notes awhile prolong

The cadence of the flowing song,

Till to her lips in measured frame

The minstrel verse spontaneous came.

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SONG CONTINUED.

"Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done, While our slumbrous spells assail ye, Dream not, with the rising sun,

Bugles here shall sound reveillie. Sleep! the deer is in his den;

Sleep! thy hounds are by thee lying;
Sleep! nor dream in yonder glen

How thy gallant steed lay dying.
Huntsman, rest; thy chase is done,
Think not of the rising sun,
For at dawning to assail ye,

Here no bugles sound reveillie."—

XXXIII.

The hall was cleared-the Stranger's bed
Was there of mountain heather spread,
Where oft an hundred guests had lain,
And dreamed their forest sports again.
But vainly did the heath-flower shed
Its moorland fragrance round his head;
Not Ellen's spell had lulled to rest
The fever of his troubled breast.
In broken dreams the image rose
Of varied perils, pains, and woes :
His steed now flounders in the brake,
Now sinks his barge upon the lake;

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Now leader of a broken host,

His standard falls, his honour's lost.

Then, from my couch may heavenly might 680

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Chase that worst phantom of the night!—

Again returned the scenes of youth,
Of confident undoubting truth;

Again his soul he interchanged

With friends whose hearts were long estranged. 685
They come, in dim procession led,

The cold, the faithless, and the dead;
As warm each hand, each brow as gay,
As if they parted yesterday.

And doubt distracts him at the view,-
O, were his senses false or true!
Dreamed he of death, or broken vow,
Or is it all a vision now!

XXXIV.

At length, with Ellen in a grove
He seemed to walk, and speak of love;
She listened with a blush and sigh,
His suit was warm, his hopes were high.
He sought her yielded hand to clasp,
And a cold gauntlet met his grasp:
The phantom's sex was changed and gone,
Upon its head a helmet shone e;

Slowly enlarged to giant size,

With darkened cheek and threatening eyes,

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The grisly visage, stern and hoar,
To Ellen still a likeness bore.-
He woke, and, panting with affright,
Recalled the vision of the night.

The hearth's decaying brands were red,
And deep and dusky lustre shed,

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Half showing, half concealing, all

The uncouth trophies of the hall.

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'Mid those the Stranger fixed his eye,

Where that huge falchion hung on high,
And thoughts on thoughts, a countless throng,
Rushed, chasing countless thoughts along,
Until, the giddy whirl to cure,

He rose, and sought the moonshine pure.

XXXV.

The wild rose, eglantine, and broom,
Wasted around their rich perfume;
The birch-trees wept in fragrant balm,
The aspens slept beneath the calm;
The silver light, with quivering glance,
Played 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:

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Why is it at each turn I trace

Some memory of that exiled race?

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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 fevered dream,
But still the Douglas is the theme ?--
I'll dream no more-by manly mind
Not even in sleep is will resigned.
My midnight orisons said o'er,

I'll turn to rest, and dream no more."-
His midnight orisons he told,

A prayer with every bead of gold,

Consigned to Heaven his cares and woes,

And sunk in undisturbed repose:

Until the heath-cock shrilly crew,

And morning dawned on Benvenue.

3 FE69

LONDON: PRINTED BY
SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE
AND PARLIAMENT STREET

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