Canto II

The Island

Smiled she to see the stately drake
Lead forth his fleet upon the lake,
While her vex'd spaniel, from the beach,
Bay'd at the prize beyond his reach?
Yet tell me, then, the maid who knows,
Why deepen'd on her cheek the rose?-
Forgive, forgive, Fidelity!

Perchance the maiden smiled to see
Yon parting lingerer wave adieu,
And stop and turn to wave anew;
And, lovely ladies, ere your ire
Condemn the heroine of my lyre,
Show me the fair would scorn to spy,
And prize such conquest of her eye!

VI

While yet he loiter'd on the spot,
It seem'd as Ellen mark'd him not;
But when he turn'd him to the glade,
One courteous parting sign she made;
And after, oft the knight would say,
That not when prize of festal day
Was dealt him by the brightest fair,
Who e'er wore jewel in her hair,
So highly did his bosom swell,
As at that simple mute farewell.
Now with a trusty mountain-guide,
And his dark stag-hounds by his side,
He parts the maid, unconscious still,
Watch'd him wind slowly round the hill;

But when his stately form was hid,
The guardian in her bosom chid-

"Thy Malcolm! vain and selfish maid':
'Twas thus upbraiding conscience said,-
'Not so had Malcolm idly hung

On the smooth phrase of southern tongue;
Not so had Malcolm strain'd his eye,
Another step than thine to spy.
Wake, Allan-bane,' aloud she cried,
To the old Minstrel by her side,-
'Arouse thee from thy moody dream!
I'll give thy harp heroic theme,
And warm thee with a noble name;
Pour forth the glory of the Græme!'
Scarce from her lip the word had rush'd,
When deep the conscious maiden blush'd;
For of his clan, in hall and bower,

Young Malcolm Græme was held the flower.

VII

The Minstrel waked his harp-three times
Arose the well-known martial chimes,

And thrice their high heroic pride

In melancholy murmurs died.

'Vainly thou bid'st, O noble maid,'

Clasping his wither'd hands, he said,

'Vainly thou bid'st me wake the strain,

Though all unwont to bid in vain.

Alas! than mine a mightier hand

Has tuned my harp, my strings has spann'd;
I touch the chords of joy, but low

C

Canto II

The Island

Canto II

The Island

And mournful answer notes of woe;

And the proud march, which victors tread,
Sinks in the wailing for the dead.

O well for me, if mine alone

That dirge's deep prophetic tone!
If, as my tuneful fathers said,

This harp, which erst Saint Modan sway'd,
Can thus its master's fate foretell,
Then welcome be the minstrel's knell!

VIII

'But ah! dear lady, thus it sigh'd

The eve thy sainted mother died:

And such the sounds which, while I strove

To wake a lay of war or love,

Came marring all the festal mirth,

Appalling me who gave them birth,

And disobedient to my call,

Wail'd loud through Bothwell's banner'd hall,

Ere Douglasses, to ruin driven,

Were exiled from their native heaven.

Oh! if yet worse mishap and woe
My master's house must undergo,
Or aught but weal to Ellen fair
Brood in these accents of despair,
No future bard, sad Harp! shall fling
Triumph or rapture from thy string;
One short, one final strain shall flow,
Fraught with unutterable woe,
Then shiver'd shall thy fragments lie,
Thy master cast him down and die!'