Scott's Lady of the Lake. Walter Scott

      As died the sounds upon the tide,

      The shallop reach’d the mainland side,

      And ere his onward way he took,

      The stranger cast a lingering look,

      Where easily his eye might reach

      The Harper on the islet beach,

      Reclined against a blighted tree,

      As wasted, gray, and worn as he.

      To minstrel meditation given,

      His reverend brow was raised to heaven,

      As from the rising sun to claim

      A sparkle of inspiring flame.

      His hand, reclined upon the wire,

      Seem’d watching the awakening fire;

      So still he sate, as those who wait

      Till judgment speak the doom of fate;

      So still, as if no breeze might dare

      To lift one lock of hoary hair;

      So still, as life itself were fled,

      In the last sound his harp had sped.

      Upon a rock with lichens wild,

      Beside him Ellen sate and smiled. —

      Smiled she to see the stately drake

      Lead forth his fleet90 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!

      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 staghounds 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!”91

      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.

      The Minstrel waked his harp – three times

      Arose the well-known martial chimes,