Scott's Lady of the Lake. Walter Scott

      And ne’er did Grecian chisel trace

      A Nymph, a Naiad, or a Grace,46

      Of finer form, or lovelier face!

      What though the sun, with ardent frown,

      Had slightly tinged her cheek with brown, —

      The sportive toil, which, short and light,

      Had dyed her glowing hue so bright,

      Served too in hastier swell to show

      Short glimpses of a breast of snow:

      What though no rule of courtly grace

      To measured mood had train’d her pace, —

      A foot more light, a step more true,

      Ne’er from the heath flower dash’d the dew,

      E’en the slight harebell raised its head,

      Elastic from her airy tread:

      What though upon her speech there hung

      The accents of the mountain tongue, —

      Those silver sounds, so soft, so dear,

      The list’ner held his breath to hear!

      A chieftain’s daughter seem’d the maid;

      Her satin snood,47 her silken plaid,48

      Her golden brooch such birth betray’d.

      And seldom was a snood amid

      Such wild luxuriant ringlets hid,

      Whose glossy black to shame might bring

      The plumage of the raven’s wing;

      And seldom o’er a breast so fair

      Mantled a plaid with modest care,

      And never brooch the folds combined

      Above a heart more good and kind.

      Her kindness and her worth to spy,

      You need but gaze on Ellen’s eye;

      Not Katrine, in her mirror blue,

      Gives back the shaggy banks more true,

      Than every freeborn glance confess’d

      The guileless movements of her breast;

      Whether joy danced in her dark eye,

      Or woe or pity claim’d a sigh,

      Or filial love was glowing there,

      Or meek devotion pour’d a prayer,

      Or tale of injury call’d forth

      The indignant spirit of the North.

      One only passion unreveal’d,

      With maiden pride the maid conceal’d,

      Yet not less purely felt the flame; —

      Oh! need I tell that passion’s name?

      Impatient of the silent horn,

      Now on the gale her voice was borne: —

      “Father!” she cried; the rocks around

      Loved to prolong the gentle sound.

      A while she paused, no answer came, —

      “Malcolm, was thine the blast?” the name

      Less resolutely utter’d fell,

      The echoes could not catch the swell.

      “A stranger I,” the Huntsman said,

      Advancing from the hazel shade.

      The maid, alarm’d, with hasty oar,

      Push’d her light shallop49 from the shore,

      And when a space was gain’d between,

      Closer she drew her bosom’s screen;

      (So forth the startled swan would swing,

      So turn to prune50 his ruffled wing.)

      Then safe, though flutter’d and amazed,

      She paused, and on the stranger gazed.

      Not his the form, nor his the eye,

      That youthful maidens wont to fly.

      On his bold visage middle age

      Had slightly press’d its signet sage,51

      Yet had not quench’d the open truth

      And fiery vehemence of youth;

      Forward and frolic glee was there,

      The will to do, the soul to dare,

      The sparkling glance, soon blown to fire,

      Of hasty love, or headlong ire.

      His limbs were cast in manly mold,

      For hardy sports or contest bold;

      And though in peaceful garb array’d,

      And weaponless, except his blade,

      His stately mien as well implied

      A high-born heart, a martial pride,

      As if a baron’s crest he wore,

      And sheathed in armor trode the shore.

      Slighting the petty need52 he show’d,

      He told of his benighted road;

      His ready speech flow’d fair and free,

      In phrase of gentlest courtesy;

      Yet seem’d that tone, and gesture bland,

      Less used to sue than to command.

      A while the maid the stranger eyed,

      And, reassured, at length replied,

      That Highland halls were open still

      To wilder’d53 wanderers of the hill.

      “Nor think you unexpected come

      To yon lone isle, our desert home;

      Before the heath had lost the dew,

      This morn, a couch54 was pull’d for you;

      On yonder mountain’s purple head

      Have ptarmigan55 and heath cock bled,

      And our broad nets have swept the