Scott's Lady of the Lake. Walter Scott

      The wondering stranger round him gazed,

      And next the fallen weapon raised: —

      Few were the arms whose sinewy strength

      Sufficed to stretch it forth at length:

      And as the brand he poised and sway’d,

      “I never knew but one,” he said,

      “Whose stalwart arm might brook68 to wield

      A blade like this in battlefield.”

      She sighed, then smiled and took the word:

      “You see the guardian champion’s sword;

      As light it trembles in his hand,

      As in my grasp a hazel wand;

      My sire’s tall form might grace the part

      Of Ferragus, or Ascabart;69

      But in the absent giant’s hold

      Are women now, and menials old.”

      The mistress of the mansion came,

      Mature of age, a graceful dame;

      Whose easy step and stately port

      Had well become a princely court;

      To whom, though more than kindred knew,70

      Young Ellen gave a mother’s due.

      Meet welcome to her guest she made,

      And every courteous rite was paid

      That hospitality could claim,

      Though all unask’d his birth and name.

      Such then the reverence to a guest,

      That fellest71 foe might join the feast,

      And from his deadliest foeman’s door

      Unquestion’d turn, the banquet o’er.

      At length his rank the stranger names,

      “The Knight of Snowdoun,72 James Fitz-James;73

      Lord of a barren heritage,74

      Which his brave sires, from age to age,

      By their good swords had held with toil;

      His sire had fall’n in such turmoil,

      And he, God wot,75 was forced to stand

      Oft for his right with blade in hand.

      This morning with Lord Moray’s76 train

      He chased a stalwart stag in vain,

      Outstripp’d his comrades, miss’d the deer,

      Lost his good steed, and wander’d here.”

      Fain would the Knight in turn require

      The name and state of Ellen’s sire.

      Well show’d the elder lady’s mien

      That courts and cities she had seen;

      Ellen, though more her looks display’d

      The simple grace of silvan maid,

      In speech and gesture, form and face,

      Show’d she was come of gentle race.

      ’Twere strange in ruder rank to find

      Such looks, such manners, and such mind.

      Each hint the Knight of Snowdoun gave,

      Dame Margaret heard with silence grave;

      Or Ellen, innocently gay,

      Turn’d all inquiry light away: —

      “Weird women we! by dale and down77

      We dwell, afar from tower and town.

      We stem the flood, we ride the blast,

      On wandering knights our spells we cast;

      While viewless minstrels touch the string,

      ’Tis thus our charmed rhymes we sing.”

      She sung, and still a harp unseen

      Fill’d up the symphony between.

      “Soldier, rest! thy warfare o’er,

      Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking:

      Dream of battled fields no more,

      Days of danger, nights of waking.

      In our isle’s enchanted hall,

      Hands unseen thy couch are strewing,

      Fairy strains of music fall,

      Every sense in slumber dewing.78

      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,

      Armor’s clang, or war steed champing,

      Trump nor pibroch79 summon here

      Mustering clan, or squadron tramping.

      Yet the lark’s shrill fife may come

      At the daybreak from the fallow,80

      And the bittern81 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.”

      She paused – then, blushing, led the lay

      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.

      “Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done;

      While our slumbrous spells assail ye,

      Dream not, with the rising sun,

      Bugles here shall sound reveille.82

      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