The Lady of the Lake - Walter Scott - ebook

The Lady of the Lake is a narrative poem tremendously influential, and serving as inspiration for the Highland Revival. It is composed of six cantos, each of which concerns the action of a single day. The poem has three main plots: the contest among three men, Roderick Dhu, James Fitz-James, and Malcolm Graeme, to win the love of Ellen Douglas; the feud and reconciliation of King James V of Scotland and James Douglas; and a war between the lowland Scots (led by James V) and the highland clans (led by Roderick Dhu of Clan Alpine).

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Walter Scott

The Lady of the Lake

New Edition




New Edition

Published by Sovereign Classic

This Edition

First published in 2018

Copyright © 2019 Sovereign

All Rights Reserved.

ISBN: 9781787243972






When I first saw Mr. Osgood’s beautiful illustrated edition of The Lady of the Lake, I asked him to let me use some of the cuts in a cheaper annotated edition for school and household use; and the present volume is the result.

The text of the poem has given me unexpected trouble. When I edited some of Gray’s poems several years ago, I found that they had not been correctly printed for more than half a century; but in the case of Scott I supposed that the text of Black’s so-called “Author’s Edition” could be depended upon as accurate. Almost at the start, however, I detected sundry obvious misprints in one of the many forms in which this edition is issued, and an examination of others showed that they were as bad in their way. The “Shilling” issue was no worse than the costly illustrated one of 1853, which had its own assortment of slips of the type. No two editions that I could obtain agreed exactly in their readings. I tried in vain to find a copy of the editio princeps (1810) in Cambridge and Boston, but succeeded in getting one through a London bookseller. This I compared, line by line, with the Edinburgh edition of 1821 (from the Harvard Library), with Lockhart’s first edition, the “Globe” edition, and about a dozen others English and American. I found many misprints and corruptions in all except the edition of 1821, and a few even in that. For instance in i. 217 Scott wrote “Found in each cliff a narrow bower,” and it is so printed in the first edition; but in every other that I have seen “cliff” appears in place of clift,, to the manifest injury of the passage. In ii. 685, every edition that I have seen since that of 1821 has “I meant not all my heart might say,” which is worse than nonsense, the correct reading being “my heat.” In vi. 396, the Scottish “boune” (though it occurs twice in other parts of the poem) has been changed to “bound” in all editions since 1821; and, eight lines below, the old word “barded” has become “barbed.” Scores of similar corruptions are recorded in my Notes, and need not be cited here.

I have restored the reading of the first edition, except in cases where I have no doubt that the later reading is the poet’s own correction or alteration. There are obvious misprints in the first edition which Scott himself overlooked (see on ii. 115, 217,, Vi. 527, etc.), and it is sometimes difficult to decide whether a later reading—a change of a plural to a singular, or like trivial variation—is a misprint or the author’s correction of an earlier misprint. I have done the best I could, with the means at my command, to settle these questions, and am at least certain that the text as I give it is nearer right than in any edition since 1821 As all the variae lectiones are recorded in the Notes, the reader who does not approve of the one I adopt can substitute that which he prefers.

I have retained all Scott’s Notes (a few of them have been somewhat abridged) and all those added by Lockhart. 1 My own I have made as concise as possible. There are, of course, many of them which many of my readers will not need, but I think there are none that may not be of service, or at least of interest, to some of them; and I hope that no one will turn to them for help without finding it.

Scott is much given to the use of Elizabethan words and constructions, and I have quoted many “parallelisms” from Shakespeare and his contemporaries. I believe I have referred to my edition of Shakespeare in only a single instance (on iii. 17), but teachers and others who have that edition will find many additional illustrations in the Notes on the passages cited.

While correcting the errors of former editors, I may have overlooked some of my own. I am already indebted to the careful proofreaders of the University Press for the detection of occasional slips in quotations or references; and I shall be very grateful to my readers for a memorandum of any others that they may discover.

Cambridge, June 23, 1883..


The scene of the following Poem is laid chiefly in the vicinity of Loch Katrine, in the Western Highlands of Perthshire. The time of Action includes Six Days, and the transactions of each Day occupy a Canto.



The Chase.

Harp of the North! that mouldering long hast hung

On the witch-elm that shades Saint Fillan’s spring

And down the fitful breeze thy numbers flung,

Till envious ivy did around thee cling,

Muffling with verdant ringlet every string,—

O Minstrel Harp, still must thine accents sleep?

Mid rustling leaves and fountains murmuring,

Still must thy sweeter sounds their silence keep,

Nor bid a warrior smile, nor teach a maid to weep?

Not thus, in ancient days of Caledon, 10

Was thy voice mute amid the festal crowd,

When lay of hopeless love, or glory won,

Aroused the fearful or subdued the proud.

At each according pause was heard aloud

Thine ardent symphony sublime and high!

Fair dames and crested chiefs attention bowed;

For still the burden of thy minstrelsy

Was Knighthood’s dauntless deed, and Beauty’s matchless eye.

O, wake once more! how rude soe’er the hand

That ventures o’er thy magic maze to stray;

O, wake once more! though scarce my skill command

Some feeble echoing of thine earlier lay:

Though harsh and faint, and soon to die away,

And all unworthy of thy nobler strain,

Yet if one heart throb higher at its sway,

The wizard note has not been touched in vain.

Then silent be no more! Enchantress, wake again!


The stag at eve had drunk his fill,

Where danced the moon on Monan’s rill,

And deep his midnight lair had made

In lone Glenartney’s hazel shade;

But when the sun his beacon red

Had kindled on Benvoirlich’s head,

The deep-mouthed bloodhound’s heavy bay

Resounded up the rocky way,

And faint, from farther distance borne,

Were heard the clanging hoof and horn.


As Chief, who hears his warder call,

‘To arms! the foemen storm the wall,’

The antlered monarch of the waste

Sprung from his heathery couch in haste.

But ere his fleet career he took,

The dew-drops from his flanks he shook;

Like crested leader proud and high

Tossed his beamed frontlet to the sky;

A moment gazed adown the dale,

A moment snuffed the tainted gale,

A moment listened to the cry,

That thickened as the chase drew nigh;

Then, as the headmost foes appeared,

With one brave bound the copse he cleared,

And, stretching forward free and far,

Sought the wild heaths of Uam-Var.


Yelled on the view the opening pack;

Rock, glen, and cavern paid them back;

To many a mingled sound at once

The awakened mountain gave response.

A hundred dogs bayed deep and strong,

Clattered a hundred steeds along,

Their peal the merry horns rung out,

A hundred voices joined the shout;

With hark and whoop and wild halloo,

No rest Benvoirlich’s echoes knew.

Far from the tumult fled the roe,

Close in her covert cowered the doe,

The falcon, from her cairn on high,

Cast on the rout a wondering eye,

Till far beyond her piercing ken

The hurricane had swept the glen.

Faint, and more faint, its failing din

Returned from cavern, cliff, and linn,

And silence settled, wide and still,

On the lone wood and mighty hill.


Less loud the sounds of sylvan war

Disturbed the heights of Uam-Var,

And roused the cavern where, ‘t is told,

A giant made his den of old;

For ere that steep ascent was won,

High in his pathway hung the sun,

And many a gallant, stayed perforce,

Was fain to breathe his faltering horse,

And of the trackers of the deer

Scarce half the lessening pack was near;

So shrewdly on the mountain-side

Had the bold burst their mettle tried.


The noble stag was pausing now

Upon the mountain’s southern brow,

Where broad extended, far beneath,

The varied realms of fair Menteith.

With anxious eye he wandered o’er

Mountain and meadow, moss and moor,

And pondered refuge from his toil,

By far Lochard or Aberfoyle.

But nearer was the copsewood gray

That waved and wept on Loch Achray,

And mingled with the pine-trees blue

On the bold cliffs of Benvenue.

Fresh vigor with the hope returned,

With flying foot the heath he spurned,

Held westward with unwearied race,

And left behind the panting chase.


‘T were long to tell what steeds gave o’er,

As swept the hunt through Cambusmore;

What reins were tightened in despair,

When rose Benledi’s ridge in air;

Who flagged upon Bochastle’s heath,

Who shunned to stem the flooded Teith,—

For twice that day, from shore to shore,

The gallant stag swam stoutly o’er.

Few were the stragglers, following far,

That reached the lake of Vennachar;

And when the Brigg of Turk was won,

The headmost horseman rode alone.


Alone, but with unbated zeal,

That horseman plied the scourge and steel;

For jaded now, and spent with toil,

Embossed with foam, and dark with soil,

While every gasp with sobs he drew,

The laboring stag strained full in view.

Two dogs of black Saint Hubert’s breed,

Unmatched for courage, breath, and speed,

Fast on his flying traces came,

And all but won that desperate game;

For, scarce a spear’s length from his haunch,

Vindictive toiled the bloodhounds stanch;

Nor nearer might the dogs attain,

Nor farther might the quarry strain

Thus up the margin of the lake,

Between the precipice and brake,

O’er stock and rock their race they take.


The Hunter marked that mountain high,

The lone lake’s western boundary,

And deemed the stag must turn to bay,

Where that huge rampart barred the way;

Already glorying in the prize,

Measured his antlers with his eyes;

For the death-wound and death-halloo

Mustered his breath, his whinyard drew:—

But thundering as he came prepared,

With ready arm and weapon bared,

The wily quarry shunned the shock,

And turned him from the opposing rock;

Then, dashing down a darksome glen,

Soon lost to hound and Hunter’s ken,

In the deep Trosachs’ wildest nook

His solitary refuge took.

There, while close couched the thicket shed

Cold dews and wild flowers on his head,

He heard the baffled dogs in vain

Rave through the hollow pass amain,

Chiding the rocks that yelled again.


Close on the hounds the Hunter came,

To cheer them on the vanished game;

But, stumbling in the rugged dell,

The gallant horse exhausted fell.

The impatient rider strove in vain

To rouse him with the spur and rein,

For the good steed, his labors o’er,

Stretched his stiff limbs, to rise no more;

Then, touched with pity and remorse,

He sorrowed o’er the expiring horse.

‘I little thought, when first thy rein

I slacked upon the banks of Seine,

That Highland eagle e’er should feed

On thy fleet limbs, my matchless steed!

Woe worth the chase, woe worth the day,

That costs thy life, my gallant gray!’


Then through the dell his horn resounds,

From vain pursuit to call the hounds.

Back limped, with slow and crippled pace,

The sulky leaders of the chase;

Close to their master’s side they pressed,

With drooping tail and humbled crest;

But still the dingle’s hollow throat

Prolonged the swelling bugle-note.

The owlets started from their dream,

The eagles answered with their scream,

Round and around the sounds were cast,

Till echo seemed an answering blast;

And on the Hunter tried his way,

To join some comrades of the day,

Yet often paused, so strange the road,

So wondrous were the scenes it showed.


The western waves of ebbing day

Rolled o’er the glen their level way;

Each purple peak, each flinty spire,

Was bathed in floods of living fire.

But not a setting beam could glow

Within the dark ravines below,

Where twined the path in shadow hid,

Round many a rocky pyramid,

Shooting abruptly from the dell

Its thunder-splintered pinnacle;

Round many an insulated mass,

The native bulwarks of the pass,

Huge as the tower which builders vain

Presumptuous piled on Shinar’s plain.

The rocky summits, split and rent,

Formed turret, dome, or battlement.

Or seemed fantastically set

With cupola or minaret,

Wild crests as pagod ever decked,

Or mosque of Eastern architect.

Nor were these earth-born castles bare,

Nor lacked they many a banner fair;

For, from their shivered brows displayed,

Far o’er the unfathomable glade,

All twinkling with the dewdrop sheen,

The briar-rose fell in streamers green,

kind creeping shrubs of thousand dyes

Waved in the west-wind’s summer sighs.


Boon nature scattered, free and wild,

Each plant or flower, the mountain’s child.

Here eglantine embalmed the air,

Hawthorn and hazel mingled there;

The primrose pale and violet flower

Found in each cliff a narrow bower;

Foxglove and nightshade, side by side,

Emblems of punishment and pride,

Grouped their dark hues with every stain

The weather-beaten crags retain.

With boughs that quaked at every breath,

Gray birch and aspen wept beneath;

Aloft, the ash and warrior oak

Cast anchor in the rifted rock;

And, higher yet, the pine-tree hung

His shattered trunk, and frequent flung,

Where seemed the cliffs to meet on high,

His boughs athwart the narrowed sky.

Highest of all, where white peaks glanced,

Where glistening streamers waved and danced,

The wanderer’s eye could barely view

The summer heaven’s delicious blue;

So wondrous wild, the whole might seem

The scenery of a fairy dream.


Onward, amid the copse ‘gan peep

A narrow inlet, still and deep,

Affording scarce such breadth of brim

As served the wild duck’s brood to swim.

Lost for a space, through thickets veering,

But broader when again appearing,

Tall rocks and tufted knolls their face

Could on the dark-blue mirror trace;

And farther as the Hunter strayed,

Still broader sweep its channels made.

The shaggy mounds no longer stood,

Emerging from entangled wood,

But, wave-encircled, seemed to float,

Like castle girdled with its moat;

Yet broader floods extending still

Divide them from their parent hill,

Till each, retiring, claims to be

An islet in an inland sea.


And now, to issue from the glen,

No pathway meets the wanderer’s ken,

Unless he climb with footing nice

A far-projecting precipice.

The broom’s tough roots his ladder made,

The hazel saplings lent their aid;

And thus an airy point he won,

Where, gleaming with the setting sun,

One burnished sheet of living gold,

Loch Katrine lay beneath him rolled,

In all her length far winding lay,

With promontory, creek, and bay,

And islands that, empurpled bright,

Floated amid the livelier light,

And mountains that like giants stand

To sentinel enchanted land.

High on the south, huge Benvenue

Down to the lake in masses threw

Crags, knolls, and mounds, confusedly hurled,

The fragments of an earlier world;

A wildering forest feathered o’er

His ruined sides and summit hoar,

While on the north, through middle air,

Ben-an heaved high his forehead bare.


From the steep promontory gazed

The stranger, raptured and amazed,

And, ‘What a scene were here,’ he cried,

‘For princely pomp or churchman’s pride!

On this bold brow, a lordly tower;

In that soft vale, a lady’s bower;

On yonder meadow far away,

The turrets of a cloister gray;

How blithely might the bugle-horn

Chide on the lake the lingering morn!

How sweet at eve the lover’s lute

Chime when the groves were still and mute!

And when the midnight moon should lave

Her forehead in the silver wave,

How solemn on the ear would come

The holy matins’ distant hum,

While the deep peal’s commanding tone

Should wake, in yonder islet lone,

A sainted hermit from his cell,

To drop a bead with every knell!

And bugle, lute, and bell, and all,

Should each bewildered stranger call

To friendly feast and lighted hall.


‘Blithe were it then to wander here!

But now—beshrew yon nimble deer—

Like that same hermit’s, thin and spare,

The copse must give my evening fare;

Some mossy bank my couch must be,

Some rustling oak my canopy.

Yet pass we that; the war and chase

Give little choice of resting-place;—

A summer night in greenwood spent

Were but to-morrow’s merriment:

But hosts may in these wilds abound,

Such as are better missed than found;

To meet with Highland plunderers here

Were worse than loss of steed or deer.—

I am alone;—my bugle-strain

May call some straggler of the train;

Or, fall the worst that may betide,

Ere now this falchion has been tried.’


But scarce again his horn he wound,

When lo! forth starting at the sound,

From underneath an aged oak

That slanted from the islet rock,

A damsel guider of its way,

A little skiff shot to the bay,

That round the promontory steep

Led its deep line in graceful sweep,

Eddying, in almost viewless wave,

The weeping willow twig to rave,

And kiss, with whispering sound and slow,

The beach of pebbles bright as snow.

The boat had touched this silver strand

Just as the Hunter left his stand,

And stood concealed amid the brake,

To view this Lady of the Lake.

The maiden paused, as if again

She thought to catch the distant strain.

With head upraised, and look intent,

And eye and ear attentive bent,

And locks flung back, and lips apart,

Like monument of Grecian art,

In listening mood, she seemed to stand,

The guardian Naiad of the strand.


And ne’er did Grecian chisel trace

A Nymph, a Naiad, or a Grace,

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 trained her pace,—

A foot more light, a step more true,

Ne’er from the heath-flower dashed 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 listener held his breath to hear!


A chieftain’s daughter seemed the maid;

Her satin snood, her silken plaid,

Her golden brooch, such birth betrayed.

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 free-born glance confessed

The guileless movements of her breast;

Whether joy danced in her dark eye,

Or woe or pity claimed a sigh,

Or filial love was glowing there,

Or meek devotion poured a prayer,

Or tale of injury called forth

The indignant spirit of the North.

One only passion unrevealed

With maiden pride the maid concealed,

Yet not less purely felt the flame;—

O, 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.

Awhile she paused, no answer came;—

‘Malcolm, was thine the blast?’ the name

Less resolutely uttered fell,

The echoes could not catch the swell.

‘A stranger I,’ the Huntsman said,

Advancing from the hazel shade.

The maid, alarmed, with hasty oar

Pushed her light shallop from the shore,

And when a space was gained between,

Closer she drew her bosom’s screen;—

So forth the startled swan would swing,

So turn to prune his ruffled wing.

Then safe, though fluttered 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 pressed its signet sage,

Yet had not quenched 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 could

For hardy sports or contest bold;

And though in peaceful garb arrayed,

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 bode the shore.

Slighting the petty need he showed,

He told of his benighted road;

His ready speech flowed fair and free,

In phrase of gentlest courtesy,

Yet seemed that tone and gesture bland

Less used to sue than to command.


Awhile the maid the stranger eyed,

And, reassured, at length replied,

That Highland halls were open still

To wildered 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 couch was pulled for you;

On yonder mountain’s purple head

Have ptarmigan and heath-cock bled,

And our broad nets have swept the mere,

To furnish forth your evening cheer.’—

‘Now, by the rood, my lovely maid,

Your courtesy has erred,’ he said;

‘No right have I to claim, misplaced,

The welcome of expected guest.

A wanderer, here by fortune toss,

My way, my friends, my courser lost,

I ne’er before, believe me, fair,

Have ever drawn your mountain air,

Till on this lake’s romantic strand

I found a fey in fairy land!’—


‘I well believe,’ the maid replied,

As her light skiff approached the side,—

‘I well believe, that ne’er before

Your foot has trod Loch Katrine’s shore

But yet, as far as yesternight,

Old Allan-bane foretold your plight,—

A gray-haired sire, whose eye intent

Was on the visioned future bent.

He saw your steed, a dappled gray,

Lie dead beneath the birchen way;

Painted exact your form and mien,

Your hunting-suit of Lincoln green,

That tasselled horn so gayly gilt,

That falchion’s crooked blade and hilt,

That cap with heron plumage trim,

And yon two hounds so dark and grim.

He bade that all should ready be

To grace a guest of fair degree;

But light I held his prophecy,

And deemed it was my father’s horn

Whose echoes o’er the lake were borne.’


The stranger smiled:—’Since to your home

A destined errant-knight I come,

Announced by prophet sooth and old,

Doomed, doubtless, for achievement bold,

I ‘ll lightly front each high emprise

For one kind glance of those bright eyes.

Permit me first the task to guide

Your fairy frigate o’er the tide.’

The maid, with smile suppressed and sly,

The toil unwonted saw him try;

For seldom, sure, if e’er before,

His noble hand had grasped an oar:

Yet with main strength his strokes he drew,

And o’er the lake the shallop flew;

With heads erect and whimpering cry,

The hounds behind their passage ply.

Nor frequent does the bright oar break

The darkening mirror of the lake,

Until the rocky isle they reach,

And moor their shallop on the beach.


The stranger viewed the shore around;

‘T was all so close with copsewood bound,

Nor track nor pathway might declare

That human foot frequented there,

Until the mountain maiden showed

A clambering unsuspected road,

That winded through the tangled screen,

And opened on a narrow green,

Where weeping birch and willow round

With their long fibres swept the ground.

Here, for retreat in dangerous hour,

Some chief had framed a rustic bower.


It was a lodge of ample size,

But strange of structure and device;

Of such materials as around

The workman’s hand had readiest found.

Lopped of their boughs, their hoar trunks bared,

And by the hatchet rudely squared,

To give the walls their destined height,

The sturdy oak and ash unite;

While moss and clay and leaves combined

To fence each crevice from the wind.

The lighter pine-trees overhead

Their slender length for rafters spread,

And withered heath and rushes dry

Supplied a russet canopy.

Due westward, fronting to the green,

A rural portico was seen,

Aloft on native pillars borne,

Of mountain fir with bark unshorn

Where Ellen’s hand had taught to twine

The ivy and Idaean vine,

The clematis, the favored flower

Which boasts the name of virgin-bower,

And every hardy plant could bear

Loch Katrine’s keen and searching air.

An instant in this porch she stayed,

And gayly to the stranger said:

‘On heaven and on thy lady call,

And enter the enchanted hall!’


‘My hope, my heaven, my trust must be,

My gentle guide, in following thee!’—

He crossed the threshold,—and a clang

Of angry steel that instant rang.

To his bold brow his spirit rushed,

But soon for vain alarm he blushed

When on the floor he saw displayed,

Cause of the din, a naked blade

Dropped from the sheath, that careless flung

Upon a stag’s huge antlers swung;

For all around, the walls to grace,

Hung trophies of the fight or chase:

A target there, a bugle here,

A battle-axe, a hunting-spear,

And broadswords, bows, and arrows store,

With the tusked trophies of the boar.

Here grins the wolf as when he died,

And there the wild-cat’s brindled hide

The frontlet of the elk adorns,

Or mantles o’er the bison’s horns;

Pennons and flags defaced and stained,

That blackening streaks of blood retained,

And deer-skins, dappled, dun, and white,

With otter’s fur and seal’s unite,

In rude and uncouth tapestry all,

To garnish forth the sylvan hall.


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 swayed,

‘I never knew but one,’ he said,

‘Whose stalwart arm might brook to wield

A blade like this in battle-field.’

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,

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,

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 unasked his birth and name.

Such then the reverence to a guest,

That fellest foe might join the feast,

And from his deadliest foeman’s door

Unquestioned turn the banquet o’er

At length his rank the stranger names,

‘The Knight of Snowdoun, James Fitz-James;

Lord of a barren heritage,

Which his brave sires, from age to age,

By their good swords had held with toil;

His sire had fallen in such turmoil,

And he, God wot, was forced to stand

Oft for his right with blade in hand.

This morning with Lord Moray’s train

He chased a stalwart stag in vain,

Outstripped his comrades, missed the deer,

Lost his good steed, and wandered here.’


Fain would the Knight in turn require

The name and state of Ellen’s sire.

Well showed the elder lady’s mien

That courts and cities she had seen;

Ellen, though more her looks displayed

The simple grace of sylvan maid,

In speech and gesture, form and face,

Showed she was come of gentle race.

‘T were 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,

Turned all inquiry light away:—

‘Weird women we! by dale and down

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

Filled 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.

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 pibroch summon here

Mustering clan or squadron tramping.

Yet the lark’s shrill fife may come

At the daybreak 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.’


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.

Song Continued.

‘Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done;

While our slumbrous spells assail ye,

Dream not, with the rising sun,

Bugles here shall sound reveille.

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 reveille.’


The hall was cleared,—the stranger’s bed,

Was there of mountain heather spread,

Where oft a 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;

Now leader of a broken host,

His standard falls, his honor’s lost.

Then,—from my couch may heavenly might

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.

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?


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;

Slowly enlarged to giant size,

With darkened cheek and threatening eyes,

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,

Half showing, half concealing, all

The uncouth trophies of the hall.

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.


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:—

‘Why is it, at each turn I trace

Some memory of that exiled race?

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.


The Island.


At morn the black-cock trims his jetty wing,

‘T is morning prompts the linnet’s blithest lay,

All Nature’s children feel the matin spring

Of life reviving, with reviving day;

And while yon little bark glides down the bay,

Wafting the stranger on his way again,

Morn’s genial influence roused a minstrel gray,

And sweetly o’er the lake was heard thy strain,

Mixed with the sounding harp, O white-haired Allan-bane!



‘Not faster yonder rowers’ might

Flings from their oars the spray,

Not faster yonder rippling bright,

That tracks the shallop’s course in light,

Melts in the lake away,

Than men from memory erase

The benefits of former days;

Then, stranger, go! good speed the while,

Nor think again of the lonely isle.

‘High place to thee in royal court,

High place in battled line,

Good hawk and hound for sylvan sport!

Where beauty sees the brave resort,

The honored meed be thine!

True be thy sword, thy friend sincere,

Thy lady constant, kind, and dear,

And lost in love’s and friendship’s smile

Be memory of the lonely isle!


Song Continued.

‘But if beneath yon southern sky

A plaided stranger roam,

Whose drooping crest and stifled sigh,

And sunken cheek and heavy eye,

Pine for his Highland home;

Then, warrior, then be thine to show

The care that soothes a wanderer’s woe;

Remember then thy hap erewhile,

A stranger in the lonely isle.

‘Or if on life’s uncertain main

Mishap shall mar thy sail;

If faithful, wise, and brave in vain,

Woe, want, and exile thou sustain

Beneath the fickle gale;

Waste not a sigh on fortune changed,

On thankless courts, or friends estranged,

But come where kindred worth shall smile,

To greet thee in the lonely isle.’


As died the sounds upon the tide,

The shallop reached 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,

Seemed watching the awakening fire;

So still he sat 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 sat and smiled.—

Smiled she to see the stately drake

Lead forth his fleet upon the lake,

While her vexed spaniel from the beach

Bayed at the prize beyond his reach?

Yet tell me, then, the maid who knows,

Why deepened 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 eve!


While yet he loitered on the spot,

It seemed as Ellen marked him not;

But when he turned 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,

Watched 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!’

‘T was thus upbraiding conscience said,—

‘Not so had Malcolm idly hung

On the smooth phrase of Southern tongue;

Not so had Malcolm strained 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 Graeme!’

Scarce from her lip the word had rushed,

When deep the conscious maiden blushed;

For of his clan, in hall and bower,

Young Malcolm Graeme was held the flower.


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 bidst, O noble maid,’

Clasping his withered hands, he said,

‘Vainly thou bidst me wake the strain,

Though all unwont to bid in vain.

Alas! than mine a mightier hand

Has tuned my harp, my strings has spanned!

I touch the chords of joy, but low

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 swayed,

Can thus its master’s fate foretell,

Then welcome be the minstrel’s knell.’


‘But ah! dear lady, thus it sighed,

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,

Wailed loud through Bothwell’s bannered hall.

Ere Douglases, to ruin driven,

Were exiled from their native heaven.—

O! 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 shivered shall thy fragments lie,

Thy master cast him down and die!’


Soothing she answered him: ‘Assuage,

Mine honored friend, the fears of age;

All melodies to thee are known

That harp has rung or pipe has blown,

In Lowland vale or Highland glen,

From Tweed to Spey—what marvel, then,

At times unbidden notes should rise,

Confusedly bound in memory’s ties,

Entangling, as they rush along,

The war-march with the funeral song?—

Small ground is now for boding fear;

Obscure, but safe, we rest us here.

My sire, in native virtue great,

Resigning lordship, lands, and state,

Not then to fortune more resigned

Than yonder oak might give the wind;

The graceful foliage storms may reeve,

‘Fine noble stem they cannot grieve.

For me’—she stooped, and, looking round,

Plucked a blue harebell from the ground,—

‘For me, whose memory scarce conveys

An image of more splendid days,

This little flower that loves the lea

May well my simple emblem be;

It drinks heaven’s dew as blithe as rose

That in the King’s own garden grows;

And when I place it in my hair,

Allan, a bard is bound to swear

He ne’er saw coronet so fair.’

Then playfully the chaplet wild

She wreathed in her dark locks, and smiled.


Her smile, her speech, with winning sway

Wiled the old Harper’s mood away.

With such a look as hermits throw,

When angels stoop to soothe their woe

He gazed, till fond regret and pride

Thrilled to a tear, then thus replied:

‘Loveliest and best! thou little know’st

The rank, the honors, thou hast lost!

O. might I live to see thee grace,

In Scotland’s court, thy birthright place,

To see my favorite’s step advance

The lightest in the courtly dance,

The cause of every gallant’s sigh,

And leading star of every eye,

And theme of every minstrel’s art,

The Lady of the Bleeding Heart!’


‘Fair dreams are these,’ the maiden cried,—

Light was her accent, yet she sighed,—

‘Yet is this mossy rock to me

Worth splendid chair and canopy;

Nor would my footstep spring more gay

In courtly dance than blithe strathspey,

Nor half so pleased mine ear incline

To royal minstrel’s lay as thine.

And then for suitors proud and high,

To bend before my conquering eye,—

Thou, flattering bard! thyself wilt say,

That grim Sir Roderick owns its sway.

The Saxon scourge, Clan-Alpine’s pride,

The terror of Loch Lomond’s side,

Would, at my suit, thou know’st, delay

A Lennox foray—for a day.’—


The ancient bard her glee repressed:

‘Ill hast thou chosen theme for jest!

For who, through all this western wild,

Named Black Sir Roderick e’er, and smiled?

In Holy-Rood a knight he slew;

I saw, when back the dirk he drew,

Courtiers give place before the stride

Of the undaunted homicide;

And since, though outlawed, hath his hand

Full sternly kept his mountain land.

Who else dared give—ah! woe the day,

That I such hated truth should say!—

The Douglas, like a stricken deer,

Disowned by every noble peer,

Even the rude refuge we have here?

Alas, this wild marauding

Chief Alone might hazard our relief,

And now thy maiden charms expand,

Looks for his guerdon in thy hand;

Full soon may dispensation sought,

To back his suit, from Rome be brought.

Then, though an exile on the hill,

Thy father, as the Douglas, still

Be held in reverence and fear;

And though to Roderick thou’rt so dear

That thou mightst guide with silken thread.

Slave of thy will, this chieftain dread,

Yet, O loved maid, thy mirth refrain!

Thy hand is on a lion’s mane.’—


Minstrel,’ the maid replied, and high

Her father’s soul glanced from her eye,

‘My debts to Roderick’s house I know:

All that a mother could bestow

To Lady Margaret’s care I owe,

Since first an orphan in the wild

She sorrowed o’er her sister’s child;

To her brave chieftain son, from ire

Of Scotland’s king who shrouds my sire,

A deeper, holier debt is owed;

And, could I pay it with my blood, Allan!

Sir Roderick should command

My blood, my life,—but not my hand.

Rather will Ellen Douglas dwell

A votaress in Maronnan’s cell;

Rather through realms beyond the sea,

Seeking the world’s cold charity

Where ne’er was spoke a Scottish word,

And ne’er the name of Douglas heard

An outcast pilgrim will she rove,

Than wed the man she cannot love.


‘Thou shak’st, good friend, thy tresses gray,—

That pleading look, what can it say

But what I own?—I grant him brave,

But wild as Bracklinn’s thundering wave;

And generous,—save vindictive mood

Or jealous transport chafe his blood:

I grant him true to friendly band,

As his claymore is to his hand;

But O! that very blade of steel

More mercy for a foe would feel:

I grant him liberal, to fling

Among his clan the wealth they bring,

When back by lake and glen they wind,

And in the Lowland leave behind,

Where once some pleasant hamlet stood,

A mass of ashes slaked with blood.

The hand that for my father fought

I honor, as his daughter ought;

But can I clasp it reeking red

From peasants slaughtered in their shed?

No! wildly while his virtues gleam,

They make his passions darker seem,

And flash along his spirit high,

Like lightning o’er the midnight sky.

While yet a child,—and children know,

Instinctive taught, the friend and foe,—

I shuddered at his brow of gloom,

His shadowy plaid and sable plume;

A maiden grown, I ill could bear

His haughty mien and lordly air:

But, if thou join’st a suitor’s claim,

In serious mood, to Roderick’s name.

I thrill with anguish! or, if e’er

A Douglas knew the word, with fear.

To change such odious theme were best,—

What think’st thou of our stranger guest? ‘—


‘What think I of him?—woe the while

That brought such wanderer to our isle!

Thy father’s battle-brand, of yore

For Tine-man forged by fairy lore,

What time he leagued, no longer foes

His Border spears with Hotspur’s bows,

Did, self-unscabbarded, foreshow

The footstep of a secret foe.

If courtly spy hath harbored here,

What may we for the Douglas fear?

What for this island, deemed of old

Clan-Alpine’s last and surest hold?

If neither spy nor foe, I pray

What yet may jealous Roderick say?—

Nay, wave not thy disdainful head!

Bethink thee of the discord dread

That kindled when at Beltane game

Thou least the dance with Malcolm Graeme;

Still, though thy sire the peace renewed

Smoulders in Roderick’s breast the feud:

Beware!—But hark! what sounds are these?

My dull ears catch no faltering breeze

No weeping birch nor aspens wake,

Nor breath is dimpling in the lake;

Still is the canna’s hoary beard,

Yet, by my minstrel faith, I heard—

And hark again! some pipe of war

Sends the hold pibroch from afar.’


Far up the lengthened lake were spied

Four darkening specks upon the tide,

That, slow enlarging on the view,

Four manned and massed barges grew,

And, bearing downwards from Glengyle,

Steered full upon the lonely isle;

The point of Brianchoil they passed,

And, to the windward as they cast,

Against the sun they gave to shine

The bold Sir Roderick’s bannered Pine.

Nearer and nearer as they bear,

Spears, pikes, and axes flash in air.

Now might you see the tartars brave,

And plaids and plumage dance and wave:

Now see the bonnets sink and rise,

As his tough oar the rower plies;

See, flashing at each sturdy stroke,

The wave ascending into smoke;

See the proud pipers on the bow,

And mark the gaudy streamers flow

From their loud chanters down, and sweep

The furrowed bosom of the deep,

As, rushing through the lake amain,

They plied the ancient Highland strain.


Ever, as on they bore, more loud

And louder rung the pibroch proud.

At first the sounds, by distance tame,

Mellowed along the waters came,

And, lingering long by cape and bay,

Wailed every harsher note away,

Then bursting bolder on the ear,

The clan’s shrill Gathering they could hear,

Those thrilling sounds that call the might

Of old Clan-Alpine to the fight.

Thick beat the rapid notes, as when

The mustering hundreds shake the glen,

And hurrying at the signal dread,

‘Fine battered earth returns their tread.

Then prelude light, of livelier tone,

Expressed their merry marching on,

Ere peal of closing battle rose,

With mingled outcry, shrieks, and blows;

And mimic din of stroke and ward,

As broadsword upon target jarred;

And groaning pause, ere yet again,

Condensed, the battle yelled amain:

The rapid charge, the rallying shout,

Retreat borne headlong into rout,

And bursts of triumph, to declare

Clan-Alpine’s congest—all were there.

Nor ended thus the strain, but slow

Sunk in a moan prolonged and low,

And changed the conquering clarion swell

For wild lament o’er those that fell.


The war-pipes ceased, but lake and hill