The Lady of the Lake | Page 8

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!'
XXVII.
'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.
XXVIII.

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.'
XXIX.
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.'
XXX.
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.
XXXI.
Song.
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 shine 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.'
XXXII.

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!