The Lady of the Lake | Page 9

thy chase is done;

Think not of the rising sun,
For at dawning to assail ye
Here no
bugles sound reveille.'
XXXIII.
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?
XXXIV.
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.
XXXV.
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.
CANTO SECOND.
The Island.
I.
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!
II.
Song.
'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 shine!
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!
III.
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 shine 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.'
IV.
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