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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!

       XIX

      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 freeborn 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?

       XX

      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.

       XXI

      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 highborn 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.

       XXII

      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 heathcock 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!’—

       XXIII

      ‘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.’

       XXIV

      The

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