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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.

       XXV

      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.

       XXVI

      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!’

       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 battleaxe, 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 wildcat’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 deerskins, 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 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,

       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 FitzJames;

       Lord of a barren heritage,

       Which his brave sires, from age to age,

       By their good swords had held with toil;

      

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