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And chorus wild, the Chieftain’s name;

       While, prompt to please, with mother’s art

       The darling passion of his heart,

       The Dame called Ellen to the strand,

       To greet her kinsman ere he land:

       ‘Come, loiterer, come! a Douglas thou,

       And shun to wreathe a victor’s brow?’

       Reluctantly and slow, the maid

       The unwelcome summoning obeyed,

       And when a distant bugle rung,

       In the mid-path aside she sprung:—

       ‘List, Allan-bane! From mainland cast

       I hear my father’s signal blast.

       Be ours,’ she cried, ‘the skiff to guide,

       And waft him from the mountainside.’

       Then, like a sunbeam, swift and bright,

       She darted to her shallop light,

       And, eagerly while Roderick scanned,

       For her dear form, his mother’s band,

       The islet far behind her lay,

       And she had landed in the bay.

       XXII

      Some feelings are to mortals given

       With less of earth in them than heaven;

       And if there be a human tear

       From passion’s dross refined and clear,

       A tear so limpid and so meek

       It would not stain an angel’s cheek,

       ‘Tis that which pious fathers shed

       Upon a duteous daughter’s head!

       And as the Douglas to his breast

       His darling Ellen closely pressed,

       Such holy drops her tresses steeped,

       Though ‘t was an hero’s eye that weeped.

       Nor while on Ellen’s faltering tongue

       Her filial welcomes crowded hung,

       Marked she that fear—affection’s proof—

       Still held a graceful youth aloof;

       No! not till Douglas named his name,

       Although the youth was Malcolm Graeme.

       XXIII

      Allan, with wistful look the while,

       Marked Roderick landing on the isle;

       His master piteously he eyed,

       Then gazed upon the Chieftain’s pride,

       Then dashed with hasty hand away

       From his dimmed eye the gathering spray;

       And Douglas, as his hand he laid

       On Malcolm’s shoulder, kindly said:

       ‘Canst thou, young friend, no meaning spy

       In my poor follower’s glistening eye?

       I ‘ll tell thee:—he recalls the day

       When in my praise he led the lay

       O’er the arched gate of Bothwell proud,

       While many a minstrel answered loud,

       When Percy’s Norman pennon, won

       In bloody field, before me shone,

       And twice ten knights, the least a name

       As mighty as yon Chief may claim,

       Gracing my pomp, behind me came.

       Yet trust me, Malcolm, not so proud

       Was I of all that marshalled crowd,

       Though the waned crescent owned my might,

       And in my train trooped lord and knight,

       Though Blantyre hymned her holiest lays,

       And Bothwell’s bards flung back my praise,

       As when this old man’s silent tear,

       And this poor maid’s affection dear,

       A welcome give more kind and true

       Than aught my better fortunes knew.

       Forgive, my friend, a father’s boast,—

       O, it out-beggars all I lost!’

       XXIV

      Delightful praise!—like summer rose,

       That brighter in the dewdrop glows,

       The bashful maiden’s cheek appeared,

       For Douglas spoke, and Malcolm heard.

       The flush of shamefaced joy to hide,

       The hounds, the hawk, her cares divide;

       The loved caresses of the maid

       The dogs with crouch and whimper paid;

       And, at her whistle, on her hand

       The falcon took his favorite stand,

       Closed his dark wing, relaxed his eye,

       Nor, though unhooded, sought to fly.

       And, trust, while in such guise she stood,

       Like fabled Goddess of the wood,

       That if a father’s partial thought

       O’erweighed her worth and beauty aught,

       Well might the lover’s judgment fail

       To balance with a juster scale;

       For with each secret glance he stole,

       The fond enthusiast sent his soul.

       XXV

      Of stature fair, and slender frame,

       But firmly knit, was Malcolm Graeme.

       The belted plaid and tartan hose

       Did ne’er more graceful limbs disclose;

       His flaxen hair, of sunny hue,

       Curled closely round his bonnet blue.

       Trained to the chase, his eagle eye

       The ptarmigan in snow could spy;

       Each pass, by mountain, lake, and heath,

       He knew, through Lennox and Menteith;

       Vain was the bound of dark-brown doe

       When Malcolm bent his sounding bow,

       And scarce that doe, though winged with fear,

       Outstripped in speed the mountaineer:

       Right up Ben Lomond could he press,

       And not a sob his toil confess.

       His form accorded with a mind

       Lively and ardent, frank and kind;

       A blither heart, till Ellen came

       Did never love nor sorrow tame;

       It danced as lightsome in his breast

       As played the feather on his crest.

       Yet friends, who nearest knew the youth

       His scorn of wrong, his zeal for truth

       And bards, who saw his features bold

       When kindled by the tales of old

       Said, were that youth to manhood grown,

       Not long should Roderick Dhu’s renown

       Be foremost voiced by mountain fame,

       But quail to that of Malcolm Graeme.

      

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