And locks flung back, and lips apart, Like monument of Grecian art; In listening mood she seemed to stand, The guardian Naiad of the strand.
And ne'er did Grecian chisel trace A nymph, a Naiad, or a Grace, Of finer form, or lovelier face! What though the sun, with ardent frown, Had slightly tinged her cheek with brown, The sportive toil, which, short and light, Had dyed her glowing hue so bright, Served too in hastier swell to show Short glimpses of a breast of snow; What though no rule of courtly grace To measured mood had trained her pace, A foot more light, a step more true, Ne'er from the heath-flower dashed the dew; E'en the slight hare-bell 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.
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 free-born glance confessed The guileless movements of her breast; Whether joy danced in her dark eye, Or wo 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,
Yet not less purely felt the flame;- O need I tell that passion's name!
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. A while 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 her 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.
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 mould, For hardy sports, or contest bold; And though in peaceful garb arrayed, And weaponless, except his blade, His stately mien as well implied A high-born heart, a martial pride, As if a Baron's crest he wore, And sheathed in armor trod 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,
A while the maid the stranger eyed, And, reassured, at last replied, That highland halls were open still
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 heath-cock 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 tost, 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 fay in fairy land."
"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 tassel'd horn so gaily gilt, That falchion's crooked blade and hilt, That cap with heron's 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."
The stranger smiled-Since to your home, A destined errant knight I come, Announced by prophet sooth and old, Doomed, doubtless, for achievement bold, I'll lightly front each high emprize, 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,
"On heaven and on thy lady call, And enter the enchanted hall."
"My hope, my heaven, my trust must be, My gentle guide, in following thee."
QUARREL BETWEEN RODERICK DHU AND
The shades of eve come slowly down, The woods are wrapp'd in deeper brown, The owl awakens from her dell, The fox is heard upon the fell; Enough remains of glimmering light To guide the wanderer's steps aright, Yet not enough from far to show His figure to the watchful foe. With cautious step, and ear awake, He climbs the crag and threads the brake; And not the summer solstice there, Temper'd the midnight mountain air, But every breeze, that swept the wold, Benumbed his drenched limbs with cold. In dread, in danger, and alone, Famished and chilled, through ways unknown; Tangled and steep, he journeyed on; Till, as a rock's huge point he turned, A watch-fire close before him burned.
Beside its embers red and clear, Basked, in his plaid, a mountaineer; And up he sprung with sword in hand,"Thy name and purpose! Saxon, stand!" "A stranger."-"What dost thou require?"
Rest and a guide, and food and fire.
My life's beset, my path is lost, The gale has chilled my limbs with frost." "Art thou a friend to Roderick?"-"No." "Thou darest not call thyself a foe?""I dare! to him and all the band He brings to aid his murderous hand.""Bold words!-but, though the beast of game The privilege of chase may claim, Though space and law the stag we lend, Ere hound we slip, or bow we bend, Who ever reck'd, where, how, or when,
« ForrigeFortsett » |