The Lady of the Lake Part 3

High on the south, huge Benvenue 270 Down on the lake in ma.s.ses threw Crags, knolls, and mounds, confusedly hurled, The fragments of an earlier world; A wildering forest feathered o'er His ruined sides and summit h.o.a.r, 275 While on the north, through middle air, Ben-an heaved high his forehead bare.

XV

From the steep promontory gazed The stranger, raptured and amazed, And, "What a scene were here," he cried, 280 "For princely pomp, or churchman's pride!

On this bold brow, a lordly tower; In that soft vale, a lady's bower; On yonder meadow, far away, The turrets of a cloister gray; 285 How blithely might the bugle-horn Chide, on the lake, the lingering morn!

How sweet, at eve, the lover's lute Chime, when the groves were still and mute!

And when the midnight moon should lave 290 Her forehead in the silver wave, How solemn on the ear would come The holy matin's distant hum, While the deep peal's commanding tone Should wake, in yonder islet lone, 295 A sainted hermit from his cell, To drop a bead with every knell-- And bugle, lute, and bell, and all, Should each bewildered stranger call To friendly feast, and lighted hall. 300

XVI

"Blithe were it then to wander here!

But now--beshrew yon nimble deer-- Like that same hermit's, thin and spare, The copse must give my evening fare; Some mossy bank my couch must be, 305 Some rustling oak my canopy.

Yet pa.s.s we that; the war and chase Give little choice of resting-place-- A summer night, in greenwood spent, Were but tomorrow's merriment: 310 But hosts may in these wilds abound, Such as are better missed than found; To meet with Highland plunderers here, Were worse than loss of steed or deer.

I am alone; my bugle-strain 315 May call some straggler of the train; Or, fall the worst that may betide, Ere now this falchion has been tried."

XVII

But scarce again his horn he wound, When lo! forth starting at the sound, 320 From underneath an aged oak, That slanted from the islet rock, A damsel guider of its way, A little skiff shot to the bay, That round the promontory steep 325 Led its deep line in graceful sweep, Eddying, in almost viewless wave, The weeping willow-twig to lave, And kiss, with whispering sound and slow, The beach of pebbles bright as snow. 330 The boat had touched the silver strand, Just as the Hunter left his stand, And stood concealed amid the brake, To view this Lady of the Lake.

The maiden paused, as if again 335 She thought to catch the distant strain.

With head upraised, and look intent, And eye and ear attentive bent, And locks flung back, and lips apart, Like monument of Grecian art, 340 In listening mood, she seemed to stand, The guardian Naiad of the strand.

XVIII

And ne'er did Grecian chisel trace A Nymph, a Naiad, or a Grace Of finer form or lovelier face! 345 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 350 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; 355 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, 360 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 365 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, 370 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, 375 Gives back the s.h.a.ggy banks more true, Than every free-born glance confessed The guileless movements of her breast; Whether joy danced in her dark eye, Or woe or pity claimed a sigh, 380 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 pa.s.sion unrevealed, 385 With maiden pride the maid concealed, Yet not less purely felt the flame-- Oh! need I tell that pa.s.sion's name!

XX

Impatient of the silent horn, Now on the gale her voice was borne: 390 "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, 395 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 sh.o.r.e, 400 And when a s.p.a.ce 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, 405 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, 410 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, 415 Of hasty love, or headlong ire.

His limbs were cast in manly mold, For hardy sports or contest bold; And though in peaceful garb arrayed, And weaponless, except his blade, 420 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 sh.o.r.e.

Slighting the petty need he showed, 425 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. 430

XXII

A while the maid the stranger eyed, And, rea.s.sured, at length replied, That Highland halls were open still To wildered wanderers of the hill.

"Nor think you unexpected come 435 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-c.o.c.k bled, 440 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, 445 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, 450 Till on this lake's romantic strand, I found a fay in fairy land!"

XXIII

"I well believe," the maid replied, As her light skiff approached the side, "I well believe, that ne'er before 455 Your foot has trod Loch Katrine's sh.o.r.e; 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. 460 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 ta.s.selled horn so gaily gilt, 465 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; 470 But light I held his prophecy, And deemed it was my father's horn, Whose echoes o'er the lake were borne."

XXIV

The stranger smiled: "Since to your home A destined errant-knight I come, 475 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 480 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 n.o.ble hand had grasped an oar. 485 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 pa.s.sage ply.

Nor frequent does the bright oar break 490 The dark'ning mirror of the lake, Until the rocky isle they reach, And moor their shallop on the beach.

XXV

The stranger viewed the sh.o.r.e around, 'Twas all so close with copsewood bound, 495 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, 500 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. 505

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 h.o.a.r trunks bared, 510 And by the hatchet rudely squared, To give the walls their destined height, The st.u.r.dy oak and ash unite; While moss and clay and leaves combined To fence each crevice from the wind. 515 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, 520 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, 525 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 530 And gaily 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." 535 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, 540 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: 545 A target there, a bugle here, A battle-ax, a hunting spear, And broadswords, bows, and arrows store, With the tusked trophies of the boar.

Here grins the wolf as when he died, 550 And there the wild-cat'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, 555 And deer-skins, dappled, dun, and white, With otter's fur and seal's unite, In rude and uncouth tapestry all, To garnish forth the silvan hall.