Lady of the Lake

by Walter Scott

  On thankless courts, or friends estranged,

  But come where kindred worth shall smile,

  To greet thee in the lonely isle."

  IV

  As died the sounds upon the tide,

  The shallop reached the mainland side,

  And ere his onward way he took,

  The stranger cast a lingering look,

  Where easily his eye might reach

  The Harper on the islet beach,

  Reclined against a blighted tree,

  As wasted, gray, and worn as he.

  To minstrel meditation given,

  His reverend brow was raised to heaven,

  As from the rising sun to claim

  A sparkle of inspiring flame.

  His hand, reclined upon the wire,

  Seemed watching the awakening fire;

  So still he sat, as those who wait

  Till judgment speak the doom of fate;

  So still, as if no breeze might dare

  To lift one lock of hoary hair;

  So still, as life itself were fled,

  In the last sound his harp had sped.

  V

  Upon a rock with lichens wild,

  Beside him Ellen sat and smiled—

  Smiled she to see the stately drake

  Lead forth his fleet upon the lake,

  While her vexed spaniel, from the beach

  Bayed at the prize beyond his reach?

  Yet tell me, then, the maid who knows,

  Why deepened on her cheek the rose?

  Forgive, forgive, Fidelity!

  Perchance the maiden smiled to see

  Yon parting lingerer wave adieu,

  And stop and turn to wave anew;

  And, lovely ladies, ere your ire

  Condemn the heroine of my lyre,

  Show me the fair would scorn to spy,

  And prize such conquest of her eye!

  VI

  While yet he loitered on the spot,

  It seemed as Ellen marked him not;

  But when he turned him to the glade,

  One courteous parting sign she made;

  And after, oft the knight would say,

  That not when prize of festal day

  Was dealt him by the brightest fair,

  Who e'er wore jewel in her hair,

  So highly did his bosom swell,

  As at that simple mute farewell.

  Now with a trusty mountain-guide,

  And his dark stag-hounds by his side,

  He parts—the maid, unconscious still,

  Watched him wind slowly round the hill;

  But when his stately form was hid,

  The guardian in her bosom chid—

  "Thy Malcolm! vain and selfish maid!"

  'Twas thus upbraiding conscience said—

  "Not so had Malcolm idly hung

  On the smooth phrase of southern tongue;

  Not so had Malcolm strained his eye

  Another step than thine to spy.

  Wake, Allan-bane," aloud she cried,

  To the old Minstrel by her side—

  "Arouse thee from thy moody dream!

  I'll give thy harp heroic theme,

  And warm thee with a noble name;

  Pour forth the glory of the Graeme!"

  Scarce from her lip the word had rushed,

  When deep the conscious maiden blushed;

  For of his clan, in hall and bower,

  Young Malcolm Graeme was held the flower.

  VII

  The Minstrel waked his harp—three times

  Arose the well-known martial chimes,

  And thrice their high heroic pride

  In melancholy murmurs died.

  "Vainly thou bid'st, O noble maid,"

  Clasping his withered hands, he said,

  "Vainly thou bid'st me wake the strain,

  Though all unwont to bid in vain.

  Alas! than mine a mightier hand

  Has tuned my harp, my strings has spanned!

  I touch the chords of joy, but low

  And mournful answer notes of woe;

  And the proud march, which victors tread,

  Sinks in the wailing for the dead.

  O well for me, if mine alone

  That dirge's deep prophetic tone!

  If, as my tuneful fathers said,

  This harp, which erst Saint Modan swayed,

  Can thus its master's fate foretell,

  Then welcome be the minstrel's knell!

  VIII

  "But ah! dear lady, thus it sighed

  The eve thy sainted mother died;

  And such the sounds which, while I strove

  To wake a lay of war or love,

  Came marring all the festal mirth,

  Appalling me who gave them birth,

  And, disobedient to my call,

  Wailed loud through Bothwell's bannered hall,

  Ere Douglases to ruin driven,

  Were exiled from their native heaven.

  Oh! if yet worse mishap and woe,

  My master's house must undergo,

  Or aught but weal to Ellen fair,

  Brood in these accents of despair,

  No future bard, sad Harp! shall fling

  Triumph or rapture from thy string;

  One short, one final strain shall flow,

  Fraught with unutterable woe,

  Then shivered shall thy fragments lie,

  Thy master cast him down and die!"

  IX

  Soothing she answered him—"Assuage,

  Mine honored friend, the fears of age;

  All melodies to thee are known,

  That harp has rung, or pipe has blown,

  In Lowland vale or Highland glen,

  From Tweed to Spey—what marvel, then,

  At times, unbidden notes should rise,

  Confusedly bound in memory's ties,

  Entangling, as they rush along,

  The war-march with the funeral song?

  Small ground is now for boding fear;

  Obscure, but safe, we rest us here.

  My sire, in native virtue great,

  Resigning lordship, lands, and state,

  Not then to fortune more resigned,

  Than yonder oak might give the wind;

  The graceful foliage storms may reave,

  The noble stem they cannot grieve.

  For me,"—she stooped, and, looking round,

  Plucked a blue hare-bell from the ground—

  "For me, whose memory scarce conveys

  An image of more splendid days,

  This little flower, that loves the lea,

  May well my simple emblem be;

  It drinks heaven's dew as blithe as rose

  That in the king's own garden grows;

  And when I place it in my hair,

  Allan, a bard is bound to swear

  He ne'er saw coronet so fair."

  Then playfully the chaplet wild

  She wreathed in her dark locks, and smiled.

  X

  Her smile, her speech, with winning sway,

  Wiled the old harper's mood away.

  With such a look as hermits throw,

  When angels stoop to soothe their woe,

  He gazed, till fond regret and pride

  Thrilled to a tear, then thus replied:

  "Loveliest and best! thou little know'st

  The rank, the honors, thou hast lost!

  O might I live to see thee grace,

  In Scotland's court, thy birth-right place,

  To see my favorite's step advance,

  The lightest in the courtly dance,

  The cause of every gallant's sigh,

  And leading star of every eye,

  And theme of every minstrel's art,

  The Lady of the Bleeding Heart!"note

  XI

  "Fair dreams are these," the maiden cried —

  Light was her accent, yet she sighed—

  "Yet is t
his mossy rock to me

  Worth splendid chair and canopy;

  Nor would my footsteps spring more gay

  In courtly dance than blithe strathspey,

  Nor half so pleased mine ear incline

  To royal minstrel's lay as thine.

  And then for suitors proud and high,

  To bend before my conquering eye—

  Thou, flattering bard! thyself wilt say,

  That grim Sir Roderick owns its sway.

  The Saxon scourge, Clan-Alpine's pride,

  The terror of Loch-Lomond's side,

  Would, at my suit, thou know'st, delay

  A Lennox foray—for a day."note

  XII

  The ancient bard his glee repressed:

  "Ill hast thou chosen theme for jest!

  For who, through all this western wild,

  Named Black Sir Roderick e'er, and smiled!

  In Holy-Rood a knight he slew;

  I saw, when back the dirk he drew,

  Courtiers give place before the stride

  Of the undaunted homicide;

  And since, though outlawed, hath his hand

  Full sternly kept his mountain land.

  Who else dared give—ah! woe the day,

  That I such hated truth should say—

  The Douglas, like a stricken deer,

  Disowned by every noble peer,

  Even the rude refuge we have here?

  Alas, this wild marauding Chief

  Alone might hazard our relief,

  And now thy maiden charms expand,

  Looks for his guerdon in thy hand;

  Full soon may dispensation sought,

  To back his suit, from Rome he brought.

  Then, though an exile on the hill,

  Thy father, as the Douglas, still

  Be held in reverence and fear;

  And though to Roderick thou'rt so dear,

  That thou might'st guide with silken thread,

  Slave of thy will, this chieftain dread;

  Yet, O loved maid, thy mirth refrain!

  Thy hand is on a lion's mane."

  XIII

  "Minstrel," the maid replied, and high

  Her father's soul glanced from her eye,

  "My debts to Roderick's house I know:

  All that a mother could bestow,

  To Lady Margaret's care I owe,

  Since first an orphan in the wild

  She sorrowed o'er her sister's child;

  To her brave chieftain son, from ire

  Of Scotland's king who shrouds my sire.

  A deeper, holier debt is owed;

  And, could I pay it with my blood,

  Allan! Sir Roderick should command

  My blood, my life—but not my hand.

  Rather will Ellen Douglas dwell

  A votaress in Maronnan's cell;

  Rather through realms beyond the sea,

  Seeking the world's cold charity,

  Where ne'er was spoke a Scottish word,

  And ne'er the name of Douglas heard,

  An outcast pilgrim will she rove,

  Than wed the man she cannot love.

  XIV

  "Thou shakest, good friend, thy tresses gray—

  That pleading look, what can it say

  But what I own?—I grant him brave,

  But wild as Bracklinn's thundering wave;

  And generous—save vindictive mood,

  Or jealous transport, chafe his blood;

  I grant him true to friendly band,

  As his claymore is to his hand;

  But O! that very blade of steel

  More mercy for a foe would feel:

  I grant him liberal, to fling

  Among his clan the wealth they bring,

  When back by lake and glen they wind,

  And in the Lowland leave behind,

  Where once some pleasant hamlet stood,

  A mass of ashes slaked with blood.

  The hand that for my father fought,

  I honor, as his daughter ought;

  But can I clasp it reeking red,

  From peasants slaughtered in their shed?

  No! wildly while his virtues gleam,

  They make his passions darker seem,

  And flash along his spirit high,

  Like lightning o'er the midnight sky.

  While yet a child—and children know,

  Instinctive taught, the friend and foe—

  I shuddered at his brow of gloom,

  His shadowy plaid, and sable plume;

  A maiden grown, I ill could bear

  His haughty mien and lordly air;

  But, if thou join'st a suitor's claim,

  In serious mood, to Roderick's name,

  I thrill with anguish! or, if e'er

  A Douglas knew the word, with fear.

  To change such odious theme were best—

  What think'st thou of our stranger guest?"

  XV

  "What think I of him?—woe the while

  That brought such wanderer to our isle!

  Thy father's battle-brand, of yore

  For Tine-man forged by fairy lore.

  What time he leagued, no longer foes,

  His Border spears with Hotspur's bows,

  Did, self-unscabbarded, foreshow

  The footstep of a secret foe.

  If courtly spy hath harbored here,

  What may we for the Douglas fear?

  What for this island, deemed of old

  Clan-Alpine's last and surest hold?

  If neither spy nor foe, I pray

  What yet may jealous Roderick say? —

  Nay, wave not thy disdainful head,

  Bethink thee of the discord dread,

  That kindled when at Beltane gamenote

  Thou ledst the dance with Malcolm Graeme;

  Still, though thy sire the peace renewed,

  Smolders in Roderick's breast the feud;

  Beware!—But hark, what sounds are these?

  My dull ears catch no faltering breeze,

  No weeping birch, nor aspens wake,

  Nor breath is dimpling in the lake,

  Still is the canna's hoary beard,

  Yet, by my minstrel faith, I heard—

  And hark again! some pipe of war

  Sends the bold pibroch from afar."

  XVI

  Far up the lengthened lake were spied

  Four darkening specks upon the tide,

  That, slow enlarging on the view,

  Four manned and masted barges grew,

  And, bearing downwards from Glengyle,

  Steered full upon the lonely isle;

  The point of Brianchoil they passed,

  And, to the windward as they cast,

  Against the sun they gave to shine

  The bold Sir Roderick's bannered Pine.

  Nearer and nearer as they bear,

  Spears, pikes, and axes flash in air.

  Now might you see the tartans brave,

  And plaids and plumage dance and wave;

  Now see the bonnets sink and rise,

  As his tough oar the rower plies;

  See, flashing at each sturdy stroke,

  The wave ascending into smoke;

  See the proud pipers on the bow,

  And mark the gaudy streamers flow

  From their loud chanters down, and sweep

  The furrowed bosom of the deep,

  As, rushing through the lake amain,

  They plied the ancient Highland strain.

  XVII

  Ever, as on they bore, more loud

  And louder rung the pibroch proud.

  At first the sound, by distance tame,

  Mellowed along the waters came,

  And, lingering long by cape and bay,

  Wailed every harsher note away,

  Then bursting bolder on the ear,

  The clan's shrill Gathering they could hear;

  Those thrilling sounds, that call th
e might

  Of Old Clan-Alpine to the fight.

  Thick beat the rapid notes, as when

  The mustering hundreds shake the glen,

  And hurrying at the signal dread,

  The battered earth returns their tread.

  Then prelude light, of livelier tone,

  Expressed their merry marching on,

  Ere peal of closing battle rose,

  With mingled outcry, shrieks, and blows;

  And mimic din of stroke and ward,

  As broad sword upon target jarred;

  And groaning pause, ere yet again,

  Condensed, the battle yelled amain;

  The rapid charge, the rallying shout,

  Retreat borne headlong into rout,

  And bursts of triumph, to declare

  Clan-Alpine's conquest—all were there.

  Nor ended thus the strain; but slow

  Sunk in a moan prolonged and low,

  And changed the conquering clarion swell,

  For wild lament o'er those that fell.

  XVIII

  The war-pipes ceased; but lake and hill

  Were busy with their echoes still;

  And, when they slept, a vocal strain

  Bade their hoarse chorus wake again,

  While loud a hundred clansmen raise

  Their voices in their Chieftain's praise.

  Each boatman, bending to his oar,

  With measured sweep the burden bore,