At morn the blackcock trims his jetty wing,note
 'Tis morning prompts the linnet's blithest lay,
 All Nature's children feel the matin spring
 Of life reviving, with reviving day;
 5 And while yon little bark glides down the bay,
 Wafting the stranger on his way again,
 Morn's genial influence roused a minstrel gray,note
 And sweetly o'er the lake was heard thy strain,
 Mixed with the sounding harp, O white-haired Allan-bane!

II

SONG

10 "Not faster yonder rowers' might
 Flings from their oars the spray,
 Not faster yonder rippling bright,
 That tracks the shallop's course in light,
 Melts in the lake away,
 15 Than men from memory erase
 The benefits of former days;
 Then, stranger, go! good speed the while,
 Nor think again of the lonely isle.
"High place to thee in royal court,
 20 High place in battle line,
 Good hawk and hound for silvan sport,
 Where beauty sees the brave resort;
 The honored meed be thine!
 True be thy sword, thy friend sincere,
 25 Thy lady constant, kind and dear,
 And lost in love, and friendship's smile
 Be memory of the lonely isle.

III

SONG (Continued)

"But if beneath yon southern sky
 A plaided stranger roam
 30 Whose drooping crest and stifled sigh,
 And sunken cheek and heavy eye,
 Pine for his Highland home;
 Then, warrior, then be thine to show
 The care that soothes a wanderer's woe;
 35 Remember then thy hap ere while,
 A stranger in the lonely isle.
"Or if on life's uncertain main
 Mishap shall mar thy sail;
 If faithful, wise, and brave in vain,
 40 Woe, want, and exile thou sustain
 Beneath the fickle gale;
 Waste not a sigh on fortune changed,
 On thankless courts, or friends estranged,
 But come where kindred worth shall smile,
 45 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,
 50 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,
 55 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;
 60 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,
 65 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,note
 70 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!
 75 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,
 80 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,
 85 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,
 90 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,
 95 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—
 100 "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,
 105 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!"
 110 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
 115 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,
 120 "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
 125 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!
 130 If, as my tuneful fathers said,
 This harp, which erst Saint Modan swayed,note
 Can thus its master's fate foretell,
 Then welcome be the minstrel's knell!

VIII

"But ah! dear lady, thus it sighed
 135 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,
 140 And, disobedient to my call,
 Wailed loud through Bothwell's bannered hall,note
 Ere Douglases to ruin driven,
 Were exiled from their native heaven.
 Oh! if yet worse mishap and woe,
 145 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;
 150 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,
 155 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,note
 160 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;
 165 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;
 170 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
 175 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;
 180 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

185 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
 190 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,
 195 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,
 200 The Lady of the Bleeding Heart!"note

XI

"Fair dreams are these," the maiden cried
 —Light was her accent, yet she sighed—
 "Yet is this mossy rock to me
 Worth splendid chair and canopy;
 205 Nor would my footsteps spring more gay
 In courtly dance than blithe strathspey,note
 Nor half so pleased mine ear incline
 To royal minstrel's lay as thine.
 And then for suitors proud and high,
 210 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,note
 The terror of Loch-Lomond's side,
 215 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,
 220 Named Black Sir Roderick e'er, and smiled!
 In Holy-Rood a knight he slew;note
I saw, when back the dirk he drew,
 Courtiers give place before the stride
 Of the undaunted homicide;
 225 And since, though outlawed, hath his hand
 Full sternly kept his mountain land.
 Who else dared give—ah! woe the day,note
 That I such hated truth should say—
 The Douglas, like a stricken deer,
 230 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,
 235 Looks for his guerdon in thy hand;
 Full soon may dispensation sought,note
 To back his suit, from Rome he brought.
 Then, though an exile on the hill,
 Thy father, as the Douglas, still
 240 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!
 245 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,note
 250 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.
 255 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
 260 A votaress in Maronnan's cell;note
 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,
 265 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,
 270 But wild as Bracklinn's thundering wave;note
 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;note
 275 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,
 280 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;
 285 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,
 290 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;
 295 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
 300 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!
 305 Thy father's battle-brand, of yorenote
 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
 310 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?
 315 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
 320 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,
 325 No weeping birch, nor aspens wake,
 Nor breath is dimpling in the lake,
 Still is the canna's hoary beard,note
 Yet, by my minstrel faith, I heard—
 And hark again! some pipe of war
 330 Sends the bold pibroch from afar."

XVI

Far up the lengthened lake were spiednote
 Four darkening specks upon the tide,
 That, slow enlarging on the view,
 Four manned and masted barges grew,note
 335 And, bearing downwards from Glengyle,note
 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
 340 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,note
 And plaids and plumage dance and wave;
 345 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,
 350 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

355 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,
 360 Wailed every harsher note away,
 Then bursting bolder on the ear,
 The clan's shrill Gathering they could hear;
 Those thrilling sounds, that call the might
 Of Old Clan-Alpine to the fight.
 365 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,
 370 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;
 375 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
 380 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

385 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
 390 Their voices in their Chieftain's praise.
 Each boatman, bending to his oar,
 With measured sweep the burden bore,
 In such wild cadence, as the breeze
 Makes through December's leafless trees.
 395 The chorus first could Allan know,note
 "Roderick Vich Alpine, ho! iro!"
 And near, and nearer as they rowed,
 Distinct the martial ditty flowed.

XIX

BOAT SONG

Hail to the Chief who in triumph advances!
 400 Honored and blessed be the ever-green Pine!
 Long may the tree, in his banner that glances,
 Flourish, the shelter and grace of our line!
 Heaven send it happy dew,
 Earth lend it sap anew,
 405 Gayly to borgeon, and broadly to grow,
 While every Highland glen
 Sends our shout back again,
 "Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!"note
Ours is no sapling, chance-sown by the fountain,
 410 Blooming at Beltane, in winter to fade;note
 When the whirlwind has stripped every leaf on the mountain,
 The more shall Clan-Alpine exult in her shade.
 Moored in the rifted rock,
 Proof to the tempest's shock,
 415 Firmer he roots him the ruder it blow;
 Menteith and Breadalbane, then,note
 Echo his praise again,
 "Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!"

XX

Proudly our pibroch has thrilled in Glen Fruin,note
 420 And Bannochar's groans to our slogan replied;
 Glen Luss and Ross-dhu, they are smoking in ruin,
 And the best of Loch-Lomond lie dead on her side.
 Widow and Saxon maid
 Long shall lament our raid,
 425 Think of Clan-Alpine with fear and with woe;
 Lennox and Leven-glen
 Shake when they hear again
 "Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!"
Row, vassals, row, for the pride of the highlands!
 430 Stretch to your oars, for the ever-green Pine!
 O that the rose-bud that graces yon islands,note
 Were wreathed in a garland around him to twine!
 O that some seedling gem,
 Worthy such noble stem,
 435 Honored and blest in their shadow might grow;
 Loud should Clan-Alpine then
 Ring from her deepmost glen,
 "Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!"

XXI

With all her joyful female band,
 440 Had Lady Margaret sought the strand.
 Loose on the breeze their tresses flew,
 And high their snowy arms they threw,
 As echoing back with shrill acclaim,
 And chorus wild, the Chieftain's name;
 445 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,
 450 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:
 455 "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 mountain side."
 Then, like a sunbeam, swift and bright,
 460 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

465 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,
 470 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,
 475 Such holy drops her tresses steeped,
 Though 'twas 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,
 480 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;
 485 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
 490 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
 495 O'er the arched gate of Bothwell proud,
 While many a minstrel answered loud,
 When Percy's Norman pennon, wonnote
 In bloody field, before me shone,
 And twice ten knights, the least a name
 500 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 marshaled crowd,
 Though the waned crescent owned my might,note
 505 And in my train trooped lord and knight,
 Though Blantyre hymned her holiest lays,note
 And Bothwell's bards flung back my praise,
 As when this old man's silent tear,
 And this poor maid's affection dear,
 510 A welcome give more kind and true,
 Than aught my better fortunes knew.
 Forgive, my friend, a father's boast,
 Oh! it out-beggars all I lost!"

XXIV

Delightful praise!—like summer rose,
 515 That brighter in the dew-drop glows,
 The bashful maiden's cheek appeared,
 For Douglas spoke and Malcolm heard.
 The flush of shame-faced joy to hide,
 The hounds, the hawk, her cares divide;
 520 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,
 525 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,
 530 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 tall, and slender frame,
 535 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.
 540 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,
 545 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.
 550 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,
 555 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,
 560 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.

XXVI