Lady of the Lake

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;