The Lady of the Lake Chapter 3: Part 3

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 toss, 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 fey in fairy land!'-- XXIII. '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 tasselled horn so gayly gilt, 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; 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, 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 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 noble hand had grasped an oar: 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 passage ply. Nor frequent does the bright oar break The darkening mirror of the lake, Until the rocky isle they reach, And moor their shallop on the beach. XXV. The stranger viewed the shore around; 'T was all so close with copsewood bound, 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, 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. 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 hoar trunks bared, And by the hatchet rudely squared, To give the walls their destined height, The sturdy oak and ash unite; While moss and clay and leaves combined To fence each crevice from the wind. 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, 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, 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, And gayly 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!'-- 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, 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: A target there, a bugle here, A battle-axe, a hunting-spear, And broadswords, bows, and arrows store, With the tusked trophies of the boar. Here grins the wolf as when he died, 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, 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 sylvan hall. XXVIII. The wondering stranger round him gazed, And next the fallen weapon raised:-- Few were the arms whose sinewy strength Sufficed to stretch it forth at length. And as the brand he poised and swayed, 'I never knew but one,' he said, 'Whose stalwart arm might brook to wield A blade like this in battle-field.' She sighed, then smiled and took the word: 'You see the guardian champion's sword; As light it trembles in his hand As in my grasp a hazel wand: My sire's tall form might grace the part Of Ferragus or Ascabart, But in the absent giant's hold Are women now, and menials old.' XXIX. The mistress of the mansion came, Mature of age, a graceful dame, Whose easy step and stately port Had well become a princely court, To whom, though more than kindred knew, Young Ellen gave a mother's due. Meet welcome to her guest she made, And every courteous rite was paid That hospitality could claim, Though all unasked his birth and name. Such then the reverence to a guest, That fellest foe might join the feast, And from his deadliest foeman's door Unquestioned turn the banquet o'er At length his rank the stranger names, 'The Knight of Snowdoun, James Fitz-James; Lord of a barren heritage, Which his brave sires, from age to age, By their good swords had held with toil; His sire had fallen in such turmoil, And he, God wot, was forced to stand Oft for his right with blade in hand. This morning with Lord Moray's train He chased a stalwart stag in vain, Outstripped his comrades, missed the deer, Lost his good steed, and wandered here.' XXX. Fain would the Knight in turn require The name and state of Ellen's sire. Well showed the elder lady's mien That courts and cities she had seen; Ellen, though more her looks displayed The simple grace of sylvan maid, In speech and gesture, form and face, Showed she was come of gentle race. 'T were strange in ruder rank to find Such looks, such manners, and such mind. Each hint the Knight of Snowdoun gave, Dame Margaret heard with silence grave; Or Ellen, innocently gay, Turned all inquiry light away:-- 'Weird women we! by dale and down We dwell, afar from tower and town. We stem the flood, we ride the blast, On wandering knights our spells we cast; While viewless minstrels touch the string, 'Tis thus our charmed rhymes we sing.' She sung, and still a harp unseen Filled up the symphony between. XXXI. Song. Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er, Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking; Dream of battled fields no more, Days of danger, nights of waking. In our isle's enchanted hall, Hands unseen thy couch are strewing, Fairy strains of music fall, Every sense in slumber dewing. Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er, Dream of fighting fields no more; Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking, Morn of toil, nor night of waking. 'No rude sound shall reach thine ear, Armor's clang or war-steed champing Trump nor pibroch summon here Mustering clan or squadron tramping. Yet the lark's shrill fife may come At the daybreak from the fallow, And the bittern sound his drum Booming from the sedgy shallow. Ruder sounds shall none be near, Guards nor warders challenge here, Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing, Shouting clans or squadrons stamping.' XXXII. She paused,--then, blushing, led the lay, To grace the stranger of the day. Her mellow notes awhile prolong The cadence of the flowing song, Till to her lips in measured frame The minstrel verse spontaneous came. Song Continued. 'Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done; While our slumbrous spells assail ye, Dream not, with the rising sun, Bugles here shall sound reveille. Sleep! the deer is in his den; Sleep! thy hounds are by thee lying; Sleep! nor dream in yonder glen How thy gallant steed lay dying. Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done; Think not of the rising sun, For at dawning to assail ye Here no bugles sound reveille.' XXXIII. The hall was cleared,--the stranger's bed, Was there of mountain heather spread, Where oft a hundred guests had lain, And dreamed their forest sports again. But vainly did the heath-flower shed Its moorland fragrance round his head; Not Ellen's spell had lulled to rest The fever of his troubled breast. In broken dreams the image rose Of varied perils, pains, and woes: His steed now flounders in the brake, Now sinks his barge upon the lake; Now leader of a broken host, His standard falls, his honor's lost. Then,--from my couch may heavenly might Chase that worst phantom of the night!-- Again returned the scenes of youth, Of confident, undoubting truth; Again his soul he interchanged With friends whose hearts were long estranged. They come, in dim procession led, The cold, the faithless, and the dead; As warm each hand, each brow as gay, As if they parted yesterday. And doubt distracts him at the view,-- O were his senses false or true? Dreamed he of death or broken vow, Or is it all a vision now? XXXIV. At length, with Ellen in a grove He seemed to walk and speak of love; She listened with a blush and sigh, His suit was warm, his hopes were high. He sought her yielded hand to clasp, And a cold gauntlet met his grasp: The phantom's sex was changed and gone, Upon its head a helmet shone; Slowly enlarged to giant size, With darkened cheek and threatening eyes, The grisly visage, stern and hoar, To Ellen still a likeness bore.-- He woke, and, panting with affright, Recalled the vision of the night. The hearth's decaying brands were red And deep and dusky lustre shed, Half showing, half concealing, all The uncouth trophies of the hall. Mid those the stranger fixed his eye Where that huge falchion hung on high, And thoughts on thoughts, a countless throng, Rushed, chasing countless thoughts along, Until, the giddy whirl to cure, He rose and sought the moonshine pure. XXXV. The wild rose, eglantine, and broom Wasted around their rich perfume; The birch-trees wept in fragrant balm; The aspens slept beneath