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 eve!
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!' 'T was 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.
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 bidst, O noble maid,' Clasping his withered hands, he said, 'Vainly thou bidst 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.'