Upon a rock with lichens wild, Beside him Ellen sate and smiled.-- Smiled she to see the stately drake Lead forth his fleet[90] upon the lake, While her vex'd spaniel, from the beach, Bay'd at the prize beyond his reach? Yet tell me, then, the maid who knows, Why deepen'd 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! [90] Of ducks. VI. While yet he loiter'd on the spot, It seem'd as Ellen mark'd him not; But when he turn'd 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 staghounds by his side, He parts--the maid, unconscious still, Watch'd 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 strain'd 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 Græme!"[91] Scarce from her lip the word had rush'd, When deep the conscious maiden blush'd; For of his clan, in hall and bower, Young Malcolm Græme was held the flower. [91] The ancient and powerful family of Graham of Dumbarton and Stirling supplied some of the most remarkable characters in Scottish annals. 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 bidst, O noble maid," Clasping his wither'd 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 spann'd! 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. Oh, well for me, if mine alone That dirge's deep prophetic tone! If, as my tuneful fathers said, This harp, which erst[92] St. Modan[93] sway'd, Can thus its master's fate foretell, Then welcome be the Minstrel's knell!" [92] Long ago. [93] A Scotch abbot of the seventh century. VIII.