With all her joyful female band, 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; While prompt to please, with mother's art, The darling passion of his heart, The Dame call'd Ellen to the strand, To greet her kinsman ere he land: "Come, loiterer, come! a Douglas thou, And shun to wreathe a victor's brow?" Reluctantly and slow, the maid The unwelcome summoning obey'd, And, when a distant bugle rung, In the mid-path aside she sprung:-- "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, She darted to her shallop light, And, eagerly while Roderick scann'd, For her dear form, his mother's band, The islet far behind her lay, And she had landed in the bay. XXII. 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, 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 press'd, Such holy drops her tresses steep'd, Though 'twas an hero's eye that weep'd. Nor while on Ellen's faltering tongue Her filial welcomes crowded hung, Mark'd she, that fear (affection's proof) Still held a graceful youth aloof; No! not till Douglas named his name, Although the youth was Malcolm Græme. XXIII.