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, 580 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. 585 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, 590 "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, 595 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, 600 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; 605 Ellen, though more her looks displayed The simple grace of silvan maid, In speech and gesture, form and face, Showed she was come of gentle race. 'Twere strange in ruder rank to find 610 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: 615 "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, 620 'Tis thus our charmed rimes 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 no breaking; 625 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, 630 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. 635