Her smile, her speech, with winning sway, 185 Wiled the old harper's mood away. With such a look as hermits throw, When angels stoop to soothe their woe, He gazed, till fond regret and pride Thrilled to a tear, then thus replied: 190 "Loveliest and best! thou little know'st The rank, the honors, thou hast lost! O might I live to see thee grace, In Scotland's court, thy birth-right place, To see my favorite's step advance, 195 The lightest in the courtly dance, The cause of every gallant's sigh, And leading star of every eye, And theme of every minstrel's art, The Lady of the Bleeding Heart!" 200 XI "Fair dreams are these," the maiden cried --Light was her accent, yet she sighed-- "Yet is this mossy rock to me Worth splendid chair and canopy; Nor would my footsteps spring more gay 205 In courtly dance than blithe strathspey, Nor half so pleased mine ear incline To royal minstrel's lay as thine. And then for suitors proud and high, To bend before my conquering eye-- 210 Thou, flattering bard! thyself wilt say, That grim Sir Roderick owns its sway. The Saxon scourge, Clan-Alpine's pride, The terror of Loch-Lomond's side, Would, at my suit, thou know'st, delay 215 A Lennox foray--for a day." XII The ancient bard his glee repressed: "Ill hast thou chosen theme for jest! For who, through all this western wild, Named Black Sir Roderick e'er, and smiled! 220 In Holy-Rood a knight he slew; I saw, when back the dirk he drew, Courtiers give place before the stride Of the undaunted homicide; And since, though outlawed, hath his hand 225 Full sternly kept his mountain land. Who else dared give--ah! woe the day, That I such hated truth should say-- The Douglas, like a stricken deer, Disowned by every noble peer, 230 Even the rude refuge we have here? Alas, this wild marauding Chief Alone might hazard our relief, And now thy maiden charms expand, Looks for his guerdon in thy hand; 235 Full soon may dispensation sought, To back his suit, from Rome he brought. Then, though an exile on the hill, Thy father, as the Douglas, still Be held in reverence and fear; 240 And though to Roderick thou'rt so dear, That thou might'st guide with silken thread, Slave of thy will, this chieftain dread; Yet, O loved maid, thy mirth refrain! Thy hand is on a lion's mane." 245 XIII