Soothing she answered him: 'Assuage, Mine honored friend, the fears of age; All melodies to thee are known That harp has rung or pipe has blown, In Lowland vale or Highland glen, From Tweed to Spey--what marvel, then, At times unbidden notes should rise, Confusedly bound in memory's ties, Entangling, as they rush along, The war-march with the funeral song?-- Small ground is now for boding fear; Obscure, but safe, we rest us here. My sire, in native virtue great, Resigning lordship, lands, and state, Not then to fortune more resigned Than yonder oak might give the wind; The graceful foliage storms may reeve, 'Fine noble stem they cannot grieve. For me'--she stooped, and, looking round, Plucked a blue harebell from the ground,-- 'For me, whose memory scarce conveys An image of more splendid days, This little flower that loves the lea May well my simple emblem be; It drinks heaven's dew as blithe as rose That in the King's own garden grows; And when I place it in my hair, Allan, a bard is bound to swear He ne'er saw coronet so fair.' Then playfully the chaplet wild She wreathed in her dark locks, and smiled. X. Her smile, her speech, with winning sway 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: '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 birthright place, To see my favorite's step advance 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!' 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 footstep spring more gay 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,-- 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 A Lennox foray--for a day.'-- XII..