'No, Allan, no' Pretext so kind My wakeful terrors could not blind. When in such tender tone, yet grave, Douglas a parting blessing gave, The tear that glistened in his eye Drowned not his purpose fixed and high. My soul, though feminine and weak, Can image his; e'en as the lake, Itself disturbed by slightest stroke. Reflects the invulnerable rock. He hears report of battle rife, He deems himself the cause of strife. I saw him redden when the theme Turned, Allan, on thine idle dream Of Malcolm Graeme in fetters bound, Which I, thou saidst, about him wound. Think'st thou he bowed thine omen aught? O no' 't was apprehensive thought For the kind youth,--for Roderick too-- Let me be just--that friend so true; In danger both, and in our cause! Minstrel, the Douglas dare not pause. Why else that solemn warning given, 'If not on earth, we meet in heaven!' Why else, to Cambus-kenneth's fane, If eve return him not again, Am I to hie and make me known? Alas! he goes to Scotland's throne, Buys his friends' safety with his own; He goes to do--what I had done, Had Douglas' daughter been his son!' XI. 'Nay, lovely Ellen!--dearest, nay! If aught should his return delay, He only named yon holy fane As fitting place to meet again. Be sure he's safe; and for the Graeme,-- Heaven's blessing on his gallant name!-- My visioned sight may yet prove true, Nor bode of ill to him or you. When did my gifted dream beguile? Think of the stranger at the isle, And think upon the harpings slow That presaged this approaching woe! Sooth was my prophecy of fear; Believe it when it augurs cheer. Would we had left this dismal spot! Ill luck still haunts a fairy spot! Of such a wondrous tale I know-- Dear lady, change that look of woe, My harp was wont thy grief to cheer.' Ellen. 'Well, be it as thou wilt; I hear, But cannot stop the bursting tear.' The Minstrel tried his simple art, Rut distant far was Ellen's heart. XII. Ballad. Alice Brand. Merry it is in the good greenwood, When the mavis and merle are singing, When the deer sweeps by, and the hounds are in cry, And the hunter's horn is ringing. 'O Alice Brand, my native land Is lost for love of you; And we must hold by wood and word, As outlaws wont to do. 'O Alice, 't was all for thy locks so bright, And 't was all for thine eyes so blue, That on the night of our luckless flight Thy brother bold I slew. 'Now must I teach to hew the beech The hand that held the glaive, For leaves to spread our lowly bed, And stakes to fence our cave.