A thousand graces did the maid adorn: Her looks were charming, and her heart was kind; Her eyes were like the windows of the morn, And Wisdom’s habitation was her mind. A hundred heroes try’d her love to gain; She pity’d them, yet did their suits deny; Young Albyn only courted not in vain, Albyn alone was lovely in her eye: Love filled their bosoms with a mutual flame; Their birth was equal, and their age the same. Her mother Mey, a woman void of truth, In practice of deceit and guile grown old, Conceived a guilty passion for the youth, And in his ear the shameful story told; But o’er his mind she never could prevail, For in his life no wickedness was found; With shame and rage he heard the horrid tale, And shook with indignation at the sound; He fled to shun her; while with burning wrath The monster, in revenge, decreed her death. Amidst Lochmey, a distance from the shore, On a green island, grew a stately tree, With precious fruit each season cover’d o’er, Delightful to the taste and fair to see. This fruit more sweet than virgin honey found, Serv’d both alike for physic and for food: It cured diseases, heal’d the bleeding wound, And hunger’s rage for three long days withstood, And precious things are purchas’d still with pain, And thousands try’d to pluck it, but in vain. For at the root of this delightful tree, A venomous and awful dragon lay, With watchful eyes, all horrible to see. Who drove th’ affrighted passengers away; Worse than the viper’s sting its teeth did wound The wretch who felt it soon behov’d to die; Nor could physicians ever yet be found Who might a certain antidote apply: Even they whose skill had sav’d a mighty host, Against its bite no remedy could boast. Revengeful Mey, her fury to appease, And him destroy who durst her passion slight, Feign’d to be stricken with a dire disease, And call’d the hopeless Albin to her sight: “Arise, young hero! skill’d in feats of war, On yonder lake your dauntless courage prove, To pull me of the fruit, now bravely dare, And save the mother of the maid you love; I die without its influence divine, Nor will I taste it from a hand but thine.” With downcast look the lovely youth reply’d, “Though yet my feats of valour have been few, My might in this adventure shall be try’d; I go to pull the healing fruit for you.” With stately steps approaching to the deep The hardy hero swims the liquid tide: With joy he finds the dragon fast asleep, Then pulls the fruit, and comes in safety back; Then with a cheerful countenance, and gay, He gives the present to the hands of Mey.