THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. Walter Scott

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       In that soft vale, a lady’s bower;

       On yonder meadow far away,

       The turrets of a cloister gray;

       How blithely might the bugle-horn

       Chide on the lake the lingering morn!

       How sweet at eve the lover’s lute

       Chime when the groves were still and mute!

       And when the midnight moon should lave

       Her forehead in the silver wave,

       How solemn on the ear would come

       The holy matins’ distant hum,

       While the deep peal’s commanding tone

       Should wake, in yonder islet lone,

       A sainted hermit from his cell,

       To drop a bead with every knell!

       And bugle, lute, and bell, and all,

       Should each bewildered stranger call

       To friendly feast and lighted hall.

       XVI

      ‘Blithe were it then to wander here!

       But now—beshrew yon nimble deer—

       Like that same hermit’s, thin and spare,

       The copse must give my evening fare;

       Some mossy bank my couch must be,

       Some rustling oak my canopy.

       Yet pass we that; the war and chase

       Give little choice of resting-place;—

       A summer night in greenwood spent

       Were but tomorrow’s merriment:

       But hosts may in these wilds abound,

       Such as are better missed than found;

       To meet with Highland plunderers here

       Were worse than loss of steed or deer.—

       I am alone;—my bugle-strain

       May call some straggler of the train;

       Or, fall the worst that may betide,

       Ere now this falchion has been tried.’

       XVII

      But scarce again his horn he wound,

       When lo! forth starting at the sound,

       From underneath an aged oak

       That slanted from the islet rock,

       A damsel guider of its way,

       A little skiff shot to the bay,

       That round the promontory steep

       Led its deep line in graceful sweep,

       Eddying, in almost viewless wave,

       The weeping willow twig to rave,

       And kiss, with whispering sound and slow,

       The beach of pebbles bright as snow.

       The boat had touched this silver strand

       Just as the Hunter left his stand,

       And stood concealed amid the brake,

       To view this Lady of the Lake.

       The maiden paused, as if again

       She thought to catch the distant strain.

       With head upraised, and look intent,

       And eye and ear attentive bent,

       And locks flung back, and lips apart,

       Like monument of Grecian art,

       In listening mood, she seemed to stand,

       The guardian Naiad of the strand.

       XVIII

      And ne’er did Grecian chisel trace

       A Nymph, a Naiad, or a Grace,

       Of finer form or lovelier face!

       What though the sun, with ardent frown,

       Had slightly tinged her cheek with brown,—

       The sportive toil, which, short and light

       Had dyed her glowing hue so bright,

       Served too in hastier swell to show

       Short glimpses of a breast of snow:

       What though no rule of courtly grace

       To measured mood had trained her pace,—

       A foot more light, a step more true,

       Ne’er from the heath-flower dashed the dew;

       E’en the slight harebell raised its head,

       Elastic from her airy tread:

       What though upon her speech there hung

       The accents of the mountain tongue,–

       Those silver sounds, so soft, so dear,

       The listener held his breath to hear!

       XIX

      A chieftain’s daughter seemed the maid;

       Her satin snood, her silken plaid,

       Her golden brooch, such birth betrayed.

       And seldom was a snood amid

       Such wild luxuriant ringlets hid,

       Whose glossy black to shame might bring

       The plumage of the raven’s wing;

       And seldom o’er a breast so fair

       Mantled a plaid with modest care,

       And never brooch the folds combined

       Above a heart more good and kind.

       Her kindness and her worth to spy,

       You need but gaze on Ellen’s СКАЧАТЬ