. Poetical works; with memoir of the author . h, 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, Neer from the heath-flower dashed the dew; Eeu the slight hare-bell raised its head, Elastic from her airy tread : What though upon her speech the
. Poetical works; with memoir of the author . h, 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, Neer from the heath-flower dashed the dew; Eeu the slight hare-bell 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 listner held his breath to hear. A chieftains 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 ravens wing ; And seldom oer a breast so fair, Mantled a plaid with modest care,. Canto /.] TIIE LADY OF TUE LAKE 203 And never brooch the folds combinedAbove a heart more good and kindness and her worth to spy,You need but gaze on Ellens eye ;Not Katrine, in her mirror blue,Gives back the shaggy banks more true,Than every free-born glance confessedThe guileless movements of her breast;Whether joy danced in her dark eye,Or woe or pity claimed a sigh,Or filial love was glowing there,Or meek devotion poured a prayer,Or tale of injury called forthThe indignant spirit of the only passion, unrevealed,With maiden pride the maid concealed,Yet not less purely felt the flame ;—0 need I tell that passions name ! Impatient of the silent horn, Now on the gale her voice was borne :— Father ! she cried ; the rocks around Loved to prolong the gentle sound. A while she paused, no answer came,— Malcolm, was thine (he blast! the name Less resolutely uttered fell, The echoes could not catch the swell. A stranger I
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