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..

The ancient bard her glee repressed: 
’Ill hast thou chosen theme for jest! 
For who, through all this western wild,
Named Black Sir Roderick e’er, and smiled? 
In Holy-Rood a knight he slew;
I saw, when back the dirk he drew,
Courtiers give place before the stride
Of the undaunted homicide;
And since, though outlawed, hath his hand
Full sternly kept his mountain land.

Who else dared give—­ah! woe the day,
That I such hated truth should say!—­
The Douglas, like a stricken deer,
Disowned by every noble peer,
Even the rude refuge we have here? 
Alas, this wild marauding
Chief Alone might hazard our relief,
And now thy maiden charms expand,
Looks for his guerdon in thy hand;
Full soon may dispensation sought,
To back his suit, from Rome be brought. 
Then, though an exile on the hill,
Thy father, as the Douglas, still
Be held in reverence and fear;
And though to Roderick thou’rt so dear
That thou mightst guide with silken thread. 
Slave of thy will, this chieftain dread,
Yet, O loved maid, thy mirth refrain! 
Thy hand is on a lion’s mane.’—­

XIII.

Minstrel,’ the maid replied, and high
Her father’s soul glanced from her eye,
’My debts to Roderick’s house I know: 
All that a mother could bestow
To Lady Margaret’s care I owe,
Since first an orphan in the wild
She sorrowed o’er her sister’s child;
To her brave chieftain son, from ire
Of Scotland’s king who shrouds my sire,
A deeper, holier debt is owed;
And, could I pay it with my blood, Allan! 
Sir Roderick should command
My blood, my life,—­but not my hand. 
Rather will Ellen Douglas dwell
A votaress in Maronnan’s cell;
Rather through realms beyond the sea,
Seeking the world’s cold charity
Where ne’er was spoke a Scottish word,
And ne’er the name of Douglas heard
An outcast pilgrim will she rove,
Than wed the man she cannot love.

XIV.