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 eye;
      Not Katrine in her mirror blue
     Gives back the shaggy banks more true,
     Than every free-born glance confessed
     The 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 forth
     The indignant spirit of the North.
     One only passion unrevealed
     With maiden pride the maid concealed,
     Yet not less purely felt the flame;—
     O, need I tell that passion's name?

     XX.

     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.
     Awhile she paused, no answer came;—
     'Malcolm, was thine the blast?' the name
     Less resolutely uttered fell,
     The echoes could not catch the swell.
     'A stranger I,' the Huntsman said,
     Advancing from the hazel shade.
     The maid, alarmed, with hasty oar
     Pushed her light shallop from the shore,
     And when a space was gained between,
     Closer she drew her bosom's screen;—
     So forth the startled swan would swing,
     So turn to prune his ruffled wing.
     Then safe, though fluttered and amazed,
     She paused, and on the stranger gazed.
     Not his the form, nor his the eye,
     That youthful maidens wont to fly.

     XXI.

     On his bold visage middle age
     Had slightly pressed its signet sage,
     Yet had not quenched the open truth
     And fiery vehemence of youth;
     Forward and frolic glee was there,
     The will to do, the soul to dare,
     The sparkling glance, soon blown to fire,
     Of hasty love or headlong ire.
     His limbs were cast in manly could
     For hardy sports or contest bold;
     And though in peaceful garb arrayed,
     And weaponless except his blade,
     His stately mien as well implied
     A high-born heart, a martial pride,
     As if a baron's crest he wore,
     And sheathed in armor bode the shore.
     Slighting the petty need he showed,
     He told of his benighted road;
     His ready speech flowed fair and free,
     In phrase of gentlest courtesy,
     Yet seemed that tone and gesture bland
     Less used to sue than to command.

     XXII.

     Awhile the maid the stranger eyed,
     And, reassured, at length replied,
     That Highland