Now with a trusty mountain-guide,
And his dark stag-hounds by his side,
He parts--the maid, unconscious still,
Watched him wind slowly round the hill; 95
But when his stately form was hid,
The guardian in her bosom chid--
"Thy Malcolm! vain and selfish maid!"
'Twas thus upbraiding conscience said--
"Not so had Malcolm idly hung 100
On the smooth phrase of southern tongue;
Not so had Malcolm strained his eye
Another step than thine to spy.
Wake, Allan-bane," aloud she cried,
To the old Minstrel by her side-- 105
"Arouse thee from thy moody dream!
I'll give thy harp heroic theme,
And warm thee with a noble name;
Pour forth the glory of the Graeme!"
Scarce from her lip the word had rushed, 110
When deep the conscious maiden blushed;
For of his clan, in hall and bower,
Young Malcolm Graeme was held the flower.

VII

The Minstrel waked his harp--three times
Arose the well-known martial chimes, 115
And thrice their high heroic pride
In melancholy murmurs died.
"Vainly thou bid'st, O noble maid,"
Clasping his withered hands, he said,
"Vainly thou bid'st me wake the strain, 120
Though all unwont to bid in vain.
Alas! than mine a mightier hand
Has tuned my harp, my strings has spanned!
I touch the chords of joy, but low
And mournful answer notes of woe; 125
And the proud march, which victors tread,
Sinks in the wailing for the dead.
O well for me, if mine alone
That dirge's deep prophetic tone!
If, as my tuneful fathers said, 130
This harp, which erst Saint Modan swayed,
Can thus its master's fate foretell,
Then welcome be the minstrel's knell!

VIII

"But ah! dear lady, thus it sighed
The eve thy sainted mother died; 135
And such the sounds which, while I strove
To wake a lay of war or love,
Came marring all the festal mirth,
Appalling me who gave them birth,
And, disobedient to my call, 140
Wailed loud through Bothwell's bannered hall,
Ere Douglases to ruin driven,
Were exiled from their native heaven.
Oh! if yet worse mishap and woe,
My master's house must undergo, 145
Or aught but we