But what is Gordon's beauteous face, And what are Gordon's crosses,
To them who sit by Kirtle's braes Upon the verdant mosses?
Alas that ever he was born!
The Gordon, couched behind a thorn, Sees them and their caressing; Beholds them blest and blessing.
Proud Gordon cannot bear the thoughts That through his brain are travelling,- And, starting up, to Bruce's heart He launched a deadly javelin ! Fair Ellen saw it when it came,
And, stepping forth to meet the same, Did with her body cover
The youth, her chosen lover.
And, falling into Bruce's arms,
Thus died the beauteous Ellen,
Thus, from the heart of her true love, The mortal spear repelling.
And Bruce, as soon as he had slain The Gordon, sailed away to Spain; And fought with rage incessant Against the Moorish crescent.
But many days, and many months, And many years ensuing,
This wretched knight did vainly seek The death that he was wooing: So coming his last help to crave, Heart-broken, upon Ellen's grave His body he extended,
And there his sorrow ended.
Now ye, who willingly have heard The tale I have been telling, May in Kirkonnel churchyard view The grave of lovely Ellen:
By Ellen's side the Bruce is laid; And, for the stone upon its head, May no rude hand deface it, And its forlorn HIC JACET!
TO A HIGHLAND GIRL.
SWEET Highland girl, a very shower Of beauty is thy earthly dower! Twice seven consenting years have shed Their utmost bounty on thy head:
And these gray rocks; this household lawn; These trees, a veil just half withdrawn; This fall of water, that doth make
A murmur near the silent lake; This little bay, a quiet road That holds in shelter thy abode; In truth together do ye seem Like something fashioned in a dream; Such forms as from their covert peep When earthly cares are laid asleep! Yet, dream and vision as thou art, I bless thee with a human heart: God shield thee to thy latest years! I neither know thee nor thy peers; And yet my eyes are filled with tears.
With earnest feeling I shall pray For thee when I am far away; For never saw I mien, or face, In which more plainly I could trace
Benignity and home-bred sense Ripening in perfect innocence. Here scattered like a random seed, Remote from men, thou dost not need The embarrassed look of shy distress, And maidenly shamefacedness:
Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear The freedom of a mountaineer. A face with gladness overspread! Soft smiles, by human kindness bred! And seemliness complete, that sways Thy courtesies, about thee plays; With no restraint, but such as springs From quick and eager visitings Of thoughts, that lie beyond the reach Of thy few words of English speech: A bondage sweetly brooked, a strife That gives thy gestures grace and life! So have I, not unmoved in mind, Seen birds of tempest-loving kind, Thus beating up against the wind.
What hand but would a garland cull For thee, who art so beautiful? Oh, happy pleasure! here to dwell Beside thee in some heathy dell; Adopt your homely ways and dress, A shepherd, thou a shepherdess! But I could frame a wish for thee More like a grave reality: Thou art to me but as a wave
Of the wild sea: and I would have Some claim upon thee, if I could, Though but of common neighbourhood. What joy to hear thee, and to see!
Thy elder brother I would be,
Thy father, anything to thee!
Now thanks to Heaven! that of its grace Hath led me to this lonely place.
Joy have I had; and going hence I bear away my recompense. In spots like these it is we prize Our memory, feel that she hath eyes: Then, why should I be loth to stir? I feel this place was made for her; To give new pleasure like the past, Continued long as life shall last. Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart, Sweet Highland girl! from thee to part; For I, methinks, till I grow old, As fair before me shall behold, As I do now, the cabin small, The lake, the bay, the waterfall; And thee, the spirit of them all!
GLEN-ALMAIN, OR, THE NARROW GLEN.
In this still place, remote from men, Sleeps Ossian, in the Narrow Glen; In this still place, where murmurs on But one meek streamlet, only one, He sang of battles, and the breath Of stormy war, and violent death; And should, methinks, when all was past, Have rightfully been laid at last
Where rocks were rudely heaped, and rent As by a spirit turbulent;
Where sights were rough, and sounds were wild, And every thing unreconciled;
In some complaining, dim retreat, For fear and melancholy meet; But this is calm; there cannot be A more entire tranquillity.
Does then the bard sleep here indeed? Or is it but a groundless creed! What matters it?-I blame them not Whose fancy in this lonely spot Was moved; and in such way expressed Their notion of its perfect rest. A convent, even a hermit's cell
Would break the silence of this dell: It is not quiet; is not ease;
But something deeper far than these: The separation that is here Is of the grave; and of austere Yet happy feelings of the dead: And, therefore, was it rightly said That Ossian, last of all his race! Lies buried in this lonely place.
"What! you are stepping westward?" "Yea." "Twould be a wildish destiny,
we, who thus together roam
In a strange land, and far from home, Were in this place the guests of chance; Yet who would stop, or fear to advance, Though home or shelter he had none, With such a sky to lead him on?
• The words of a woman's greeting to the poet by the side of Loch Katrine.
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