XXIX.
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ull well the conscious maiden guessedHe probed the weakness of her breast;But with that consciousness there cameA lightening of her fears for Graeme,And more she deemed the Monarch's ireKindled 'gainst him who for her sireRebellious broadsword boldly drew;And, to her generous feeling true,She craved the grace of Roderick Dhu.'Forbear thy suit;--the King of kingsAlone can stay life's parting wings.I know his heart, I know his hand,Have shared his cheer, and proved his brand;My fairest earldom would I giveTo bid Clan-Alpine's Chieftain live!--Hast thou no other boon to crave?No other captive friend to save?'Blushing, she turned her from the King,And to the Douglas gave the ring,As if she wished her sire to speakThe suit that stained her glowing cheek.'Nay, then, my pledge has lost its force,And stubborn justice holds her course.Malcolm, come forth!'--and, at the word,Down kneeled the Graeme to Scotland's Lord.'For thee, rash youth, no suppliant sues,From thee may Vengeance claim her dues,Who, nurtured underneath our smile,Hast paid our care by treacherous wile,And sought amid thy faithful clanA refuge for an outlawed man,Dishonoring thus thy loyal name.--Fetters and warder for the Graeme!'His chain of gold the King unstrung,The links o'er Malcolm's neck he flung,Then gently drew the glittering band,And laid the clasp on Ellen's hand. Harp of the North, farewell! The hills grow dark,On purple peaks a deeper shade descending;In twilight copse the glow-worm lights her spark,The deer, half seen, are to the covert wending.Resume thy wizard elm! the fountain lending,And the wild breeze, thy wilder minstrelsy;Thy numbers sweet with nature's vespers blending,With distant echo from the fold and lea,And herd-boy's evening pipe, and hum of housing bee. Yet, once again, farewell, thou Minstrel Harp!Yet, once again, forgive my feeble sway,And little reck I of the censure sharpMay idly cavil at an idle lay.Much have I owed thy strains on life's long way,Through secret woes the world has never known,When on the weary night dawned wearier day,And bitterer was the grief devoured alone.--That I o'erlive such woes, Enchantress! is thine own. Hark! as my lingering footsteps slow retire,Some Spirit of the Air has waked thy string!'Tis now a seraph bold, with touch of fire,'Tis now the brush of Fairy's frolic wing.Receding now, the dying numbers ringFainter and fainter down the rugged dell;And now the mountain breezes scarcely bringA wandering witch-note of the distant spell--And now, 'tis silent all!--Enchantress, fare thee well!
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