VOL. IV. LAKE CORISKIN. [From The Lord of the Isles, Canto III.] A while their route they silent made, As men who stalk for mountain-deer, 'Saint Mary! what a scene is here! A scene so rude, so wild as this, Ne'er did my wandering footsteps press, No marvel thus the Monarch spake ; With its dark ledge of barren stone. Through the rude bosom of the hill, Tells of the outrage still. The wildest glen, but this, can show Р Nor tree, nor shrub, nor plant, nor flower, The weary eye may ken. For all is rocks at random thrown, Black waves, bare crags, and banks of stone, The summer sun, the spring's sweet dew, The bleakest mountain-side. And wilder, forward as they wound, For from the mountain hoar, And some, chance-poised and balanced, lay The evening mists, with ceaseless change, And round the skirts their mantle furl'd, Or on the eddying breezes whirl'd, Dispersed in middle air. And oft, condensed, at once they lower, And when return the sun's glad beams, Leap from the mountain's crown. 'This lake,' said Bruce, 'whose barriers drear Are precipices sharp and sheer, Yielding no track for goat or deer, Save the black shelves we tread, How term you its dark waves? and how That to the evening sun uplifts Which seam its shiver'd head?'- (The Maids-tall cliffs with breakers white, Of Corryvrekin's whirlpool rude, When dons the Hag her whiten'd hood- THE EVE OF ST. JOHN. The Baron of Smaylho'me rose with day, Without stop or stay, down the rocky way, That leads to Brotherstone. He went not with the bold Buccleuch, His banner broad to rear ; He went not 'gainst the English yew, Yet his plate-jack1 was braced, and his helmet was laced, At his saddle-gerthe was a good steel sperthe, The Baron returned in three days' space, And his looks were sad and sour; And weary was his courser's pace, He came not from where Ancram Moor Where the Douglas true, and the bold Buccleuch, Yet was his helmet hacked and hewed, His acton pierced and tore, His axe and his dagger with blood imbrued,— But it was not English gore. He lighted at the Chapellage, He held him close and still; And he whistled thrice for his little foot-page, His name was English Will. 'Come thou hither, my little foot-page, Come hither to my knee; Though thou art young, and tender of age, I think thou art true to me. 'Come, tell me all that thou hast seen, And look thou tell me true! Since I from Smaylho'me tower have been, 'My lady, each night, sought the lonely light For, from height to height, the beacons bright 1 The plate-jack is coat armour; the vaunt-brace, or wam-brace, armour for the body; the sperthe, a battle-axe. 'The bittern clamoured from the moss, 'I watched her steps, and silent came No watchman stood by the dreary flame; 'The second night I kept her in sight, And, by Mary's might! an armèd Knight 'And many a word that warlike lord Did speak to my lady there ; But the rain fell fast, and loud blew the blast, And I heard not what they were. 'The third night there the sky was fair, And the mountain-blast was still, As again I watched the secret pair, On the lonesome Beacon Hill. 'And I heard her name the midnight hour, And name this holy eve; And say, "Come this night to thy lady's bower; Ask no bold Baron's leave. "He lifts his spear with the bold Buccleuch ; His lady is all alone; The door she'll undo to her knight so true, ""I cannot come; I must not come; I dare not come to thee; On the eve of St. John I must wander alone; In thy bower I may not be.”— "Now, out on thee, faint-hearted knight! For the eve is sweet, and when lovers meet, |