annalee

<div class="legacy-text">But scarce again his horn he wound,<br />When lo! forth starting at the sound,<br />From underneath an aged oak<br />That slanted from the islet rock,<br />A damsel guider of its way,<br />A little skiff shot to the bay,<br />That round the promontory steep<br />Led its deep line in graceful sweep,<br />Eddying, in almost viewless wave,<br />The weeping willow twig to rave,<br />And kiss, with whispering sound and slow,<br />The beach of pebbles bright as snow.<br /> The boat had touched this silver strand<br />Just as the Hunter left his stand,<br />And stood concealed amid the brake,<br />To view this Lady of the Lake.<br /> The maiden paused, as if again<br />She thought to catch the distant strain.<br />With head upraised, and look intent,<br />And eye and ear attentive bent,<br />And locks flung back, and lips apart,<br />Like monument of Grecian art,<br />In listening mood, she seemed to stand,<br />The guardian Naiad of the strand.<br /><br /><br />XVIII.<br /><br />And ne'er did Grecian chisel trace<br />A Nymph, a Naiad, or a Grace,<br />Of finer form or lovelier face!<br />What though the sun, with ardent frown,<br />Had slightly tinged her cheek with brown,--<br />The sportive toil, which, short and light<br />Had dyed her glowing hue so bright,<br />Served too in hastier swell to show<br />Short glimpses of a breast of snow:<br />What though no rule of courtly grace<br />To measured mood had trained her pace,--<br />A foot more light, a step more true,<br />Ne'er from the heath-flower dashed the dew;<br />E'en the slight harebell raised its head,<br />Elastic from her airy tread:<br />What though upon her speech there hung<br /> The accents of the mountain tongue,---<br />Those silver sounds, so soft, so dear,<br />The listener held his breath to hear!<br /><br /><br />XIX.<br /><br />A chieftain's daughter seemed the maid;<br />Her satin snood, her silken plaid,<br />Her golden brooch, such birth betrayed.<br />And seldom was a snood amid<br />Such wild luxuriant ringlets hid,<br />Whose glossy black to shame might bring<br />The plumage of the raven's wing;<br />And seldom o'er a breast so fair<br />Mantled a plaid with modest care,<br />And never brooch the folds combined<br />Above a heart more good and kind.<br />Her kindness and her worth to spy,<br />You need but gaze on Ellen's eye;<br /> Not Katrine in her mirror blue<br />Gives back the shaggy banks more true,<br />Than every free-born glance confessed<br />The guileless movements of her breast;<br />Whether joy danced in her dark eye,<br />Or woe or pity claimed a sigh,<br />Or filial love was glowing there,<br />Or meek devotion poured a prayer,<br />Or tale of injury called forth<br />The indignant spirit of the North.<br />One only passion unrevealed<br />With maiden pride the maid concealed,<br />Yet not less purely felt the flame;--<br />O, need I tell that passion's name?<br /><br />(Lady of the Lake - Sir Walter Scott)</div>