The Lady of the Lake

At morn the black-cock trims his jetty wing, 'T is morning prompts the linnet's blithest lay, All Nature's children feel the matin spring Of life reviving, with reviving day; And while yon little bark glides down the bay, Wafting the stranger on his way again, Morn's genial influence roused a minstrel gray, And sweetly o'er the lake was heard thy strain, Mixed with the sounding harp, O white-haired Allan-bane!

'Not faster yonder rowers' might Flings from their oars the spray, Not faster yonder rippling bright, That tracks the shallop's course in light, Melts in the lake away, Than men from memory erase The benefits of former days; Then, stranger, go! good speed the while, Nor think again of the lonely isle.

'High place to thee in royal court, High place in battled line, Good hawk and hound for sylvan sport! Where beauty sees the brave resort, The honored meed be thine! True be thy sword, thy friend sincere, Thy lady constant, kind, and dear, And lost in love's and friendship's smile Be memory of the lonely isle!

'But if beneath yon southern sky A plaided stranger roam, Whose drooping crest and stifled sigh, And sunken cheek and heavy eye, Pine for his Highland home; Then, warrior, then be thine to show The care that soothes a wanderer's woe; Remember then thy hap erewhile, A stranger in the lonely isle.

'Or if on life's uncertain main Mishap shall mar thy sail; If faithful, wise, and brave in vain, Woe, want, and exile thou sustain Beneath the fickle gale; Waste not a sigh on fortune changed, On thankless courts, or friends estranged, But come where kindred worth shall smile, To greet thee in the lonely isle.'

As died the sounds upon the tide, The shallop reached the mainland side, And ere his onward way he took, The stranger cast a lingering look, Where easily his eye might reach The Harper on the islet beach, Reclined against a blighted tree, As wasted, gray, and worn as he. To minstrel meditation given, His reverend brow was raised to heaven, As from the rising sun to claim A sparkle of inspiring flame. His hand, reclined upon the wire, Seemed watching the awakening fire; So still he sat as those who wait Till judgment speak the doom of fate; So still, as if no breeze might dare To lift one lock of hoary hair; So still, as life itself were fled In the last sound his harp had sped.