Xxxvii

Then spoke abrupt: "Farewell to thee, Pattern of old fidelity!" The Minstrel's hand he kindly pressed-- "Oh, could I point a place of rest! My sovereign holds in ward my land, My uncle leads my vassal band; To tame his foes, his friends to aid, Poor Malcolm has but heart and blade. Yet, if there be one faithful Graeme, Who loves the chieftain of his name, Not long shall honored Douglas dwell Like hunted stag in mountain cell; Nor, ere yon pride-swoll'n robber dare, I might not give the rest to air! Tell Roderick Dhu, I owed him nought, Not the poor service of a boat, To waft me to yon mountain-side." Then plunged he in the flashing tide. Bold o'er the flood his head he bore, And stoutly steered him from the shore; And Allan strained his anxious eye, Far mid the lake his form to spy, Darkening across each puny wave, To which the moon her silver gave, Fast as the cormorant could skim, The swimmer plied each active limb; Then landing in the moonlight dell, Loud shouted of his weal to tell. The Minstrel heard the far halloo, And joyful from the shore withdrew.