"The first opening of the lower lake, from the east, is uncommonly picturesque. Directing the eye nearly westward, Bealomond raises its pyramidal mass in the background. In Bester prospect, you have gentle eminences, covered with oak and birch to the very summit; the bare rock sometimes peeping through amongst the clumps. Immediately under the eye, the lower lake, stretching out from narrow beginnings to a breadth of about half a mile, is seen in full prospect. On the right, the banks are skirted with extensive oak woods which cover the mountain more than half way up.

"Advancing to the westward, the view of the lake is lost for about a mile. The upper lake, which is by far the most exteve, is separated from the lower by a stream of about 200 yards in length. The most advantageous view of the upper lak presents itself from a rising ground near its lower extremity, where a footpath strikes off to the south, into the wood that overhangs this connecting stream. Looking westward, Bealomond is seen in the background, rising, at the distance of I miles, in the form of a regular cone, its sides presenting a gentle slope to the N.W. and S.E. On the right is the lofty ountain of Benoghrie, running west towards the deep vale in which Locheon lies concealed from the eye. In the foreground, Lochard stretches out to the west in the fairest prospect; its length three miles, and its breadth a mile and a half. On the right, it is skirted with woods; the northern and western extremity of the lake is diversified with meadows, and corn-fields, and farm-houses. On the left, few marks of cultivation are to

be seen.

"Farther on, the traveller passes along the verge of the lake under a ledge of rock, from thirty to fifty feet high; and, standmg immediately under this rock, towards its western extremity, be bas a double echo, of uncommon distinctness. Upon pro

nouncing, with a firm voice, a line of ten syllables, it is returned, first from the opposite side of the lake; and when tha is finished, it is repeated with equal distinctness from the wood on the east. The day must be perfectly calm, and the lake as smooth as glass, for otherwise no human voice can be returned from a distance of at least a quarter of a mile."-GRAHAM'S Sketches of Perthshire, 2d edit. p. 182, &c.

MS.-"Fresh vigor with the thought return'd,

With flying hoof the heath he spurn'd."

4 Cambus-more, within about two miles of Callender, on the wooded banks of the Keltie, a tributary of the Teith, is the seat of a family of the name of Buchanan, whom the Poet frequently visited in his younger days.

• Benledi is a magnificent mountain, 3009 feet in height, which bounds the horizon on the northwest from Callender. The name, according to Celtic etymologists, signifies the Mountain of God.

6 Two mountain streams-the one flowing from Loch Voil, by the pass of Leny; the other from Loch Katrine, by Loch Achray and Loch Vennachar, unite at Callender; and the river thus formed thenceforth takes the name of Teith. Hence the designation of the territory of Menteith.

7" Loch Vennachar, a beautiful expanse of water, of abou five miles in length, by a mile and a half in breadth."-GRA

HAM.

"About a mile above Loch Vennachar, the approach (from the east) to the Brigg, or Bridge of Turk (the scene of the death of a wild-boar famous in Celtic tradition), leads to the summit of an eminence, where there bursts upon the traveller's eye a sudden and wide prospect of the windings of the river that issues from Loch Achray, with that sweet lake itself in front; the gently rolling river pursues its serpentine course through an extensive meadow; at the west end of the Lake, on the side of Aberfoyle, is situated the delightful farm of Achray, the level field, a denomination justly due to it, when considered in contrast with the rugged rocks and mountains which surround it. From this eminence are to be seen also, on the right hand, the entrance to Glenfinlas, and in the distance Benvenue."-GRAHAM.

Two dogs of black Saint Hubert's breed,
Unmatch'd for courage, breath, and speed,'
Fast on his flying traces came

And all but won that desperate game;
For, scarce a spear's length from his haunch,
Vindictive toil'd the bloodhounds stanch;
Nor nearer might the dogs attain,
Nor farther might the quarry strain.
Thus up the margin of the lake,
Between the precipice and brake,
O'er stock and rock their race they take.

VIII.

The Hunter mark'd that mountain high,
The lone lake's western boundary,
And deem'd the stag must turn to bay,
Where that huge rampart barr'd the way;
Already glorying in the prize,
Measured his antlers with his eyes;
For the death-wound and death-halloo,
Muster'd his breath, his whinyard drew;-
But thundering as he came prepared,
With ready arm and weapon bared,
The wily quarry shunn'd the shock,
And turn'd him from the opposing rock;
Then, dashing down a darksome glen,
Soon lost to hound and hunter's ken,
In the deep Trosach's wildest nook
His solitary refuge took.

There, while close couch'd, the thicket shed
Cold dews and wild-flowers on his head,
He heard the baffled dogs in vain
Rave through the hollow pass amain,
Chiding the rocks that yell'd again.

IX.

Close on the hounds the hunter came,
To cheer them on the vanish'd game;
But, stumbling in the rugged dell,
The gallant horse exhausted fell.
The impatient rider strove in vain
To rouse him with the spur and rein,
For the good steed, his labors o'er,
Stretch'd his stiff limbs, to rise no more;
Then, touch'd with pity and remorse,
He sorrow'd o'er the expiring horse.
"I little thought, when first thy rein
I slack'd upon the banks of Seine,
That Highland eagle e'er should feed
On thy fleet limbs, my matchless steed!
Woe worth the chase, woe worth the day,
That costs thy life, my gallant gray !"

X.

Then through the dell his horn resounds, From vain pursuit to call the hounds. Back limp'd, with slow and crippled

pace,

The sulky leaders of the chase;
Close to their master's side they press'd,
With drooping tail and humbled crest;
But still the dingle's hollow throat
Prolong'd the swelling bugle-note.
The owlets started from their dream,
The eagles answer'd with their scream.
Round and around the sounds were cast,
Till echo seem'd an answering blast;
And on the hunter hied his way,*
To join some comrades of the day;
Yet often paused, so strange the road,
So wondrous were the scenes it show'd.

XI.

The western waves of ebbing day
Roll'd o'er the glen their level way;
Each purple peak, each flinty spire,
Was bathed in floods of living fire.
But not a setting beam could glow
Within the dark ravines below,
Where twined the path in shadow hid,
Round many a rocky pyramid,
Shooting abruptly from the dell
Its thunder-splinter'd pinnacle;
Round many an insulated mass,
The native bulwarks of the pass,
Huge as the tower which builders vain
Presumptuous piled on Shinar's plain.
The rocky summits, split and rent,
Form'd turret, dome, or battlement,
Or seem'd fantastically set
With cupola or minaret,

Wild crests as pagod ever deck'd,
Or mosque of Eastern architect.

Nor were these earth-born castles bare."
Nor lack'd they many a banner fair;
For, from their shiver'd brows display'd,
Far o'er the unfathomable glade,
All twinkling with the dewdrop's sheen,'
The brier-rose fell ia streamers green,
And creeping shrubs, of thousand dyes,
Waved in the west-wind's summer sighs.

XII.

Boon nature scatter'd, free and wild,
Each plant or flower, the mountain's child.

MS.-"The mimic castles of the pass."
The Tower of Babel.-Genesis, xi. 1-9.

7 MS.-" Nor were these mighty bulwarks bare."

8 MS.-"Bright glistening with the dewdrop's sheen."

Here eglantine embalm'd the air,
Hawthorn and hazel mingle there;
The primrose pale and violet flower,
Found in each cliff a narrow bower;
Fox-glove and night-shade, side by side,
Emblems of punishment and pride,
Group'd their dark hues with every stain
The weather-beaten crags retain.
With boughs that quaked at
every breath,
Gray birch and aspen wept beneath;
Aloft, the ash and warrior oak
Cast anchor in the rifted rock;
And, higher yet, the pine-tree hung
His shatter'd trunk, and frequent flung,'
Where seem'd the cliffs to meet on high,
His boughs athwart the narrow'd sky.
Highest of all, where white peaks glanced,
Where glist'ning streamers waved and
danced,

ine wanderer's eye could barely view
The summer heaven's delicious blue;

So wondrous wild, the whole might seem The scenery of a fairy dream.

XIII.

Onward, amid the copse 'gan peep
A narrow inlet, still and deep,

Affording scarce such breadth of brim,2

As served the wild-duck's brood to swim.
Lost for a space, through thickets veering,
But broader when again appearing,
Tall rocks and tufted knolls their face
Could on the dark-blue mirror trace;
And farther as the hunter stray'd,
Still broader sweep its channels made.
The shaggy mounds no longer stood,
Emerging from entangled wood,'
But, wave-encircled, seem'd to float,
Like castle girdled with its moat;
Yet broader floods extending still
Divide them from their parent hill,
Till each, retiring, claims to be
An islet in an inland sea.

IMS. His scathed trunk, and frequent flung,
Where seem'd the cliffs to meet on high,
His rugged arms athwart the sky.
Highest of all, where white peaks glanced,
Where twinkling streamers waved and danced."

MS.-"Affording scarce such breadth of flood,

As served to float the wild-duck's brood."

1 MS.-"Emerging dry-shod from the wood." See Appendix, Note D.

Loch Ketturin is the Celtic pronunciation. In his Notes to The Fair Maid of Perth, the author has signified his belief that the lake was named after the Catterins, or wild robbers, who haunted its shores.

Benvenue-is literally the little mountain-i. e. as contrasted with Benledi and Benlomond.

1 MS.- His ruin'd sides and fragments hoar,

XIV.

And now, to issue from the glen,
No pathway meets the wanderer's ken,
Unless he climb, with footing nice,

A far projecting precipice.

The broom's tough roots his ladder made,
The hazel saplings lent their aid;
And thus an airy point he won,
Where, gleaming with the setting sun,
One burnish'd sheet of living gold,
Loch Katrine lay beneath him roll'd,
In all her length far winding lay,
With promontory, creek, and bay,
And islands that, empurpled bright,
Floated amid the livelier light,
And mountains, that like giants stand,
To sentinel enchanted land.

High on the south, huge Benvenue
Down on the lake in masses threw

Crags, knolls, and mounds, confusedly hurl'd,
The fragments of an earlier world;

A wildering forest feather'd o'er
His ruin'd sides and summit hoar,"
While on the north, through middle air,
Ben-an heaved high his forehead bare."

XV.

From the steep promontory gazed1o

The stranger, raptured and amazed.

And, "What a scene were here," he cried,

For princely pomp, or churchman's pride!
On this bold brow, a lordly tower;
In that soft vale, a lady's bower;
On yonder meadow, far away,
The turrets of a cloister gray;
How blithely might the bugle-horn
Chide, on the lake, the lingering morn!

How sweet, at eve, the lover's lute
Chime, when the groves were still and mute!
And, when the midnight moon should lave
Her forehead in the silver wave,
How solemn on the ear would come
The holy matin's distant hum,

While on the north to middle air."

8 According to Graham, Ben-an, or Bennan, is a mere diminutive of Ben-Mountain.

"Perhaps the art of landscape-painting in poetry has never been displayed in higher perfection than in these stanzas, to which rigid criticism might possibly object that the picture is somewhat too minute, and that the contemplation of it detains the traveller somewhat too long from the main purpose of his pilgrimage, but which it would be an act of the greatest injustice to break into fragments, and present by piecemeal. Not so the magnificent scene which bursts upon the bewildered hunter as he emerges at length from the dell, and commands at one view the beautiful expanse of Loch Katrine."Critical Review, August, 1820.

10 MS." From the high p omontory gazed

The stranger, awe-struck and amazed'

While the deep peal's commanding tone
Should wake, in yonder islet lone,
A sainted hermit from his cell,
To drop a bead with every knell-
And bugle, lute, and bell, and all,
Should each bewilder'd stranger call
To friendly feast, and lighted hall.'

XVI.

"Blithe were it then to wander here!
But now,-beshrew yon nimble deer,-
Like that same hermit's, thin and spare,
The copse must give my evening fare;
Some mossy bank my couch must be,
Some rustling oak my canopy."
Yet pass we that; the war and chase
Give little choice of resting-place;-
A summer night, in greenwood spent,
Were but to-morrow's merriment:
But hosts may in these wilds abound,
Such as are better miss'd than found;
To meet with Highland plunderers here,
Were worse than loss of steed or deer.-'
I am alone ;-my bugle-strain
May call some straggler of the train;
Or, fall the worst that may betide,
Ere now this falchion has been tried."

XVII.

But scarce again his horn he wound,*
When lo! forth starting at the sound,
From underneath an aged oak,
That slanted from the islet rock,
A damsel guider of its way,
A little skiff shot to the bay,
That round the promontory steep
Led its deep line in graceful sweep,
Eddying, in almost viewless wave,
The weeping willow-twig to lave,
And kiss, with whispering sound and slow,
The beach of pebbles bright as snow.
The boat had touch'd this silver strand,
Just as the Hunter left his stand,
And stood conceal'd amid the brake,
To view this Lady of the Lake.
The maiden paused, as if again
She thought to catch the distant strain.
With head up-raised, and look intent,
And eye and ear attentive bent,
And locks flung back, and lips apart,

1 MS.-"To hospitable feast and hall."

2 MS.-" And hollow trunk of some old tree, My chamber for the night must be." 3 See Appendix, Note E. MS.-"The bugle shrill again he wound, And lo! forth starting at the sound." MS.-"A little skiff shot to the bay.

The Hunter left his airy stand,

Like monument of Grecian art,
In listening mood, she seem'd to stand,
The guardian Naiad of the strand.

XVIII.

And ne'er did Grecian chisel trace"
A Nymph, a Naiad, or a Grace,
Of finer form, or lovelier face!

What though the sun, with ardent frown.
Had slightly tinged her cheek with brown.-
The sportive toil, which, short and light,
Had dyed her glowing hue so bright,
Served too in hastier swell to show
Short glimpses of a breast of snow:
What though no rule of courtly grace
To measured mood had train'd her pace,-
A foot more light, a step more true,
Ne'er from the heath-flower dash'd the dev
E'en the slight harebell raised its head,
Elastic from her airy tread:

What though upon her speech there hung
The accents of the mountain tongue,-7
Those silver sounds, so soft, so dear,
The listener held his breath to hear

XIX.

A Chieftain's daughter seem'd the maid;
Her satin snood," her silken plaid,
Her golden brooch, such birth betray'd.
And seldom was a snood amid

Such wild luxuriant ringlets hid,

Whose glossy black to shame might bring
The plumage of the raven's wing;
And seldom o'er a breast so fair,
Mantled a plaid with modest care,
And never brooch the folds combined
Above a heart more good and kind.
Her kindness and her worth to spy,
You need but gaze on Ellen's eye;
Not Katrine, in her mirror blue,
Gives back the shaggy banks more true,
Than every free-born glance confess'd
The guileless movements of her breast;
Whether joy danced in her dark eye,
Or woe or pity claim'd a sigh,
Or filial love was glowing there,
Or meek devotion pour'd a prayer,
Or tale of injury call'd forth
The indignant spirit of the North.
One only passion unreveal'd,

And when the boat had touch'd the sand
Conceal'd he stood amid the brake,
To view this Lady of the Lake."

6 MS.-"A finer form, a fairer face,

Had never marble Nymph or Grace,
That boasts the Grecian chisel's trace."

7 MS.-"The accents of a stranger tongue."

8 Soe Note on Canto III. stanza 5.

With maiden pride the maid conceal'd,
Yet not less purely felt the flame;-
O need I tell that passion's name!
-XX.

Impatient of the silent horn,

Now on the gale her voice was borne :"Father!" she cried; the rocks around Loved to prolong the gentle sound. A while she paused, no answer came,-1 "Malcolm, was thine the blast?" the

name

Less resolutely utter'd fell,

The echoes could not catch the swell. "A stranger I," the Huntsman said, Advancing from the hazel shade. The maid, alarm'd, with hasty oar, Push'd her light shallop from the shore, And when a space was gain'd between, Closer she drew her bosom's screen; (So forth the startled swan would swing,' So turn to prune his ruffled wing.) Then safe, though flutter'd and amazed, She paused, and on the stranger gazed. Not his the form, nor his the eye, That youthful maidens wont to fly.

XXL

On his bold visage middle age
Had slightly press'd its signet sage,
Yet had not quench'd the open truth
And fiery vehemence of youth;
Forward and frolic glee was there,
The will to do, the soul to dare,
The sparkling glance, soon blown to fire,
Of hasty love, or headlong ire.
His limbs were cast in manly mould,
For hardy sports or contest bold;
And though in peaceful garb array'd,
And weaponless, except his blade,
His stately mien as well implied
A high-born heart, a martial pride,
As if a Baron's crest he wore,

And sheathed in armor trode the shore.
Slighting the petty need he show'd,
He told of his benighted road:
His ready speech flow'd fair and free,
In phrase of gentlest courtesy;
Yet seem'd that tone, and gesture bland,
Less used to sue than to command.

XXII.

A while the maid the stranger eyed,
And, reassured, at length replied,
That Highland halls were open still3
To wilder'd wanderers of the hill.
"Nor think you unexpected come
To yon lone isle, our desert home;
Before the heath had lost the dew,
This morn, a couch was pull'd for you;
On yonder mountain's purple head
Have ptarmigan and heath-cock bled,
And our broad nets have swept the mere,
To furnish forth your evening cheer."-
"Now, by the rood, my lovely maid,
Your courtesy has err'd," he said;
"No right have I to claim, misplaced,
The welcome of expected guest.
A wanderer, here by fortune tost,
My way, my friends, my courser lost,
I ne'er before, believe me, fair,
Have ever drawn your mountain air,
Till on this lake's romantic strand,*
I found a fay in fairy land!"-

XXIII.

eye

"I well believe," the maid replied,
As her light skiff approach'd the side,—
"I well believe, that ne'er before
Your foot has trod Loch Katrine's shore.
But yet, as far as yesternight,
Old Allan-Bane foretold your plight,-
A gray-hair'd sire, whose intent
Was on the vision'd future bent."
He saw your steed, a dappled gray,
Lie dead beneath the birchen way;
Painted exact your form and mien,
Your hunting suit of Lincoln green,
That tassell'd horn so gayly gilt,
That falchion's crooked blade and hilt,
That cap with heron plumage trim,
And yon two hounds so dark and grim.
He bade that all should ready be,
To grace a guest of fair degree;
But light I held his prophecy,
And deem'd it was my father's horn,
Whose echoes o'er the lake were borne."

XXIV.

The stranger smiled:-"Since to your home A destined errant-knight I come,

2 MS.-"So o'er the lake the swan would spring, Then turn to prune its ruffled wing."

8 MS.-"Her father's hall was open still."

4 MS.-"Till on this lake's enchanting strand.”

MS.-"Is often on the future bent."-See Appendix Note F