And spoke of danger with a smile;
Cheer'd the young knights, and council sage
Held with the chiefs of riper age.

_The Lay of the Last Minstrel, Canto 3._


Woman's faith and woman's trust,
Write the characters in dust.

_The Betrothed._


Ne'er did Grecian chisel trace
A Nymph, or 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 dew;
E'en the slight hare-bell raised its head,
Elastic from her airy tread;
What though upon her speech there hung
The accent of the mountain tongue,