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 confessed
The guileless movements of her breast;
Whether joy danced in her dark eye,
Or woe or pity claimed a sigh,
Or filial love was glowing there,
Or meek devotion poured a prayer,
Or tale of injury called forth
The indignant spirit of the North.
One only passion unrevealed
With maiden pride the maid concealed,
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.
Awhile she paused, no answer came;--
'Malcolm, was thine the blast?' the name