XI.

“Nay, lovely Ellen!—dearest, nay!

If aught should his return delay,

He only named yon holy fane

As fitting place to meet again.

Be sure he’s safe; and for the Græme,—

Heaven’s blessing on his gallant name!—

My vision’d sight may yet prove true,

Nor bode[238] of ill to him or you.

When did my gifted[239] dream beguile?[240]

Think of the stranger at the isle,

And think upon the harpings slow,

That presaged this approaching woe!

Sooth was my prophecy of fear;

Believe it when it augurs cheer.

Would we had left this dismal spot!

Ill luck still haunts a fairy grot.

Of such a wondrous tale I know—

Dear lady, change that look of woe,

My harp was wont thy grief to cheer.”—

ELLEN.

“Well, be it as thou wilt; I hear,

But cannot stop the bursting tear.”

The Minstrel tried his simple art,

But distant far was Ellen’s heart.