The poetical works of Sir Walter Scott, with memoir of the author.

164 THE LORD OF THE ISLES. [CANTO Iv.
It is the form, the eye, the word,
The bearing of that stranger Lord;
His stature, manly, bold, and tall,
Built like a castle's battled wall,
Yet moulded in such just degrees,
His giant-strength seems lightsome ease.
Close as the tendrils of the vine
His locks upon his forehead twine,
Jet-black, save where some touch of gray
Has ta'en the youthful hue away.
Weather and war their rougher trace
Have left on that majestic face;But'tis his dignity of eye!
There, if a suppliant, would I fly,
Secure,'mid danger, wrongs, and grief,
Of sympathy, redress, relief'
That glance, if guilty, would I dread
More than the doom that spoke me dead!"" Enough, enough," the princess cried,
"'Tis Scotland's hope, her joy, her pride!
To meaner front was ne'er assign'd
Such mastery o'er the common mindBestow'd thy high designs to aid,
How long, 0 Heaven! how long delay'd!Haste, Mona, haste, to introduce
My darling brother, royal Bruce!"
XXIII.
They met like friends who part in pain,
And meet in doubtful hope again.