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
Less resolutely uttered fell,
The echoes could not catch the swell.
‘A stranger I,’ the Huntsman said,
Advancing from the hazel shade.
The maid, alarmed, with hasty oar
Pushed her light shallop from the shore,
And when a space was gained 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 fluttered and amazed,
She paused, and on the stranger gazed.
Not his the form, nor his the eye,
That youthful maidens wont to fly.
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