The Lady of the Lake

Some feelings are to mortals given
With less of earth in them than heaven;
And if there be a human tear
From passion’s dross refined and clear,
A tear so limpid and so meek
It would not stain an angel’s cheek,
’Tis that which pious fathers shed
Upon a duteous daughter’s head! 
And as the Douglas to his breast
His darling Ellen closely pressed,
Such holy drops her tresses steeped,
Though ’t was an hero’s eye that weeped. 
Nor while on Ellen’s faltering tongue
Her filial welcomes crowded hung,
 Marked she that fear—­affection’s proof—­
Still held a graceful youth aloof;
No! not till Douglas named his name,
Although the youth was Malcolm Graeme.