16 Young Malcolm at distance, couch'd, trembling the while, Macgregor stood lone by the brook of Glen-Gyle. Few minutes had pass'd, ere they spied on the stream, A skiff sailing light, where a lady did seem Her sail was the web of the gossamer's looni, The glow-worm her wake-light, the rainbow her boom; A dim rayless beam was her prow and her mast, Like wold-fire, at midnight, that glares on the waste Though rough was the river with rock and cascade, No torrent, no rock her velocity staid ; She wimpled the water to weather and lee, And heav'd as if borne on the waves of the sea. Mute nature was rous'd in the bounds of the glen; The wild deer of Gairtney abandou'd his den, Fled panting away over river and isle, Nor once turned his eye to the brook of Glen-Gyle. The fox fled in terror, the eagle awoke, As slumbering he doz'd in the shelve of the rock; Astonish'd, to hide in the moon-beam he flew, And screw'd the night-heaven till lost in the blue. Young Malcolm beheld the pale lady approach, The chieftain salute her, and shrink from her touch He saw the Macgregor kneel down on the plain,
