Poor wither'd leaf!—and didst thou spring
Luxuriant from that forest king,
The lofty oak, whose stately pride
O'erarch'd bold Caledonia's tide?—
—And when that bark approach'd the shore
Which Douglas' only treasure bore,
Then little relic didst thou grace
Thy parent bough, and bending, trace

Fair Ellen's form that charm'd the view
And strangely moved stern Roderick Dhu?—
Or didst thou mark that witching smile
Which could a father's wo beguile,
Make even a banish'd Earl forget
The splendour of his coronet,
His knightly train, his courtly bower,
And all the entrancing pomp of power?—
—Say, didst thou feel the zephyr meek
Which raised the tresses from her cheek?—
Or hear the ruder gale that woo'd
Her light boat o'er the silver flood?—
Or didst thou catch the sigh that broke
From him by nameless feeling woke,
Who in his suit of Lincoln green
Suprised, beheld that maid serene,
With dext'rous art her voyage make,
The Naiad of that silver lake?—
—'T is magic all!—and can it be
That thus I hold a leaf from thee
Majestic Oak!—and with it find
A sprig of heather close entwined;
And hardy fern that drank the dew
Near cold Loch Katrine's mirror blue?—
—Methinks with these should pour along
That wildering tide of minstrel song,
Which makes the soil that gave them birth
The holiest spot on Fancy's earth.—
Yes Scotia!—though thy rugged coast
Of Nature's wealth can scantly boast,
Yet haughty brows and spirits free
Have donn'd the pilgrims weeds for thee,

With staff in hand their beads to tell
By every haunted stream and dell,
Upon thy lake's lone edge to dream,
To climb thy cliffs where eaglets scream,
On Flodden-field, with pitying sigh
Start at Lord Marmion's dying cry,
Or through the outlaw's cavern steal,
Or in Diana's footprints kneel,
And find thy bound the deathless shrine
Of bards and minstrelsy divine.