A chieftain's daughter seemed the maid;
Her satin snood, her silken plaid, Her golden brooch, such birth betrayed.
And seldom was a snood amid Such wild luxuriant ringlets hid, Whose glossy black to shame might bring The plumage of the raven's wing;And seldom o'er a breast so fair Mantled a plaid with modest care, And never brooch the folds combined Above a heart more good and kind.
Her kindness and her worth to spy, You need but gaze on Ellen's eye;Not Katrine in her mirror blue Gives back the shaggy banks more true, Than every free-born glance confessed The guileless movements of her breast;Whether joy danced in her dark eye, Or woe or pity claimed a sigh, Or filial love was glowing there, Or meek devotion poured a prayer, Or tale of injury called forth The indignant spirit of the North.
One only passion unrevealed With maiden pride the maid concealed, Yet not less purely felt the flame;--O, need I tell that passion's name?
