From chieftain's tower to bondsman's cot,
Who hears the tale, and triumphs not?
The damsel dons her best attire,
The shepherd lights his beltane fire,
Joy, joy! each warder's horn hath sung,
Joy, joy! each matin bell hath rung;
The holy priest says grateful mass,
Loud shouts each hardy galla-glass,
No mountain den holds outcast boor,
Of heart so dull, of soul so poor,
But he hath flung his task aside,
And claimed this morn for holy-tide;
Yet, empress of this joyful day,
Edith is sad while all are gay."-
Proud Edith's soul came to her eye,
Resentment checked the struggling sigh,
Her hurrying hand indignant dried
The burning tears of injured pride—
"Morag, forbear! or lend thy praise
To swell yon hireling harper's lays;
Make to yon maids thy boast of power,
That they may waste a wondering hour,
Telling of banners proudly borne,
Of pealing bell and bugle-horn,
Or, theme more dear, of robes of price,
Crownlets and gawds of rare device,
But thou, experienced as thou art,
Think'st thou with these to cheat the heart,
That, bound in strong affection's chain,
Looks for return and looks in vain?
No! sum thine Edith's wretched lot
In these brief words-he loves her not!
"Debate it not-too long I strove
To call his cold observance love,
All blinded by the league that styled
Edith of Lorn,-while, yet a child,
She tripped the heath by Morag's side,-
The brave Lord Ronald's destined bride.
Ere yet I saw him, while afar
His broadsword blazed in Scotland's war,
Trained to believe our fates the same,
My bosom throbbed when Ronald's name
Came gracing Fame's heroic tale,
Like perfume on the summer gale.
What pilgrim sought our halls, nor told
Of Ronald's deeds in battle bold;
Who touched the harp to heroes' praise,
But his achievements swelled the lays?
E'en Morag-not a tale of fame
Was her's but closed with Ronald's name.
He came and all that had been told
Of his high worth seemed poor and cold,
Tame, lifeless, void of energy,
Unjust to Ronald and to me!
"Since then, what thought had Edith's heart,
And gave not plighted love its part!-
And what requital? cold delay-
Excuse that shunned the spousal day.-
It dawns, and Ronald is not here!-
Hunts he Bentalla's nimble deer,
Or loiters he in secret dell
To bid some lighter love farewell,
And swear that though he may not scorn
A daughter of the House of Lorn,
Yet, when these formal rites are o'er,
Again they meet, to part no more!"-
-“ Hush, daughter, hush! thy doubts remove, More nobly think of Ronald's love. Look, where beneath the castle gray His fleet unmoor from Aros-bay! Seest not each galley's topmast bend, As on the yards the sails ascend? Hiding the dark blue land they rise, Like the white clouds on April skies; The shouting vassals man the oars, Behind them sink Mull's mountain shores, Onward their merry course they keep, Through whistling breeze and foaming deep. And mark the headmost, seaward cast, Stoop to the freshening gale her mast,
As if she vailed its bannered pride,
To greet afar her prince's bride!
Thy Ronald comes, and while in speed
His galley mates the flying steed,
He chides her sloth!"-Fair Edith sighed,
Blushed, sadly smiled, and thus replied-
"Sweet thought, but vain!-No, Morag! mark,
Type of his course, yon lonely bark,
That oft hath shifted helm and sail,
To win its way against the gale.
Since peep of morn, my vacant eyes
Have viewed by fits the course she tries;
Now, though the darkening scud comes on,
And dawn's fair promises be gone,
And though the weary crew may see
Our sheltering haven on their lee,
Still closer to the rising wind
They strive her shivering sail to bind,
Still nearer to the shelves' dread verge
At every tack her course they urge,
As if they feared Artornish more
Than adverse winds and breaker's roar."
Sooth spoke the Maid.-Amid the tide
The skiff she marked lay tossing sore,
And shifted oft her stooping side,
In weary tack from shore to shore.
Yet on her destined course no more
She gained, of forward way,
Than what a minstrel may compare
With the poor meed which peasants share, Who toil the live-long day;
And such the risk her pilot braves,^
That oft, before she wore,
Her bowsprit kissed the broken waves,
Where in white foam the ocean raves
Upon the shelving shore.
Yet, to their destined purpose true,
Undaunted toiled her hardy crew,
Nor looked where shelter lay,
Nor for Artornish Castle drew,
Nor steered for Aros-bay.
Thus while they strove with wind and seas,
Borne onward by the willing breeze,
Lord Ronald's fleet swept by,
Streamered with silk, and tricked with gold,
Manned with the noble and the bold
Around their prows the ocean roars,
And chafes beneath their thousand oars,
Yet bears them on their way;
So fumes the war-horse in his might,
That field-ward bears some valiant knight,
Champs till both bit and boss are white,
But, foaming, must obey.
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