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From distant isles a Chieftain came,
The joys of Ronald's halls to find,
That bounds o'er Albin's hills of wind.
'Twas Moy; whom, in Columba's isle,
The seer's prophetic spirit found, As, with a minstrel's fire the while,
He waked his harp's harmonious sound.
Full many a spell to him was known,
Which wandering spirits shrink to hear; And many a lay of potent tone,
Was never meant for mortal ear.
For there, 'tis said, in mystic mood,
High converse with the dead they hold, And oft espy the fated shroud,
That shall the future corpse enfold,
O so it fell, that on a day, .. .
To rouse the red deer from their den, The Chiefs have ta’en their distant way,
And scour'd the deep Glenfinlas glen.
No vassais wait their sports to aid, :
To watch their safety, deck their board : Their simple dress, the Highland plaid ;
Their trusty guard, the Highland sword.
Three summer days, through brake and dell,
Their whistling shafts successful flew; And still, when dewy evening fell,
The quarry to their hut they drew.
In Grey Glenfinlas' deepest nook
The solitary cabin stood,
Which murmurs through that lonely wood.
Soft fell the knight, the sky was calm,
When three successive days had flown; And summer mist in dewy balm
Steep'd heathy bank, and mossy stone. :
The moon, half-hid in silvery flakes,
Afar her dubious radiance shed, Quivering on Katrine’s distant lakes,
And resting on Benledi's head.
Now in their hut, in social guise,
Their sylvan fair the Chiefs enjoy ; And pleasure laughs in Ronald's eye,
As many a pledge he quaffs to Moy.
_"What lack we here to crown our bliss,
While thus the pulse of joy beats high? What, but fair woman's yielding kiss,
Her panting breath, and melting eye?
“ To chase the deer of yonder shades,
This morning left their father's pile The fairest of our mountain maids,
The daughters of the proud Glengyle.
“ Long have I sought sweet Mary's heart,
And dropp'd the tear, and heaved the sigh : But vain the lover's wily art,
Beneath a sister's watchful eye.
“ But thou may'st teach that guardian fair,
While far with Mary I am flown, Of other hearts to cease her care,
And find it hard to guard her own.
“ Touch but thy harp, thou soon shalt see
The lovely Flora of Glengyle, Unmindful of her charge and me,
Hang on thy notes, 'twixt tear and smile.
“ Or, if she chuse a melting tale,
All underneath the greenwood bough, Will good St. Oran's rule prevail,
Stern huntsman of the rigid brow?”
_“ Since Enrick's fight, since Morna's death,
No more on me shall rapture rise, Responsive to the panting breath,
Or yielding kiss, or melting eyes.
“ E'en then, when o'er the heath of woe,
Where sunk my hopes of love and fame, I bade my harp’s wild wailings flow,
On me the seer's sad spirit came.
“ The last dread curse of angry heaven,
With ghastly sights and sounds of woe, To dash each glimpse of joy, was given
The gift, the future ill to know. VOL. III.