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The Lord of the Isles.

The Scene of this Poem lies, at first, in the Castle of Artornish, on the coast of Argyleshire; and, afterwards, in the Islands of Skye and Arran, and upon the coast of Ayrshire. Finally it is laid near Stirling. The story opens in the spring of the year 1307, when Bruce, who had been driven out of Scotland by the English, and the Barons who adhered to that foreign interest, returned from the Island of Rachrin on the coast of Ireland, again to assert his claims to the Scottish crown. Many of the personages and incidents introduced are of historical celebrity. The authorities used are chiefly those of the venerable Lord Hailes, as well entitled to be called the restorer of Scottish history, as Bruce the restorer of Scottish Monarchy; and of Archdeacon Barbour, author of a Metrical History of Robert Bruce.

Canto First.

AUTUMN departs; but still mantle's fold

his

Rests on the groves of noble
Somerville;

Beneath a shroud of russet dropp'd
with gold

Tweed and his tributaries mingle
still;

Hoarser the wind, and deeper sounds
the rill,

Yet lingering notes of silvan music
swell,

The deep-toned cushat, and the
redbreast shrill;

And yet some tints of summer
splendour tell

When the broad sun sinks down on
Ettrick's western fell.

Autumn departs; from Gala's fields

no more

Come rural sounds our kindred banks to cheer;

Blent with the stream, and gale that wafts it o'er,

No more the distant reaper's mirth we hear.

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To mark the last bright tints the mountain stain,

On the waste fields to trace the gleaner's way,

And moralize on mortal joy and

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No! do not scorn, although its As if wild woods and waves had hoarser note pleasure Scarce with the cushat's homely song In listing to the lovely measure.

can vie, Though faint its beauties as the tints remote

And ne'er to symphony more sweet

Gave mountain echoes answer meet,
Since, met from mainland and from isle,

That gleam through mist in autumn's Ross, Arran, Ilay, and Argyle,

evening sky,

And few as leaves that tremble, sear and dry,

Each minstrel's tributary lay
Paid homage to the festal day.
Dull and dishonour'd were the bard,

When wild November hath his bugle Worthless of guerdon and regard,

wound;

Nor mock my toil-a lonely gleaner I, Through fields time-wasted, on sad inquest bound,

Where happier bards of yore have richer harvest found.

So shalt thou list, and haply not unmoved,

Toa wild tale of Albyn's warrior day; In distant lands, by the rough West reproved,

Still live some relics ofthe ancient lay. For, when on Coolin's hills the lights decay,

With such the Seer of Skye the eve beguiles;

'Tis known amid the pathless wastes of Reay,

In Harries known, and in Iona's piles,

Deaf to the hope of minstrel fame,
Or lady's smiles, his noblest aim,
Who on that morn's resistless call
Were silent in Artornish hall.

II.

'Wake, Maid of Lorn!' 'twas thus they
sung,

And yet more proud the descant rung,
Wake, Maid of Lorn! high right is

ours,

To charm dull sleep from Beauty's
bowers;

Earth, Ocean, Air, have nought so shy
But owns the power of minstrelsy.
In Lettermore the timid deer
Will pause, the harp's wild chime to
hear;

Rude Heiskar's seal, through surges

dark,

Will long pursue the minstrel's bark; Where rest from mortal coil the Mighty To list his notes, the eagle proud

of the Isles.

I.

Will poise him on Ben-Cailliach's
cloud;

Then let not Maiden's ear disdain
The summons of the minstrel train,

'WAKE, Maid of Lorn!' the Minstrels But, while our harps wild music make, Edith of Lorn, awake, awake!

sung.

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The dew that on the violet lies
Mocks the dark lustre of thine eyes;
But, Edith, wake, and all we see
Of sweet and fair shall yield to thee!'-
'She comes not yet,' grey Ferrand
cried;

'Brethren, let softer spell be tried,
Those notes prolong'd, that soothing
theme,

Nor could their tenderest numbers

bring

One sigh responsive to the string.
As vainly had her maidens vied
In skill to deck the princely bride.
Her locks, in dark-brown length
array'd,

Cathleen of Ulne, 'twas thine to braid;
Young Eva with meet reverence drew

Which best may mix with Beauty's On the light foot the silken shoe,

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While on the ankle's slender round Those strings of pearl fair Bertha wound,

That, bleach'd Lochryan's depths
within,

Seem'd dusky still on Edith's skin.
But Einion, of experience old,
Had weightiest task-the mantle's fold
In many an artful plait she tied,
To show the form it seem'd to hide,
Till on the floor descending roll'd
Its waves of crimson blent with gold.

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(Strict was that bond-most kind of Impledge her spousal faith to wed

all

Inviolate in Highland hall)
Grey Morag sate a space apart,
In Edith's eyes to read her heart.
In vain the attendants' fond appeal
To Morag's skill, to Morag's zeal;
She mark'd her child receive their care,
Cold as the image sculptured fair
(Form of some sainted patroness)
Which cloister'd maids combine to
dress;

The heir of mighty Somerled!
Ronald, from many a hero sprung,
The fair, the valiant, and the young,
LORD OF THE ISLES, whose lofty name
A thousand bards have given to fame,
The mate of monarchs, and allied
On equal terms with England's pride.
From chieftain's tower to bondsman's
cot,

Who hears the tale, and triumphs not?
The damsel dons her best attire,

She mark'd-and knew her nursling's The shepherd lights his beltane fire;

heart

In the vain pomp took little part.
Wistful a while she gaz'd-then press'd
The maiden to her anxious breast
In finish'd loveliness-and led
To where a turret's airy head,
Slender and steep, and battled round,
O'erlook'd, dark Mull! thy mighty
Sound,

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 claim'd this morn for holy-tide;

Where thwarting tides, with mingled Yet, empress of this joyful day,
Edith is sad while all are gay.'

roar,

Part thy swarth hills from Morven's

shore.

VIII.

Daughter,' she said, 'these seas

behold,

IX.

Proud Edith's soul came to her eye,
Resentment check'd the struggling

sigh,

Her hurrying hand indignant dried Round twice a hundred islands roll'd, The burning tears of injured prideFrom Hirt, that hears their northernMorag, forbear! or lend thy praise

roar,

To the green Ilay's fertile shore;
Or mainland turn, where many a tower
Owns thy bold brother's feudal power,
Each on its own dark cape reclined,
And listening to its own wild wind,
From where Mingarry, sternly placed,
O'erawes the woodland and the waste,
To where Dunstaffnage hears the
raging

Of Connal with his rocks engaging.
Think'st thou, amid this ample round,
A single brow but thine has frown'd,
To sadden this auspicious morn,
That bids the daughter of high Lorn

To swell yon hireling harpers' 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 gauds 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!

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'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 tripp'd 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,

Train'd to believe our fates the same, My bosom throbb'd 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 touch'd the harp to heroes' praise,
But his achievements swell'd the lays?
Even Morag-not a tale of fame
Was hers but closed with Ronald's

name.

He came and all that had been told Of his high worth seem'd poor and cold,

Tame, lifeless, void of energy,
Unjust to Ronald and to me!

XI.

Since then, what thought had Edith's heart

And gave not plighted love its part?
And what requital? cold delay,
Excuse that shunn'd 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 grey His fleet unmoor from Aros bay! See'st 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 veil'd its banner'd 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 Edithsigh'd,
Blush'd, sadly smiled, and thus replied:

XIII.

'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 view'd 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 fear'd Artornish more
Than adverse winds and breakers'
roar.'

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