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 Beneath a shroud of russet dropp'd Tweed and his tributaries mingle Hoarser the wind, and deeper sounds Yet lingering notes of silvan music The deep-toned cushat, and the And yet some tints of summer When the broad sun sinks down on 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. 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 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, 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 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, II. 'Wake, Maid of Lorn!' 'twas thus they And yet more proud the descant rung, ours, To charm dull sleep from Beauty's Earth, Ocean, Air, have nought so shy 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 Then let not Maiden's ear disdain 'WAKE, Maid of Lorn!' the Minstrels But, while our harps wild music make, Edith of Lorn, awake, awake! sung. The dew that on the violet lies 'Brethren, let softer spell be tried, Nor could their tenderest numbers bring One sigh responsive to the string. Cathleen of Ulne, 'twas thine to braid; Which best may mix with Beauty's On the light foot the silken shoe, While on the ankle's slender round Those strings of pearl fair Bertha wound, That, bleach'd Lochryan's depths Seem'd dusky still on Edith's skin. (Strict was that bond-most kind of Impledge her spousal faith to wed all Inviolate in Highland hall) The heir of mighty Somerled! Who hears the tale, and triumphs not? She mark'd-and knew her nursling's The shepherd lights his beltane fire; heart In the vain pomp took little part. Joy, joy! each warder's horn hath sung, Joy, joy! each matin bell hath rung; Where thwarting tides, with mingled Yet, empress of this joyful day, 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, 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; Of Connal with his rocks engaging. To swell yon hireling harpers' lays; Telling of banners proudly borne, That, bound in strong affection's chain, '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, Of Ronald's deeds in battle bold; name. He came and all that had been told Of his high worth seem'd poor and cold, Tame, lifeless, void of energy, XI. Since then, what thought had Edith's heart And gave not plighted love its part? 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, 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, |