pleasure No! do not scorn, although its As if wild woods and waves had hoarser note Scarce with the cushat's homely song, In listing to the lovely measure. can vie, And ne'er to symphony more sweet Though faint its beauties as the tints Gave mountain echoes answer meet, Since, met from mainland and from isle, remote 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, 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 cloud; 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! The dew that on the violet lies 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. Cathleen of Ulne, 'twas thine to braid; Which best may mix with Beauty's On the light foot the silken shoe, (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. Where thwarting tides, with mingled roar, Part thy swarth hills from Morven's shore. VIII. 'Daughter,' she said, 'these seas behold, Joy, joy! each warder's horn hath 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 'Hush, daughter, hush! thy doubts remove, More nobly think of Ronald's love. The brave Lord Ronald's destined As on the yards the sails ascend? Hiding the dark-blue land, they rise Onward their merry course they keep And mark the headmost, seaward cast, XIII. 'Sweet thought, but vain! No, Morag! Type of his course, yon lonely bark, Now, though the darkening scud comes on, And dawn's fair promises be gone, roar.' XIV. Sooth spoke the maid. Amid the tide The skiff she mark'd lay tossing sore, And shifted oft her stooping side In weary tack from shore to shore. Yet on her destined course no more She gain'd, of forward way, Than what a minstrel may compare To the poor meed which peasants share, Who toil the livelong day; That oft, before she wore, waves, Where in white foam the ocean raves Upon the shelving shore. Yet, to their destined purpose true, Undaunted toil'd her hardy crew, Nor look'd where shelter lay, Nor for Artornish Castle drew, Nor steer'd for Aros bay. XV. Thus while they strove with wind and seas, Borne onward by the willing breeze, Lord Ronald's fleet swept by, Streamer'd with silk, and trick'd with gold, Mann'd with the noble and the bold Of Island chivalry, Around their prows the ocean roars, And chafes beneath their thousand oars, Yet bears them on their way: Full many a shrill triumphant note Their misty shores around; Come down the darksome Sound. And if that labouring bark hey spied, They pass him careless by. Let them sweep on with heedless eyes! But, had they known what mighty prize The famish'd wolf, that prowls the In that frail vessel lay, wold, Had scatheless pass'd the unguarded fold, Ere, drifting by these galleys bold, Unchallenged were her way! And thou, Lord Ronald, sweep thou on, With mirth, and pride, and minstrel tone! But had'st thou known who sail'd so nigh, Far other glance were in thine eye! Far other flush were on thy brow, That, shaded by the bonnet, now Assumes but ill the blithesome cheer Of bridegroom when the bride is near! XVII. So chafes the war-horse in his might, Yes, sweep they on! We will not That fieldward bears some valiant knight, Champs, till both bit and boss are white, But, foaming, must obey. On each gay deck they might behold Lances of steel and crests of gold, And hauberks with their burnish'd fold, That shimmer'd fair and free; And each proud galley, as she pass'd, To the wild cadence of the blast Gave wilder minstrelsy. leave, For them that triumph, those who grieve. With that armada gay Be laughter loud and jocund shout, And bards to cheer the wassail rout, With tale, romance, and lay; And of wild mirth each clamorous art Which, if it cannot cheer the heart, May stupify and stun its smart, For one loud busy day. |