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'I, too,' the aged Ferrand said, 'Am qualified by minstrel trade

Of rank and place to tell; Mark'd ye the younger stranger's eye, My mates, how quick, how keen, how high,

How fierce its flashes fell, Glancing among the noble rout As if to seek the noblest out, Because the owner might not brook On any save his peers to look?

And yet it moves me more, That steady, calm, majestic brow, With which the elder chief even now

Scann'd the gay presence o'er, Like being of superior kind, In whose high-toned impartial mind Degrees of mortal rank and state Seem objects of indifferent weight. The lady too-though closely tied

The mantle veil both face and eye, Her motions' grace it could not hide, Nor could her form's fair symmetry.'

IX.

Suspicious doubt and lordly scorn Lour'd on the haughty front of Lorn. From underneath his brows of pride, The stranger guests he sternly eyed, And whisper'd closely what the ear Of Argentine alone might hear;

Then question'd, high and brief, If, in their voyage, aught they knew Of the rebellious Scottish crew, Who to Rath-Erin's shelter drew,

With Carrick's outlaw'd Chief?

And if, their winter's exile o'er,
They harbour'd still by Ulster's shore,
Or launch'd their galleys on the main,
To vex their native land again?

X.

That younger stranger, fierce and high,

At once confronts the Chieftain's eye With lock of equal scorn; 'Of rebels have we nought to show; But if of Royal Bruce thou'dst know, I warn thee he has sworn, Ere thrice three days shall come and go,

His banner Scottish winds shall blow, Despite each mean or mighty foe, From England's every bill and bow,

To Allaster of Lorn.'

Kindled the mountain Chieftain's ire,
But Ronald quench'd the rising fire;
Brother, it better suits the time
To chase the night with Ferrand's
rhyme,

Than wake, 'midst mirth and wine, the jars

That flow from these unhappy wars.' 'Content,' said Lorn; and spoke apart With Ferrand, master of his art,

Then whisper'd Argentine, The lay I named will carry smart To these bold strangers' haughty heart, If right this guess of mine.' He ceased, and it was silence all, Until the minstrel waked the hall:

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Gem! ne'er wrought on Highland mountain,

Did the fairy of the fountain,
Or the mermaid of the wave,
Frame thee in some coral cave?
Did, in Iceland's darksome mine,
Dwarf's swart hands thy metal twine?
Or, mortal-moulded, comest thou here
From England's love, or France's fear?

XII.

'No! thy splendours nothing tell
Foreign art or faëry spell.
Moulded thou for monarch's use,
By the overweening Bruce,
When the royal robe he tied
O'er a heart of wrath and pride;
Thence in triumph wert thou torn,
By the victor hand of Lorn!

When the gem was won and lost, Widely was the war-cry toss'd! Rung aloud Bendourish fell, Answer'd Douchart's sounding dell, Fled the deer from wild Teyndrum, When the homicide, o'ercome, Hardly 'scaped with scathe and scorn, Left the pledge with conquering Lorn!

XIII.

'Vain was then the Douglas brand,
Vain the Campbell's vaunted hand,
Vain Kirkpatrick's bloody dirk,
Making sure of murder's work;
Barendown fled fast away,
Fled the fiery De la Haye,
When this brooch, triumphant borne,
Beam'd upon the breast of Lorn.

Farthest fled its former Lord,
Left his men to brand and cord,
Bloody brand of Highland steel,
English gibbet, axe, and wheel.
Let him fly from coast to coast,
Dogg'd by Comyn's vengeful ghost,
While his spoils, in triumph worn,
Long shall grace victorious Lorn!'

XIV.

As glares the tiger on his foes, Hemm'd in by hunters, spears, and bows,

And, ere he bounds upon the ring, Selects the object of his spring,— Now on the bard, now on his Lord, So Edward glared and grasp'd his sword;

But stern his brother spoke, 'Be still!
What art thou yet so wild of will,
After high deeds and sufferings long,
To chafe thee for a menial's song? --
Well hast thou framed, Old Man, thy
strains,

To praise the hand that pays thy pains;
Yet something might thy song have told
Of Lorn's three vassals, true and bold,
Who rent their Lord from Bruce's hold
As underneath his knee he lay,
And died to save him in the fray.
I've heard the Bruce's cloak and clasp
Was clench'd within their dying grasp,
What time a hundred foemen more
Rush'd in, and back the victor bore,
Long after Lorn had left the strife,
Full glad to 'scape with limb and life.
Enough of this; and, Minstrel, hold
As minstrel-hire this chain of gold,
For future lays a fair excuse

To speak more nobly of the Bruce.'

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'Talk not to me,' fierce Lorn replied, 'Of odds or match! when Comyn died Three daggers clash'd within his side! Talk not to me of sheltering hall, The Church of GOD saw Comyn fall! On God's own altarstream'd his blood, While o'er my prostrate kinsman

stood

The ruthless murderer-c'en as nowWith armed hand and scornful brow! Up, all who love me! blow on blow! And lay the outlaw'd felons low!'

XVI.

Then upsprang many a mainland Lord,
Obedient to their Chieftain's word.
Barcaldine's arm is high in air,
And Kinloch-Alline's blade is bare,
Black Murthok's dirk has left its sheath,
And clench'dis Dermid's hand of death.
Their mutter'd threats of vengeance
swell

Into a wild and warlike yell;

Onward they press with weapons high, The affrighted females shriek and fly, And, Scotland, then thy brightest ray Had darken'd ere its noon of day,But every chief of birth and fame, That from the Isles of Ocean came, At Ronald's side that hour withstood Fierce Lorn's relentless thirst for blood.

XVII.

Brave Torquil from Dunvegan high,
Lord of the misty hills of Skye,
Mac-Niel, wild Bara's ancient thane,
Duart, of bold Clan-Gillian's strain,
Fergus, of Canna's castled bay,
Mac-Duffith, Lord of Colonsay,
Soon as they saw the broadswords
glance,

With ready weapons rose at once,
More prompt, that many an ancient

feud,

Full oft suppress'd, full oft renew'd, Glow'd 'twixt the chieftains of Argyle, And many a lord of ocean's isle.

Wild was the scene-each sword was bare,

Back stream'd each chieftain's shaggy hair,

In gloomy opposition set,

Eyes, hands, and brandish'd weapons

met;

Blue gleaming o'er the social board, Flash'd to the torches many a sword; And soon those bridal lights may shine On purple blood for rosy wine.

XVIII.

up, each weapon

While thus for blows and death prepared, Each heart was bared, Each foot advanced,-a surly pause Still reverenced hospitable laws. All menaced violence, but alike Reluctant each the first to strike, (For aye accursed in minstrel line Is he who brawls 'mid song and wine,)

And, match'd in numbers and in might, Doubtful and desperate seem'd the fight.

Thus threat and murmur died away,
Till on the crowded hall there lay
Such silence, as the deadly still
Ere bursts the thunder on the hill.
With blade advanced, each Chieftain
bold

Show'd like the Sworder's form of old,
As wanting still the torch of life1
To wake the marble into strife.

XIX.

That awful pause the stranger maid,
And Edith, seized to pray for aid.
As to De Argentine she clung,
Away her veil the stranger flung,
And, lovely 'mid her wild despair,
Fast stream'd her eyes, wide flow'd
her hair.

'Othou, of knighthood once the flower, Sure refuge in distressful hour,

[Qu. touch of life?]

Thou, who in Judah well hast fought This craves reflection-but though

For our dear faith, and oft hast sought
Renown in knightly exercise,
When this poor hand has dealt the
prize,

Say, can thy soul of honour brook
On the unequal strife to look,
When, butcher'd thus in peaceful hall,
Those once thy friends, my brethren,
fall!'

To Argentine she turn'd her word,
But her eye sought the Island Lord.
A flush like evening's setting flame
Glow'd on his cheek; his hardy frame,
As with a brief convulsion, shook :
With hurried voice and cager look,—
'Fear not,' he said, 'my Isabel!
What said I?-Edith all is well;
Nay, fear not; I will well provide
The safety of my lovely bride-
My bride?'-but there the accents
clung

In tremor to his faltering tongue.

XX.

Now rose De Argentine, to claim
The prisoners in his sovereign's name,
To England's crown, who, vassals

sworn,

'Gainst their liege lord had weapon borne

(Such speech, I ween, was but to hide His care their safety to provide ; For knight more true in thought and deed

Than Argentine ne'er spurr'd a steed)-

And Ronald, who his meaning guess'd, Seem'd half to sanction the request. This purpose fiery Torquil broke: 'Somewhat we've heard of England's yoke,'

He said, and, in our islands, Fame Hath whisper'd of a lawful claim, That calls the Bruce fair Scotland's Lord,

Though dispossess'd by foreign sword. |

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'The holy man, whose favour'd glance

Hath sainted visions known; Angels have met him on the way, Beside the blessed martyrs' bay,

And by Columba's stone. His monks have heard their hymnings high

Sound from the summit of Dun-Y,

To cheer his penance lone When at each cross, on girth and wold, Their number thrice a hundred-fold,)

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His prayer he made, his beads he told,
With Aves many a one-
He comes our feuds to reconcile,
A sainted man from sainted isle;
We will his holy doom abide,
The Abbot shall our strife decide.'

XXII.

Scarcely this fair accord was o'er, When through the wide revolving door The black-stoled brethren wind;

Twelve sandall'd monks, who relics Or dream of greeting, peace, or truce,

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With excommunicated Bruce! Yet well I grant, to end debate, Thy sainted voice decide his fate.'

XXV.

Then Ronald pled the stranger's cause, And knighthood's oath and honour's laws;

And Isabel, on bended knee, Brought pray'rs and tears to back the plea:

And Edith lent her generous aid,
And wept, and Lorn for mercy pray'd.
'Hence,' he exclaim'd, 'degenerate
maid!

Was't not enough to Ronald's bower
I brought thee, like a paramour,
Or bond-maid at her master's gate,
His careless cold approach to wait?
But the bold Lord of Cumberland,
The gallant Clifford, seeks thy hand;
His it shall be--Nay, no reply!
Hence! till those rebel eyes be dry.'
With grief the Abbot heard and saw,
Yet nought relax'd his brow of awc.

XXVI.

Then Argentine, in England's name, So highly urged his sovereign's claim, He waked a spark, that, long suppress'd,

Had smoulder'd in Lord Ronald's

breast;

And now, as from the flint the fire,
Flash'd forth at once his generous ire.
'Enough of noble blood,' he said,
'By English Edward had been shed,
Since matchless Wallace first had been
In mock'ry crown'd with wreaths of
green,

And done to death by felon hand,
For guarding well his father's land.
Where's Nigel Bruce? and De la Haye,
And valiant Seton-where are they?
Where Somerville, the kind and free?
And Fraser, flower of chivalry?

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