shell,

E'en age forgot his tresses hoar; But now the loud lament we swell, O ne'er to see Lord Ronald more!

From distant isles a chieftain came,

The joys of Ronald's halls to find, And chase with him the dark-brown

game,

That bounds o'er Albin's hills of

wind.

The solitary cabin stood,

Fast by Moneira's sullen brook, Which murmurs through that lonely wood.

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 silvan fare the Chiefs enjoy ; And pleasure laughs in Ronald's eyes,

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 mayst teach that guardian fair,

While far with Mary I have 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 choose a melting tale, All underneath the greenwood bough,

Will good Saint 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 ofwoc, 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

woc,

To dash each glimpse of joy, was given; The gift-the future ill to know.

The bark thou saw'st yon summermorn So gaily part from Oban's bay, My eye beheld her dash'd and torn, Far on the rocky Colonsay.

Thy Fergus too, thy sister's son, Thou saw'st with pride the gallant's power,

As marching'gainst the Lord of Downe He left the skirts of huge Benmore. 'Thou only saw'st their tartans wave, As down Benvoirlich's side they

wound, Heard'st but the pibroch answering brave

To many a target clanking round.

I heard the groans, I mark'd the tears, I saw the wound his bosom bore, When on the serried Saxon spears

He pour'd his clan's resistless roar. 'And thou who bidst me think of bliss,

And bidst my heart awake to glee, And court like thee the wanton kiss-That heart, ORonald, bleeds for thee! 'I see the death-damps chill thy brow; I hear thy Warning Spirit cry; The corpse-lights dance! they're gone! and now

No more is given to gifted eye!' 'Alone enjoy thy dreary dreams, Sad prophet of the evil hour! Say, should we scorn joy's transient beams,

Because to-morrow's storm may lour?

By shivering limbs and stifled growl. Untouch'd, the harp began to ring, As softly, slowly, oped the door; And shook responsive every string,

As, light, a footstep press'd the floor.

And by the watch-fire's glimmering light,

Close by the minstrel's side was seen An huntress maid in beauty bright,

All dropping wet her robes of green. All dropping wet her garments seem; Chill'd was her cheek,her bosom bare, As, bending o'er the dying gleam,

She wrung the moisture from her

hair.

With maiden blush, she softly said,

⚫O gentle huntsman, hast thou seen, In deep Glenfinlas' moonlight glade, A lovely maid in vest of green :

'With her a Chief in Highland pride;

His shoulders bear the hunter's bow, The mountain dirk adorns his side,

Far on the wind his tartans flow?'

And who art thou? and who are they?' All ghastly gazing, Moy replied: And why, beneath the moon's pale ray, Dare ye thus roam Glenfinlas' side?'

'Where wild Loch Katrine pours her tide,

Blue, dark, and deep, round many

an isle,

Our father's towers o'erhang her side, The castle of the bold Glengyle.

To chase the dun Glenfinlas deer Our woodland course this morn we bore,

And haply met, while wandering here, The son of great Macgillianore.

O aid me, then, to seek the pair, Whom, loitering in the woods, I lost;

Alone, I dare not venture there, Where walks, they say, the shrieking ghost.'

Yes, many a shrieking ghost walks there;

Then, first, my own sad vow to keep, Here will I pour my midnight prayer, Which still must rise when mortals sleep.'

O first, for pity's gentle sake,

Guide a lone wanderer on her way! For I must cross the haunted brake, And reach my father's towers ere

day.'

First, three times tell each Ave-bead, And thrice a Pater-noster say, Then kiss with me the holy rede; So shall we safely wend our way.'

'O shame to knighthood, strange and foul!

Go, doff the bonnet from thy brow, And shroud thee in the monkish cowl, Which best befits thy sullen vow.

'Not so, by high Dunlathmon's fire, Thy heart was froze to love and joy, When gaily rung thy raptured lyre

To wanton Morna's melting eye.'

Wild stared the minstrel's eyes of flame,

And high his sable locks arose, And quick his colour went and came,

As fear and rage alternate rose.

'And thou! when by the blazing oak I lay, to her and love resign'd, Say, rode ye on the eddying smoke,

Or sail'd ye on the midnight wind?

Not thine a race of mortal blood, Nor old Glengyle's pretended line; Thy dame, the Lady of the Flood

Thy sire, the Monarch of the Mine.'

Hemutter'd thrice Saint Oran's rhyme, And thrice Saint Fillan's powerful

prayer;

Then turn'd him to the eastern clime, And sternly shook his coal-black hair.

And, bending o'er his harp, he flung

His wildest witch-notes on the wind; And loud and high and strange they

rung,

As many a magic change they find.

Tall wax'd the Spirit's altering form, Till to the roof her stature grew; Then, mingling with the rising storm, With one wild yell away she flew.

Rain beats, hail rattles, whirlwinds

tear:

The slender hut in fragments flew ; But not a lock of Moy's loose hair

Was waved by wind, or wet by dew. Wild mingling with the howling gale,

Loud bursts of ghastly laughter rise; High o'er the minstrel's head they sail,

And die amid the northern skies. The voice of thunder shook the wood, As ceased the more than mortal yell; And, spattering foul, a shower of blood Upon the hissing firebrands fell.

Next dropp'd from high a mangled arm;

The fingers strain'd an half-drawn

blade:

And last, the life-blood streaming warm,

Torn from the trunk, a gasping head. Oft o'er that head, in battling field, Stream'd the proud crest of high Benmore;

That arm the broad claymore could wield,

Which dyed the Teith with Saxon gore.

Woe to Moneira's sullen rills!

Woe to Glenfinlas' dreary glen! There never son of Albin's hills

Shall draw the hunter's shaft agen! E'en the tired pilgrim's burning feet At noon shall shun that sheltering den,

Lest, journeying in their rage, he meet The wayward Ladies of the Glen. And we-behind the Chieftain's shield

No more shall we in safety dwell; None leads the people to the fieldAnd we the loud lament must swell. O hone a rie'! O hone a rie'!

The pride of Albin's line is o'er! And fall'n Glenartney's stateliest tree; We ne'er shall see Lord Ronald

more!