belong rather to the Italian school. This new fugitive piece was called Harold the Dauntless; and I am still astonished at my having committed the gross error of selecting the very name which Lord Byron had made so famous. It encountered rather an odd fate. My ingenious friend, Mr. James Hogg, had published, about the same time, a work called the Poetic Mirror, containing imitations of the principal living poets. There was in it a very good imitation of my own style, which bore such a resemblance to Harold the Dauntless, that there was no discovering the original from the imitation; and I believe that many who took the trouble of thinking upon the subject, were rather of opinion that my ingenious friend was the true, and not the fictitious Simon Pure. Since this period, which was in the year 1816, the Author has not been an intruder on the public by any poetical work of importance.

ABBOTSFORD, April, 1830.

CANTO FIRST

AUTUMN departs - but still his mantle's fold
Rests on the groves of noble Somerville,
Beneath a shroud of russet drooped with gold
Tweed and his tributaries mingle still;

Hoarser the wind and deeper sounds the rill,
Yet lingering notes of sylvan 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.
The last blithe shout hath died upon our ear,
And harvest-home hath hushed the clanging wain,
On the waste hills no forms of life appear,

Save where, sad laggard of the autumnal strain, Some age-struck wanderer gleans few ears of scattered grain.

Deem'st thou these saddened scenes have pleasure

still,

Lov'st thou through Autumn's fading realms to stray,

To see the heath-flower withered on the hill,
To listen to the woods' expiring lay,

To note the red leaf shivering on the spray,

To mark the last bright tints the mountain stain, On the waste fields to trace the gleaner's way, And moralise on mortal joy and pain?

O, if such scenes thou lov'st, scorn not the minstrel strain!

No! do not scorn, although its hoarser note
Scarce with the cushat's homely song can vie,
Though faint its beauties as the tints remote
That gleam through mist in autumn's evening sky,
And few as leaves that tremble, sear and dry,
When wild November hath his bugle 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,
To a wild tale of Albyn's warrior day;
In distant lands, by the rough West reproved,
Still live some relics of the ancient lay.
For, when on Coolin's hills the lights decay,
With such the Seer of Skye the eve beguiles;
'T is known amid the pathless wastes of Reay,
In Harries known and in Iona's piles,

Where rest from mortal coil the Mighty of the Isles.

I

"Wake, Maid of Lorn!' the minstrels sung.Thy rugged halls, Artornish, rung,1

And the dark seas thy towers that lave
Heaved on the beach a softer wave,

As 'mid the tuneful choir to keep
The diapason of the deep.

Lulled were the winds on Inninmore

And green Loch-Alline's woodland shore,
As if wild woods and wayes had pleasure
In listing to the lovely measure.
And ne'er to symphony more sweet
Gave mountain echoes answer meet

Since, met from mainland and from isle,
Ross, Arran, Islay, and Argyle,
Each minstrel's tributary lay

Paid homage to the festal day.

Dull and dishonoured were the bard,
Worthless of guerdon and regard,
Deaf to the hope of minstrel fame,
Or lady's smiles, his noblest aim,
Who on that morn's resistless call
Was silent in Artornish hall.

See Note 67.