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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? (4) 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 look 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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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.

SONG CONTINUED.

«No!-thy splendours nothing tell,
Foreign art or faëry spell.
Moulded thou for monarch's use,
By the over-weening 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.

SONG CONCLUDED.

« Vain was then the Douglas brand, Vain the Campbell's vaunted hand, (7) Vain Kirkpatrick's bloody dirk, Making sure of murder's work; (8) Barendown fled fast away,

Fled the fiery De la Haye, (9)

When this broach, 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; (10)
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.»

XV.

« Now, by Columba's shrine, I swear,
And every saint that's buried there,
T is he himself!» Lorn sternly cries,
« And for my kinsman's death he dies.»>-
As loudly Ronald calls-« Forbear!
Not in my sight while brand I wear,
O'er-match'd by odds, shall warrior fall,
Or blood of stranger stain my hall!
This ancient fortress of my race
Shall be misfortune's resting-place,
Shelter and shield of the distress'd,

No slaughter-house for shipwreck'd guest.»-
<< 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 altar stream'd his blood,
While o'er my prostrate kinsman stood
The ruthless murderer-e'en as now--
With armed hand and scornful brow.-
Up, all who love me! blow on blow!
And lay the outlaw'd felons low.»—

XVI.

Then up sprung many a main-land 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'd is 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.

While thus for blows and death prepared,
Each heart was up, each weapon 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 burst 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 life,
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.

« O thou, of knighthood once the flower,

Sure refuge in distressful hour,

Thou, who in Judah well hast fought
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 eager 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 falt'ring 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 weep, 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.
This craves reflection-but though right
And just the charge of England's knight,
Let England's crown her rebels seize,
Where she has power;-in towers like these,
'Midst Scottish chieftains summon'd here
To bridal mirth and bridal cheer,
Be sure, with no consent of mine,
Shall either Lorn or Argentine
With chains or violence, in our sight,
Oppress a brave and banish'd knight.>>
XXI.

Then waked the wild debate again,
With brawling threat and clamour vain.
Vassals and menials, thronging in,
Lent their brute rage to swell the din;
When, far and wide, a bugle-clang
From the dark ocean upward rang.
«The abbot comes!» they cry at once,
«The holy man, whose favour'd glance
Hath sainted visions known;
Angels have met him on the way,
Beside the blessed martyr's 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 an hundred-fold),
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 bore, With many a torch-bearer before,

And many a cross behind.
Then sunk each fierce uplifted hand,
And dagger bright and flashing brand
Dropp'd swiftly at the sight;

They vanish'd from the churchman's eye,
As shooting stars, that glance and die,
Dart from the vault of night.

XXIII.

The abbot on the threshold stood,
And in his hand the holy rood;
Back on his shoulders flow'd his hood,
The torches' glaring ray

Show'd, in its red and flashing light,
His wither'd cheek and amice white,
His blue eye glistening cold and bright,
His tresses scant and gray.

<< Fair lords," he said, «Our Lady's love,
And peace be with you from above,
And benedicite!-

-But what means this? no peace is here!-
Do dirks unsheathed suit bridal cheer?

Or are these naked brands

A seemly show for churchman's sight,
When he comes summon'd to unite
Betrothed hearts and hands?»>

XXIV.

Then, cloaking hate with fiery zeal,
Proud Lorn first answer'd the appeal;
« Thou comest, O holy man,
True sons of blessed church to greet,
But little deeming here to meet

A wretch, beneath the ban

Of pope and church, for murder done Even on the sacred altar-stone! Well mayst thou wonder we should know Such miscreant here, nor lay him low, Or dream of greeting, peace, or truce, 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 prayers 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, (11)
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 awe.

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285

By English Edward had been shed, Since matchless Wallace first had been In mock'ry crown'd with wreaths of green, (12) And done to death by felon hand, For guarding well his fathers' 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? (13)

Have they not been on gibbet bound,
Their quarters flung to hawk and hound,
And hold we here a cold debate,
To yield more victims to their fate?
What! can the English leopard's mood
Never be gorged with northern blood!
Was not the life of Athole shed,
To soothe the tyrant's sicken'd bed? (14)
And must his word, at dying day,

Be nought but quarter, hang, and slay!—(15)
Thou frown'st, De Argentine.-My gage
Is prompt to prove the strife I wage.»-

XXVII.

« Nor deem,» said stout Dunvegan's knight,
<< That thou shalt brave alone the fight!
By saints of isle and main-land both,
By Woden wild (my grandsire's oath), (16)
Let Rome and England do their worst,
Howe'er attainted or accursed,

If Bruce shall e'er find friends again,
Once more to brave a battle-plain,
If Douglas couch again his lance,
Or Randolph dare another chance,
Old Torquil will not be to lack,

With twice a thousand at his back.-
Nay, chafe not at my bearing bold,
Good abbot! for thou know'st of old,
Torquil's rude thought and stubborn will
Smack of the wild Norwegian still;
Nor will I barter Freedom's cause

For England's wealth or Rome's applause.»>

XXVIII.

The abbot seem'd with eye severe, The hardy chieftain's speech to hear. Then on King Robert turn'd the monk, But twice his courage came and sunk, Confronted with the hero's look; Twice fell his eye, his accents shook. At length, resolved in tone and brow, Sternly he question'd him-« And thou, Unhappy! what hast thou to plead, Why I denounce not on thy deed That awful doom which canons tell Shuts paradise and opens hell; Anathema of power so dread, It blends the living with the dead, Bids each good angel spar away, And every ill one claim his prey; Expels thee from the church's care, And deafens Heaven against thy prayer; Arms every hand against thy life, Bans all who aid thee in the strife, Nay, each whose succour, cold and scant, With meanest alms relieves thy want; Haunts thee while living,-and, when dead, Dwells on thy yet devoted head, Rends honour's scutcheon from thy hearse, Stills o'er thy bier the holy verse,

And spurns thy corpse from hallow'd ground, Flung like vile carrion to the hound! :. Such is the dire and desperate doom, For sacrilege decreed by Rome; And such the well-deserved meed Of thine unhallow'd, ruthless deed.»-

XXIX. «Abbot!» the Bruce replied, « thy charge It boots not to dispute at large.

This much, howe'er, I bid thee know,

No selfish vengeance dealt the blow,
For Comyn died his country's foe.
Nor blame I friends whose ill-timed speed
Fulfill'd my soon-repented deed,

Nor censure those from whose stern tongue
The dire anathema has rung.

I only blame mine own wild ire,
By Scotland's wrongs incensed to fire.
Heaven knows my purpose to atone,
Far as I may, the evil done,
And hears a penitent's appeal
From papal curse and prelate's zeak
My first and dearest task achieved,
Fair Scotland from her thrall relieved,
Shall many a priest in cope and stole
Say requiem for red Comyn's soul,
While I the blessed cross advance,
And expiate this unhappy chance,

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In Palestine, with sword and lance. (17)
But, while content the church should know
My conscience owns the debt I owe,
Unto De Argentine and Lorn

The name of traitor I return,

Bid them defiance stern and high,
And give them in their throats the lie!
These brief words spoke, I speak no more.
Do what thou wilt; my shrift is o'er.»>-

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The broken voice of age is gone,
"T is vigorous manhood's lofty tone:-
<< Thrice vanquish'd on the battle-plain,
Thy followers slaughter'd, fled, or ta'en,
A hunted wanderer on the wild, (20)
On foreign shores a man exiled,
Disown'd, deserted, and distress'd,

I bless thee, and thou shalt be bless'd;
Bless'd in the hall and in the field,
Under the mantle as the shield.
Avenger of thy country's shame,
Restorer of her injured fame,
Bless'd in thy sceptre and thy sword,
De Bruce, fair Scotland's rightful lord,
Bless'd in thy deeds and in thy fame,
What lengthen'd honours wait thy name!
In distant ages, sire to son

Shall tell thy tale of freedom won,
And teach his infants, in the use

Of earliest speech, to falter Bruce.
Go, then, triumphant! sweep along
Thy course, the theme of many a song!
The Power, whose dictates swell my breast,
Hath bless'd thee, and thou shalt be bless'd!
Enough-my short-lived strength decays,
And sinks the momentary blaze.—
Heaven hath our destined purpose broke,
Not here must nuptial vow be spoke;
Brethren, our errand here is o'er,

Our task discharged.-Unmoor, unmoor!»-
His priests received the exhausted monk,
As breathless in their arms he sunk.
Punctual his orders to obey,

The train refused all longer stay,
Embark'd, raised sail, and bore away.

CANTO III.

I.

HAST thou not mark'd, when o'er thy startled head
Sudden and deep the thunder-peal has roll'd,
How, when its echoes fell, a silence dead
Sunk on the wood, the meadow, and the wold?
The rye-grass shakes not on the sod-built fold,

The rustling aspen's leaves are mute and still,
The wall-flower waves not on the ruin'd hold,
Till, murmuring distant first, then near and shrill,
The savage whirlwind wakes,and sweeps the groaning

hill!

II.

Artornish such a silence sunk

Upon thy halls, when that gray monk

His prophet-speech had spoke;

And his obedient brethren's sail

Was stretch'd to meet the southern gale
Before a whisper woke.

Then murmuring sounds of doubt and fear,
Close pour'd in many an anxious ear,

The solemn stillness broke;
And still they gazed with eager guess,
Where, in an oriel's deep recess,

The Island Prince seem'd bent to press

What Lorn, by his impatient cheer,
And gesture fierce, scarce deign'd to hear.
III.

Starting at length with frowning look,
His hand he clench'd, his head he shook,
And sternly flung apart ;-

« And deem'st thou me so mean of mood, As to forget the mortal feud,

And clasp the hand with blood embrued
From my dear kinsman's heart?
Is this thy rede?-a due return

For ancient league and friendship sworn?
But well our mountain proverb shows
The faith of Islesmen ebbs and flows.

Be it e'en so-believe, ere long,

He that now bears shall wreak the wrong.-
Call Edith-call the Maid of Lorn!

My sister, slaves!-for further scorn,
Be sure nor she nor I will stay.—
Away, De Argentine, away!—
We nor ally nor brother know,

In Bruce's friend, or England's foe.»>

IV.

But who the chieftain's rage can tell,
When, sought from lowest dungeon cell
To highest tower the castle round,
No Lady Edith was there found!
He shouted, « Falsehood!—treachery!-
Revenge and blood!—a lordly meed
To him that will avenge the deed!
A baron's lands!»-His frantic mood
Was scarcely by the news withstood,
That Morag shared his sister's flight,
And that, in hurry of the night,
'Scaped noteless, and without remark,
Two strangers sought the abbot's bark.
« Man every galley!-fly-pursue!
The priest his treachery shall rue!
Ay, and the time shall quickly come,
When we shall hear the thanks that Rome
Will pay his feigned prophecy!»-
Such was fierce Lorn's indignant cry;
And Cormac Doil in haste obey'd,
Hoisted his sail, his anchor weigh'd
(For, glad of each pretext for spoil,
A pirate sworn was Cormac Doil). (1),
But others, lingering, spoke apart,

« The maid has given her maiden heart
To Ronald of the Isles;

And, fearful lest her brother's word
Bestow her on that English lord,

She seeks Iona's piles;

And wisely deems it best to dwell
A votaress in the holy cell,
Until these feuds so fierce and fell

The abbot reconciles. >>

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