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 reapers' mirth we hear. The last blithe shout hath died upon our ear, And harvest-home hath hush'd the clanging wain, On the waste hill no forms of life appear, Save where, sad laggard of the autumnal train, Some age-struck wanderer gleans few ears of scatter'd grain. Deem'st thou these sadden'd scenes have pleasure still, Lovest thou through Autumn's fading realms to stray, To see the heath-flower wither'd 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 moralize on mortal joy and pain ?— O! if such scenes thou lovest, 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, Still live some reliques of the ancient lay. In Harries known, and in Iona's piles, Where rest from mortal coil the Mighty of the Isles. 66 I. WAKE, Maid of Lorn!" the Minstrels sung. Thy rugged halls, Artornish ! rung, And the dark seas, thy towers that lave, As mid the tuneful choir to keep Lull'd were the winds on Inninmore, And ne'er to symphony more sweet Since, met from mainland and from isle, Ross, Arran, Ilay, and Argyle, Paid homage to the festal day. Dull and dishonour'd were the bard, II. Wake, Maid of Lorn!" 'twas thus they sung, And yet more proud the descant rung, "Wake, Maid of Lorn! high right is ours, To charm dull sleep from Beauty's bowers; Earth, Ocean, Air, have nought so shy But owns the power of minstrelsy. In Lettermore the timid deer Will pause, the harp's wild chime to hear; Will long pursue the minstrel's bark; Will poise him on Ben-Cailliach's cloud; Then let not Maiden's ear disdain The summons of the minstrel train, But, while our harps wild music make, III. "O wake, while Dawn, with dewy shine, Wakes Nature's charms to vie with thine! She bids the mottled thrush rejoice To mate thy melody of voice; The dew that on the violet lies Mocks the dark lustre of thine eyes; But, Edith, wake, and all we see Of sweet and fair shall yield to thee !”— Those notes prolong'd, that soothing theme, |