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In varied tone prolong'd and high,
Nor doth its entrance front in vain
To old Iona's holy fane,
Merrily, merrily, goes the bark,
Before the gale she bounds;
Or the deer before the hounds.
And the Chief of the sandy Coll; They paused not at Columba's isle, Though peaľd the bells from the holy pile
With long and measured toll;
No time for matin or for mass,
Away in the billows' roll.
Lochbuie's fierce and warlike Lord
Their signal saw, and grasp'd his sword,
Lord Ronald's call obey,
And lonely Colonsay ;
And mute his tuneful strains ; Quench'd is his lamp of varied lore, That loved the light of song to pour ; A distant and a deadly shore
Has LEYDEN's cold remains !
Ever the breeze blows merrily,
They held unwonted way ;-
Upon the eastern bay.
For ancient legends told the Gael,
O'er Kilmaconnel moss,
and alder groves.
Old Albyn should in fight prevail,
foe should faint and quail Before her silver Cross.
Now launch'd once more, the inland sea They furrow with fair augury,
And steer for Arran's isle; The sun, ere yet he sunk behind Ben-ghoil, “ the Mountain of the Wind," Gave his grim peaks a greeting kind,
And bade Loch-Ranza smile. Thither their destined course they drew; It seem'd the isle her monarch knew, So brilliant was the landward view,
The ocean so serene ;
wave in diamonds rollid O'er the calm deep, where hues of gold.
With azure strove and green.
The hill, the vale, the tree, the tower,
The beech was silver sheen,
With breathless pause between.
Of such enchanting scene !
Is it of war Lord Ronald speaks?
And good King Robert's brow express'd,
As doubtful to approve ; Yet in his eye and lip the while Dwelt the half-pitying glance and smile,