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In varied tone prolong'd and high,
That mocks the organ's melody.

Nor doth its entrance front in vain

To old Iona's holy fane,
That-Nature's voice might seem to say,
“ Well hast thou done, frail Child of clay !
Thy humble powers that stately shrine
Task'd high and hard-but witness mine!"-

XI.

Merrily, merrily, goes the bark,

Before the gale she bounds;
So darts the dolphin from the shark,

Or the deer before the hounds.
They left Loch-Tua on their lee,
And they waken'd the men of the wild Tiree,

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,
And the sounds of the holy summons pass

Away in the billows' roll.

Lochbuie's fierce and warlike Lord

Their signal saw, and grasp'd his sword,
And verdant Ilay call’d her host,
And the clans of Jura’s rugged coast

Lord Ronald's call obey,
And Scarba's isle, whose tortured shore
Still rings to Corrievreken's roar,

And lonely Colonsay ;
-Scenes sung by him who sings no more!
His bright and brief career is o’er,

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 !

XII.

Ever the breeze blows merrily,
But the galley ploughs no more the sea.
Lest, rounding wild Cantire, they meet
The southern foemen's watchful fleet,

They held unwonted way ;-
Up Tarbat's western lake they bore,
Then dragg'd their bark the isthmus o'er,
As far as Kilmaconnel's shore,

Upon the eastern bay.
It was a wond'rous sight to see
Topmast and pennon glitter free,
High raised above the greenwood tree,
As on dry land the galley moves,
By cliff and

copse
Deep import from that selcouth sign,
Did many a mountain Seer divine,

For ancient legends told the Gael,
That when a royal bark should sail

O'er Kilmaconnel moss,

and alder groves.

Old Albyn should in fight prevail,
And
every

foe should faint and quail Before her silver Cross.

XIII.

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 ;

Each puny

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,
Glow'd with the tints of evening's hour,

The beech was silver sheen,
The wind breath'd soft as lover's sigh,
And, oft renew'd, seem'd oft to die,

With breathless pause between.
O who, with speech of war and woes,
Would wish to break the soft repose

Of such enchanting scene !

XIV.

Is it of war Lord Ronald speaks?
The blush that dyes his manly cheeks,
The timid look, and down-cast eye,
And faultering voice the theme deny.

And good King Robert's brow express'd,
He ponder'd o'er some high request,

As doubtful to approve ; Yet in his eye and lip the while Dwelt the half-pitying glance and smile,

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