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And not one dimple on her cheek
A tell-tale consciousness bespeak ?--
Lives still such maid ?-Fair damsels, say,
For further vouches not my lay,
Save that such lived in Britain's isle,
When Lorn's bright Edith scorn'd to smile.

VII.

But Morag, to whose fostering care
Proud Lorn had given his daughter fair,
Morag, who saw a mother's aid
By all a daughter's love repaid,
(Strict was that bond-most kind of all-
Inviolate in Highland hall-)
Grey Morag sate a space apart,
In Edith's eyes to read her heart.
In vain the attendants' fond appeal
To Morag's skill, to Morag's zeal;
She mark'd her child receive their care,
Cold as the image soulptured fair,

(Form of some sainted patroness)
Which cloister'd maids combine to dress ;
She mark'd-and knew her nursling's heart
In the vain pomp took little part.
Wistful a while she gazed—then press'd
The maiden to her anxious breast

In finish'd loveliness

and led

To where a turret's airy head,
Slender and steep, and battled round,
Oerlook'd, dark Mull! thy mighty Sound,
Where thwarting tides, with mingled roar,
Part thy swarth hills from Morven's shore.

VIII. “ Daughter," she said, “ these seas behold, Round twice an hundred islands rollid, From Hirt, that hears their northern roar, To the green Ilay's fertile shore ; Or mainland turn, where many a tower Owns thy bold brother's feudal power,

Each on its own dark cape reclined,
And listening to its own wild wind,
From where Mingarry, sternly placed,
O'erawes the woodland and the waste,
To where Dunstaffnage hears the raging
Of Connal with his rocks engaging.
Think'st thou, amid this ample round,
A single brow but thine has frown'd,
To sadden this auspicious morn,
That bids the daughter of high Lorn
Impledge her spousal faith to wed
The Heir of mighty Somerled;
Ronald, from many a hero sprung,
The fair, the valiant, and the young,
LORD OF THE ISLES, whose lofty name
A thousand bards have given to fame,
The mate of monarchs, and allied
On equal terms with England's pride.
From Chieftain's tower to bondsman's cot,
Who hears the tale, and triumphs not ?

The damsel dons her best attire,
The shepherd lights his beltane fire,
Joy, Joy ! each warder's horn hath sung,
Joy, Joy ! each matin bell hath rung ;
The holy priest says grateful mass,
Loud shouts each hardy galla-glass,
No mountain den holds outcast boor,
Of heart so dull, of soul so poor,
But he hath flung his task aside,
And claim'd this morn for holy-tide;
Yet, empress of this joyful day,
Edith is sad while all are gay."

IX.

Proud Edith's soul came to her eye,
Resentment check'd the struggling sigh,
Her hurrying hand indignant dried
The burning tears of injured pride-
Morag, forbear ! or lend thy praise
To swell yon hireling harper's lays;

Make to yon maids thy boast of power,
That they may waste a wondering hour,
Telling of banners proudly borne,
Of pealing bell and bugle-horn,
Or, theme more dear, of robes of price,
Crownlets and gauds of rare device.
But thou, experienced as thou art,
Think'st thou with these to cheat the heart,
That, bound in strong affection's chain,
Looks for return and looks in vain ?

No! sum thine Edith's wretched lot

In these brief words-He loves her not !

X.

« Debate it not-too long I strove To call his cold observance love,

All blinded by the league that styled
Edith of Lorn,—while, yet a child,
She tripp'd the heath by Morag's side,
The brave Lord Ronald's destined bride.

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