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LORD OF THE ISLES.
AUTUMN departs—but still his mantle's fold
Rests on the groves of noble Somerville, Beneath a shroud of russet dropp'd with gold
Tweed and his tributaries mingle still ;
Yet lingering notes of sylvan music swell,
And yet some tints of summer splendour tell
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 wanderergleans few earsof 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 mark the last bright tints the mountain stain,
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,
To a wild tale of Albyn's warrior day;
Still live some reliques of the ancient lay.
With such the Seer of Skye the eve beguiles ; 'Tis known amid the pathless wastes of Reay,
In Harries known, and in Iona's piles, Where rest fron mortal coil the Mighty of the Isles.
“ WAKE, Maid of Lorn!" the Minstrels sung.