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THE

LORD OF THE ISLES.

CANTO THIRD.

I.
Hast thou not mark’d, when o'er thy startled head

Sudden and deep the thunder-peal has rolld,
How, when its echoes fell, a silence dead

Sunk on the wood, the meadow, and the wold ? The rye-grass shakes not on the sod-built fold,

The rustling aspen’s leaves are mute and still, The wall-flower waves not on the ruin'd Hold,

Till, murmuring distant first, then near and shrill, The savage whirlwind wakes, and sweeps the groaning hill!

II.

Artornish! such a silence sunk
Upon thy halls, when that grey Monk

His prophet-speech had spoke;
And his obedient brethren's sail
Was stretch'd to meet the southern gale

Before a whisper woke.
Then murmuring sounds of doubt and fear,
Close pour'd in many an anxious ear,

The solemn stillness broke ; And still they gazed with eager guess, Where, in an oriel's deep recess, The Island Prince seem'd bent to press What Lorn, by his impatient cheer, And gesture fierce, scarce deign'd to hear.

III.

Starting at length with frowning look,
His hand he clench'd, his head he shook,

And sternly flung apart ;

“ And deem'st thou me so mean of mood,
As to forget the mortal feud,
And clasp the hand with blood embrued

dear kinsman's heart?

From my

Is this thy rede ?-a due return
For ancient league and friendship sworn!
But well our mountain proverb shows
The faith of Islesmen ebbs and flows.

Be it even som believe, ere long,
He that now bears shall wreak the wrong.
Call Edith-call the Maid of Lorn!
My sister, slaves !—for further scorn,
Be sure nor she nor I will stay.-
Away, De Argentine, away!
We nor ally nor brother know,
In Bruce's friend, or England's foe.”-

IV.

But who the Chieftain's rage can tell,
When, sought from lowest dungeon cell

To highest tower the castle round,
No Lady Edith was there found !
He shouted, “Falsehood !-treachery !--
Revenge and blood !-a lordly meed
To him that will avenge the deed!
A Baron's lands !”—His frantic mood
Was scarcely by the news withstood,
That Morag shared his sister's flight,
And that, in hurry of the night,
Scaped noteless, and without remark,
Two strangers sought the Abbot's bark.
“ Man every galley !-fly-pursue !
The priest his treachery shall rue!
Ay, and the time shall quickly come,
When we shall hear the thanks that Rome
Will pay his feigned prophecy !"-
Such was fierce Lorn's indignant cry ;
And Cormac Doil in haste obey'd,
Hoisted his sail, his anchor weigh’d,

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