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Then let not Maiden's ear disdain
The summons gf the minstrel train,
But, while our harps wild music make,
Edith of Lorn, awake, awake!
“O wake, while Dawn, with dewy shine, Wakes Nature's charms to vie with thine!
She bids the mottled thrush rejoice
To mate thy melody of voice;
The dew that on the violet lies
Mocks the dark lustre of thine eyes;
But, Edith, wake, and all we see
Of sweet and fair shall yield to thee !
“ She comes not yet," grey Ferrand cried;
6 Brethren, let softer spell be tried,
Those notes prolong'd, that soothing theme,
Which best may mix with Beauty's dream, ,
And whisper, with their silvery tone,
The hope she loves, yet fears to own.".
He spoke, and on the harp-strings died
The strains of flattery and of pride;
More soft, more low, more tender fell
The lay of love he bade them tell.
“ Wake, Maid of Lorn! the moments fly,
Which yet that maiden-name allow; Wake, Maiden, wake! the hour is nigh,
When Love shall claim'a plighted vow. By Fear, thy bosom's fluttering guest,
By Hope, that soon shall fears remove, We bid thee break the bonds of rest,
And wake thee at the call of Love !
“ Wake, Edith, wake ! in yonder bay
Lies many a galley gaily mann'd, We hear the merry pibrochs play,
We see the streamers' silken band.
What Chieftain's praise these pibrochs 'swell,
What crest is on these banners wove,
The harp, the minstrel, dare not tell
The riddle must be read by Love."
Retired her maiden train among,
Edith of Lorn received the song,
But tamed the minstrel's pride had been
That had her cold demeanour seen;
For not upon her cheek awoke
The glow of pride when Flattery spoke,
Nor could their tenderest numbers bring
One sigh responsive to the string.
As vainly had her maidens vied
In skill to deck the princely bride.
Her locks, in dark-brown length array'd,
Cathleen of Ulne, 'twas thine to braid;
Young Eva with meet reverence drew
On the light foot the silken shoe,
While on the ancle's slender round
Those strings of pearl fair Bertha wound,
That, bleach'd Lochryan's depths within,
Seem'd dusky still on Edith's skin.
But Einion, of experience old,
Had weightiest task-the mantle's fold
In many an artful plait she tied,
To shew the form it seem'd to hide,
Till on the floor descending rolld
Its waves of crimson blent with gold.
O! lives there now so cold a maid,
Who thus in beauty's pomp array'd,
In beauty's proudest pitoh of power,
And conquest won-the bridal hour-
With every charm that wiņs the heart,
By Nature given, enhanced by Art,
Could yet the fair reflection view,
In the bright mirror pictured true,
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.
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 sculptured fair,