Stern was her Lord's suspicious mind, Who in so rude a jail confined So soft and fair a thrall! And oft when moon on ocean slept, That lovely lady sate and wept Upon the castle-wall, And turn'd her eye to southern climes, Wild dittics in her native tongue. And still, when on the cliff and bay Placid and pale the moonbeams play, And every breeze is mute, Upon the lone Hebridean's ear Steals a strange pleasure mix'd with fear, While from that cliff he seems to hear The murmur of a lute, And sounds, as of a captive lone, That mourns her woes in tongue unknown.→ Strange is the tale-but all too long Yet who may pass them by, That crag and tower in ruins grey, Nor to their hapless tenant pay The tribute of a sigh! 44 IX. Merrily, merrily, bounds the bark Her path by Ronin's mountains dark The steersman's hand hath given. And Ronin's mountains dark have sent Their hunters to the shore, And each his ashen bow unbent, And gave his pastime o'er, And at the Island Lord's command, On Scooreigg next a warning light A numerous race, ere stern Macleod O'er their bleak shores in vengeance strode, When all in vain the ocean-cave Its refuge to his victims gave. The Chief, relentless in his wrath, With blazing heath blockades the path; In dense and stifling volumes roll❜d, The warrior-threat, the infant's plain, The vengeful Chief maintains his fires, Till in the vault a tribe expires! The bones which strew that cavern's gloom, Too well attest their dismal doom. X. Merrily, merrily, goes the bark On a breeze from the northward free, So shoots through the morning sky the lark, Or the swan through the summer sea. The shores of Mull on the eastward lay, And Ulva dark and Colonsay, And all the group of islets gay That guard famed Staffa round. Then all unknown its columns rose, The cormorant had found, And the shy seal had quiet home, Where, as to shame the temples deck'd Nature herself, it seem'd, would raise A Minster to her Maker's praise! Not for a meaner use ascend Her columns, or her arches bend; Nor of a theme less solemn tells That mighty surge that ebbs and swells, And still, between each awful pause, From the high vault an answer draws, 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 peal'd the bells from the holy pile With long and measured toll; |