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No time for matin or for
And the sounds of the holy summons pass
Away in the billows' roll.
Lochbuie's fierce and warlike Lord
Their signal saw, and grasp'd his sword,
Lord Ronald's call obey,
And lonely Colonsay;
And mute his tuneful strains;
Quench'd is his lamp of varied lore,
That loved the light of song to pour;
Has LEYDEN's cold remains !
Ever the breeze blows merrily,
They held unwonted way ;-
Upon the eastern bay.
For ancient legends told the Gael,
O'er Kilmaconnel moss,
Old Albyn should in fight prevail, And every foe should faint and quail
Before her silver Cross.
Now launch'd once more, the inland sea They furrow with fair augury,
And steer for Arran's isle; The sun, ere yet he sunk behind Ben-ghoil, “ the Mountain of the Wind,” Gave his grim peaks a greeting kind,
And bade Loch-Ranza smile.
Thither their destined course they drew;
It seem'd the isle her monarch knew,
So brilliant was the landward view,
The ocean so serene;
wave in diamonds roll'd
O’er the calm deep, where hues of gold
With azure strove and
The hill, the vale, the tree, the tower,
Glow'd with the tints of evening's hour,
The beach, was silver sheen,
The wind breathed soft as lover's sigh,
With breathless pause between.
Of such enchanting scene !
Is it of war Lord Ronald speaks ?
And good King Robert's brow express'd,
As doubtful to approve;
Yet in his eye and lip the while
When lovers talk of love.
Anxious his suit Lord Ronald pled;
66 And for my bride betrothed,” he said,
My Liege has heard the rumour spread Of Edith from Artornish fled.
Too hard her fate-I claim no right
When, to fulfil our fathers' band,
I was repulsed with scorn ;
Again, to pleasure Lorn.”