No time for matin or for mass,

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,

And verdant Ilay call'd her host,

And the clans of Jura's rugged coast

Lord Ronald's call obey,

And Scarba's isle, whose tortured shore

Still rings to Corrievreken's roar,

And lonely Colonsay;

-Scenes sung by him who sings no more!

His bright and brief career is o'er,

And mute his tuneful strains;

Quench'd is his lamp of varied lore,
That loved the light of song to pour;

A distant and a deadly shore

Has LEYDEN's cold remains!

XII.

Ever the breeze blows merrily,

But the galley ploughs no more the sea. Lest, rounding wild Cantire, they meet The southern foemen's watchful fleet,

They held unwonted way;

Up Tarbat's western lake they bore,
Then dragg'd their bark the isthmus o'er,

As far as Kilmaconnel's shore,

Upon the eastern bay.

It was a wond'rous sight to see
Topmast and pennon glitter free,
High raised above the greenwood tree,
As on dry land the galley moves,
By cliff and copse and alder groves.
Deep import from that selcouth sign,
Did many a mountain Seer divine,

For ancient legends told the Gael,

That when a royal bark should sail
O'er Kilmaconnel moss,

Old Albyn should in fight prevail,

And every foe should faint and quail

Before her silver Cross.

XIII.

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;

K

Each puny wave in diamonds roll'd

O'er the calm deep, where hues of gold

With azure strove and

green.

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,
And, oft renew'd, seem'd oft to die,

With breathless pause between.

O who, with speech of war and woes,
Would wish to break the soft repose

Of such enchanting scene!

XIV.

Is it of war Lord Ronald speaks?
The blush that dyes his manly cheeks,

The timid look, and down-cast eye,

And faultering voice the theme deny.
And good King Robert's brow express'd,

He ponder'd o'er some high request,

As doubtful to approve;

Yet in his eye and lip the while

Dwelt the half-pitying glance and smile,
Which manhood's graver mood beguile,
When lovers talk of love.

Anxious his suit Lord Ronald pled;

"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
To blame her for her hasty flight;

Be joy and happiness her lot !-
But she hath fled the bridal-knot,
And Lorn recall'd his promised plight,
In the assembled chieftains' sight.-
When, to fulfil our fathers' band,
I proffer'd all I could-my hand-
I was repulsed with scorn;

Mine honour I should ill assert,

And worse the feelings of my heart,

If I should play a suitor's part

Again, to pleasure Lorn."