THE LORD OF THE ISLES. CANTO FIRST. AUTUMN Hoarser the wind, and deeper sounds the rill, And yet some tints of summer splendour tell When the broad sun sinks down on Ettrick's western fell. Autumn departs-from Gala's fields no more On the waste hill no forms of life appear, Save where, sad laggard of the autumnal train, Some age-struck wanderer gleans few ears of scatter'd grain. Deem'st thou these sadden'd scenes have pleasure still, Lovest thou through Autumn's fading realms to stray, To see the heath-flower wither'd on the hill, To listen to the woods' expiring lay, To note the red leaf shivering on the spray, To mark the last bright tints the mountain stain, On the waste fields to trace the gleaner's way, And moralize on mortal joy and pain ?— O! if such scenes thou lovest, scorn not the minstrel strain! No! do not scorn, although its hoarser note Scarce with the cushat's homely song can vie, Though faint its beauties as the tints remote That gleam through mist in autumn's evening sky, And few as leaves that tremble, sear and dry, When wild November hath his bugle wound; Nor mock my toil-a lonely gleaner I, Through fields time-wasted, on sad inquest bound, Where happier bards of yore have richer harvest found. So shalt thou list, and haply not unmoved, In Harries known, and in Iona's piles, Where rest from mortal coil the Mighty of the Isles. I. "WAKE, Maid of Lorn !" the Minstrels sung. Thy rugged halls, Artornish! rung, And the dark seas, thy towers that lave, Heaved on the beach a softer wave, As mid the tuneful choir to keep The diapason of the Deep. Lull'd were the winds on Inninmore, And ne'er to symphony more sweet Since, met from mainland and from isle, Ross, Arran, Ilay, and Argyle, Paid homage to the festal day. Dull and dishonour'd were the bard, Worthless of guerdon and regard, Deaf to the hope of minstrel fame, Were silent in Artornish hall. II. "Wake, Maid of Lorn!" 'twas thus they sung, And yet more proud the descant rung, "Wake, Maid of Lorn! high right is ours, To charm dull sleep from Beauty's bowers; Earth, Ocean, Air, have nought so shy In Lettermore the timid deer Will pause, the harp's wild chime to hear; Will long pursue the minstrel's bark; To list his notes, the eagle proud Will poise him on Ben-Cailliach's cloud; |