THE LORD OF THE ISLES. CANTO THIRD. HAST thou not mark'd, when o'er thy startled head Sudden and deep the thunder-peal has roll❜d, How, when its echoes fell, a silence dead Sunk on the wood, the meadow, and the wold? The rye-grass The rustling aspen's leaves are mute and still, The wall-flower waves not on the ruin'd Hold, The Till, murmuring distant first, then near and shrill, savage whirlwind wakes, and sweeps the groaning hill! II. Artornish! such a silence sunk Upon thy halls, when that grey Monk And his obedient brethren's sail Was stretch'd to meet the southern gale Before a whisper woke. Then murmuring sounds of doubt and fear, Close pour'd in many an anxious ear, The solemn stillness broke ; And still they gazed with eager guess, The Island Prince seem'd bent to press What Lorn, by his impatient cheer, And gesture fierce, scarce deign'd to hear. III. Starting at length with frowning look, His hand he clench'd, his head he shook, And sternly flung apart ;— "And deem'st thou me so mean of mood, As to forget the mortal feud, And clasp the hand with blood embrued From my dear Kinsman's heart? Is this thy rede?—a due return For ancient league and friendship sworn ! But well our mountain proverb shows The faith of Islesmen ebbs and flows. Be it even so-believe, ere long, He that now bears shall wreak the wrong. Call Edith-call the Maid of LornĮ Be sure nor she nor I will stay.- In Bruce's friend, or England's foe." IV. But who the Chieftain's rage can tell, When, sought rom lowest dungeon cell To highest tower the castle round, No Lady Edith was there found! He shouted, "Falsehood!-treachery !→ 'Scaped noteless, and without remark, Two strangers sought the Abbot's bark."Man every galley !-fly-pursue! The priest his treachery shall rue! Ay, and the time shall quickly come, When we shall hear the thanks that Rome Will pay his feigned prophecy !"— Such was fierce Lorn's indignant cry; (For, glad of each pretext for spoil, A pirate sworn was Cormac Doil.) But others, lingering, spoke apart,— "The Maid has given her maiden heart To Ronald of the Isles, And, fearful lest her brother's word Bestow her on that English Lord, She seeks Iona's piles, And wisely deems it best to dwell A votaress in the holy cell, Until these feuds so fierce and fell The Abbot reconciles." V. As, impotent of ire, the hall Echoed to Lorn's impatient call, |