Then let not Maiden's ear disdain The summons of the minstrel train, But, while our harps wild music make, III. "O wake, while Dawn, with dewy shine, Wakes Nature's charms to vie with thine! She bids the mottled thrush rejoice To mate thy melody of voice; The dew that on the violet lies Mocks the dark lustre of thine eyes; But, Edith, wake, and all we see Of sweet and fair shall yield to thee !" "She comes not yet," grey Ferrand cried; "Brethren, let softer spell be tried, Those notes prolong'd, that soothing theme, Which best may mix with Beauty's dream, And whisper, with their silvery tone, The hope she loves, yet fears to own."- He spoke, and on the harp-strings died The lay of love he bade them tell. IV. "Wake, Maid of Lorn! the moments fly, Which yet that maiden-name allow; Wake, Maiden, wake! the hour is nigh, When Love shall claim a plighted vow. By Fear, thy bosom's fluttering guest, By Hope, that soon shall fears remove, We bid thee break the bonds of rest, And wake thee at the call of Love! "Wake, Edith, wake! in yonder bay Lies many a galley gaily mann'd, We hear the merry pibrochs play, We see the streamers' silken band. H What Chieftain's praise these pibrochs 'swell, What crest is on these banners wove, The harp, the minstrel, dare not tell- V. Retired her maiden train among, Edith of Lorn received the song, But tamed the minstrel's pride had been That had her cold demeanour seen; For not upon her cheek awoke The glow of pride when Flattery spoke, One sigh responsive to the string. As vainly had her maidens vied In skill to deck the princely bride. Her locks, in dark-brown length array'd, Cathleen of Ulne, 'twas thine to braid; On the light foot the silken shoe, While on the ancle's slender round Those strings of pearl fair Bertha wound, Seem'd dusky still on Edith's skin. Had weightiest task-the mantle's fold In many an artful plait she tied, To shew the form it seem'd to hide, Till on the floor descending roll'd Its waves of crimson blent with gold. VI. O! lives there now so cold a maid, 8 And not one dimple on her cheek A tell-tale consciousness bespeak ?- Lives still such maid?-Fair damsels, say, For further vouches not my lay, Save that such lived in Britain's isle, When Lorn's bright Edith scorn'd to smile. VII. But Morag, to whose fostering care Proud Lorn had given his daughter fair, Morag, who saw a mother's aid By all a daughter's love repaid, (Strict was that bond-most kind of all- Cold as the image sculptured fair, |