newed affection of the faithful Lord of the Isles for the fair object of his early and ardent adoration-that gallant and prudent chief, easily foregoing his love for Isobel on her taking the veil, and with a praiseworthy attention to his worldly affairs, resuming his suit to Edith upon discovering the king's intention of conferring upon the Maid of Lorn the confiscated lands of her rebellious brother. She arrives at the camp the evening before the battle, and reveals her sex and name to the king. The Bruce assures her of his tenderest friendship, and places her on an eminence in the rear of the army, with the attendants of the camp. Then follows the battle, in the description of which, though little varied from the chronicles of the times, there is a glow and animation which render it inferior only to the admirable stanzas in which Mr. Scott has immortalized the defeat of his counby men at Flodden. At the close of the combat, Edith, still disguised as the page, and alarmed at the danger of her lover, forgets her dissembled dumbness, and passionately calls upon the retainers of the camp to marshal themselves in military show, and bear down to the assistance of the army. They obey with shouts of rapture the call which appears to them the miraculous interposition of heaven in favour of Scotland; and the English host, deeming them to be fresh troops advancing to succour the Bruce, is seized with a confusion and panic, and borne down and vanquished on every side. The poem terminates with the king's order to make princely preparations for the nuptials of Edith with the Lord of the Isles (whose pardon for his amorous perjury he has secured from the Maid of Lorn,) to be celebrated at the abbey of Cambuskenneth immediately after the mass for the victory of Bannockbourn.

Such is the story of the Lord of the Isles; and the reader, if he has had patience to read the whole of our examen, must, we think, have gathered sufficient evidence of the impropriety of the title, and felt that the dignity of the main subject, is much injured by the paltry underplot attached to it. In a poem where Robert, the Bruce, appears, how is it possible that we should interest ourselves in the adventures of so insignificant a person as Ronald. But this is not the only defect. There are several contradictions, of history-character-and of the poet by himself.

Of history, a striking one occurs in the capture of Carrick, which did not take place for some years after the time men

tioned; an attack was made, it is true, and a considerable advantage gained by the Bruce on his return from Ireland, not, however, against Clifford, but earl Percy. Clifford was in the action, under Percy, but was not slain; he fell at Bannockbourn.

Of the contradictions of character it will be sufficient to bring forward one in that of the Bruce. Unquestionably, that heroic monarch was of a temper never surpassed for humanity, munificence, and nobleness; yet to represent him sorrowing over the death of the First Plantagenet-after the repeated and tremendous ills inflicted by him on Scotland-the patriot Wallace murdered by his order, as well as the royal race of Wales; and the brothers of the Bruce slaughtered by his command-to represent, we repeat, the just and generous Robert, feeling an instant's compassion for the death of such a man, is, in a Scottish poet, so unnatural a violation of truth and decency, not to say patriotism, that we are really astonished that the author could have conceived the idea, much more that he could suffer his pen to record it. This abasement on the part of the Bruce is farther heightened by the king's half reprehension of the prince's stern and noble expression of undying hatred against his country's spoiler and family's assassin.

Mr. Scott, we have said, contradicts himself. How will he reconcile the following facts to the satisfaction of his readers? The third canto informs us that Isobel accompanies Edward to Ireland, there to remain till the termination of the war; and in the fourth, the second day after her departure, we discover the princess counting her beads, and reading homilies in the cloister of St. Bride.

Of the characters, prince Edward is, most decidedly, our favourite. Of unshaken resolution, a valour reckless of al! danger, romantic and ardent, we always find him at the post of peril, heedless of opposition, and beating down resistance. Of matchless activity, and burning to distinguish himself, in action, in council, Edward is ever the first to advise, to perform. The Bruce, according to our notions of a hero, is a good deal too calm,too willing to think and say polite things of his adversary,-too ready to reprehend the fine effusions of his brother's generous spirit. Mr. Scott has aimed at contrast by investing the king with a dignity of mind and language superior to that of the prince, but we cannot think he has been altogether successful, for surely the chict quality of a hero is the energy which over

"Merrily, merrily, bounds the bark

She bounds before the gale,
The mountain breeze from Ben-na-darch
Is joyous in her sail!

With fluttering sound like laughter hoarse,
The cords and canvass strain,

The waves, divided by her force,
In rippling eddies chased her course,
As if they laugh'd again. ·
Not down the breeze more blithely flew,
Skimming the wave, the light sea-mew,
Than that gay galley bore
Her course upon that favouring wind,
And Coolin's crest has sunk behind,

And Slapin's cavern'd shore.
'Twas then that warlike signals wake
Dunscaith's dark towers and Eisord's lake.
And soon from Cavilgarrigh's head,

Thick wreaths of eddying smoke were spread;
A summons these of war and wrath,
To the brave clans of Sleat and Strath,

And, ready at the sight,
Each warrior to his weapons sprung,
And targe upon his shoulder flung,
Impatient for the fight.

Mac-Kinnon's chief, in warfare gray,
Had charge to muster their array,
And guide their barks to Brodick-bay.
VIII.

Signal of Ronald's high command,
A beacon gleam'd o'er sea and land,
From Canna's tower, that, steep and gray,
Like falcon-nest o'erhangs the bay.
Seek not the giddy crag to climb,
To view the turret scathed by time;
It is a task of doubt and fear
To aught but goat or mountain-deer.
But rest thee on the silver beach,
And let the aged herdsman teach
His tale of former day;

His cur's wild clamour he shall chide,
And for thy seat by ocean's side,

His varied plaid display;
Then tell, with Canna's chieftain came,
In ancient times, a foreign dame

To yonder turret gray.
Stern was her Lord's suspicious mind,
Who in so rude a jail confined
So soft and fair a thrall!

And oft when moon on ocean slept, That lovely lady sate and wept

Upon the castle-wall,

And turn'd her eye to southern climes,
And thought perchance of happier times,
And touch'd her lute by fits, and sung
Wild ditties in her native tongue.
And still, when on the cliff and bay
Placid and pale the moonbeams play,
And every breeze is mute,
Upon the lone Hebridean's ear
Steals a strange pleasure mix'd with fear,
While from that cliff he seems to hear

And sounds, as of a captive lone,
That mourns her woes in tongue unknown-
Strange is the tale-but all too long
Already hath it staid the song-
That crag and tower in ruins gray,
Yet who may pass them by,
Nor to their hapless tenant pay

The murmur of a lute,

The tribute of a sigh!
IX.
Merrily, merrily, bounds the bark
O'er the broad ocean driven,
Her path by Ronin's mountains dark
The steersman's hand has given.
And Ronin's mountains dark have sent
Their hunters to the shore,
And each his ashen bow unbent,

And gave his pastime o'er,
And at the Island Lord's command,
For hunting spear took warrior's brand.
On Scooreigg next a warning light
Summon'd her warriors to the fight;
A numerous race, ere stern Macleod
O'er their bleak shores in vengeance strode,
When all in vain the ocean cave
Its refuge to his victims gave.
The Chief, relentless in his wrath,
With blazing heath blockades the path;
In dense and stifling volumes roll'd,
The vapour fill'd the cavern'd Hold!
The warrior-threat, the infant's plain,
The mother's screams, were heard in vain;
The vengeful Chief maintains his fires,
Till in the vault a tribe expires!

The bones which strew that cavern's gloom,
Too well attest their dismal doom.
X.

Merrily, merrily, goes the bark

On a breeze from the northward free, So shoots through the morning sky the lark. Or the swan through the summer sea. The shores of Mull on the eastward lay, And Ulva dark and Colonsay, And all the group of islets gay

That guard famed Staffa round.
Then all unknown its columns rose,
Where dark and undisturb'd repose

The cormorant had found,"
And the shy seal had quiet home,
And welter'd in that wondrous dome,
Where, as to shame the temples deck'd
By skill of earthly architect,
Nature herself, it seem'd, would raise
A Minster to her Maker's praise !
Not for a meaner use ascend
Her columns, or her arches bend;
Nor of a theme less solemn tells
That mighty surge that ebbs and swells,
And still, between each awful pause,
From the high vault an answer draws,
In varied tone prolong'd and high,
That mocks the organ's melody.

Nor doth its entrance front in vain To old Iona's holy fane,

That nature's voice might seem to say,
'Well hast thou done, frail child of clay!
Thy humble powers that stately shrine
Task'd high and hard-but witness mine!',
XI.

Merrily, merrily, goes the bark,

Before the gale she bounds;

So darts the dolphin from the shark,
Or the deer before the hounds.
They left Loch-Tua on their lee,

And they waken'd the men of the wild Tiree,
And the chief of the sandy Coll;
They paused not at Columba's isle,
Though peal'd the bells from the holy pile
With long and measured toll;
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 flay call'd her host,
And the clans of Jura's rugged coast

Lord Ronald's call obey,

And Scarba's isles, 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 wondrous 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,

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!"

The setting forth of the Bruce and his followers for the attack of Carrick Castle, and the appearance of the supernatural beacon, are related with extraordinary vividness and effect.

XII.

"Now on the darkening main afloat,
Ready and mann'd rocks every boat;
Beneath their oars the ocean's might
Was dash'd to sparks of glimmering light,
Faint and more faint, as off they bore,
Their armour glanced against the shore,
And, mingled with the dashing tide,
Their murmuring voices distant died.-
'God speed them! said the Priest, as dark
On distant billows glides each bark;

'O Heaven! when swords for freedom shine,
And monarch's right, the cause is thine!
Edge doubly every patriot blow!
Beat down the banners of the foe!
And be it to the nations known,
That Victory is from God alone!"-
As up the hill his path he drew,
He turn'd, his blessings to renew,
Oft turn'd till on the darken'd coast
All traces of their course were lost;
Then slowly bent to Brodick tower,
To shelter for the evening hour.
XIII.

In night the fairy prospects sink,
Where Cumray's isles with verdant link
Close the fair entrance of the Clyde;
The woods of Bute no more descried
Are gone-and on the placid sea
The rowers plied their task with glee,
While hands that knightly lances bore
Impatient aid the labouring oar.
The half-faced moon shone dim and pale,
And glanced against the whiten'd sail;
But on that ruddy beacon-light
Each steersman kept the helm aright,
And oft, for such the King's command,
That all at once might reach the strand,
From boat to boat loud shout and hail
Warn'd them to crowd or slacken sait.
South and by west the armada bore,
And near at length the Carrick shore.
As less and less the distance grows,
High and more high the beacon rose;
The light, that seem'd a twinkling star,
Now blazed portentous, fierce, and far.
Dark-red the heaven above it glow'd,
Dark-red the sea beneath it flow'd,
Red rose the rocks on ocean's brim,
In blood-red light her islets swim;
Wild scream the dazzled sea-fowl gave,
Dropp'd from their crags on plashing wave,
The deer to distant covert drew,

The black-cock deem'd it day, and crew.

Like some tall castle given to flame,
O'er half the land the lustre came.

VOL. III.-No, rv.

36