The Lord of the Isles. ADVERTISEMENT TO THE FIRST EDITION. The scene of this Poem lies, at first, in the Castle of Artornish, on the coast of Argyleshire; and, afterwards, in the Islands of Skye and Arran, and upon the coast of Ayrshire. Finally, it is laid near Stirling. The story opens in the spring of the year 1307, when Bruce, who had been driven out of Scotland by the English, and the Barons who adhered to that foreign interest, returned from the Island of Rachrin, on the coast of Ireland, again to assert his claims to the Scottish crown. Many of the personages and incidents introduced are of historical celebrity. The authorities used are chiefly those of the venerable Lord Hailes, as well entitled to be called the restorer of Scottish history, as Bruce the restorer of Scottish monarchy; and of Archdeacon Barbour, a correct edition of whose Metrical History of Robert Bruce' will soon, I trust, appear, under the care of my learned friend, the Rev. Dr. Jamieson. ABBOTSFORD, 10th December, 1814.2 1 The work alluded to appeared in 1820, under the title of "The Bruce and Wallace." 2 vols. 4to. 2"Here is another genuine lay of the great Minstrel, with all his characteristic faults, beauties, and irregularities. The same glow of coloring-the same energy of narration-the same amplitude of description, are conspicuous here, which distinguish all his other productions: with the same still more characteristic disdain of puny graces and small originalitiesthe true poetical hardihood, in the strength of which he urges on his Pegasus fearlessly through dense and rare, and aiming gallantly at the great ends of truth and effect, stoops but rarely to study the means by which they are to be attained-avails himself, without scruple, of common sentiments and common images wherever they seem fitted for his purposes-and is origi nal by the very boldness of his borrowing, and impressive by his disregard of epigram and emphasis. Though bearing all these marks of the master's hand, the work before us does not come up, in interest, to The Lady of the Lake, or even to Marmion. There is less connected story; and, what there is, is less skilfully complicated and disentangled, and less diversified with change of scene, or variety of character. In the scantiness of the narrative, and the broken and discontinuous order of the events, as well as the inartificial insertion of detached descriptions and morsels of ethical reflection, it bears more resemblance to the earliest of the author's greater productions; and suggests a comparison, perhaps not altogether to his advantage, with the structure and execution of the Lay of the Last Minstrel :-for though there is probably more force and substance in the latter parts of the present work, it is certainly inferior to that enchanting performance in delicacy and sweetness, and even-is it to be wondered at, after four such publications ?-in originality. "The title of The Lord of the Isles' has been adopted, we presume, to match that of The Lady of the Lake;' but there is no analogy in the stories-nor does the title, on this occasion, correspond very exactly with the contents. It is no unusual misfortune, indeed, for the author of a modern Epic to have his hero turn out but a secondary personage, in the gradual unfolding of the story, while some unruly underling runs off with the whole glory and interest of the poem. But here the author, we conceive, must have been aware of the misnomer from the beginning; the true, and indeed the ostensible hero being, from the very first, no less a person than King Robert Bruce."-Edinburgh Review, No. xlviii. 1815. "If it be possible for a poet to bestow upon his writings a superfluous degree of care and correction, it may also be pos sible, we should suppose, to bestow too little. Whether this be the case in the poem before us, is a point upon which Mr. Scott can possibly form a much more competent judgment than ourselves; we can only say, that without possessing greater beauties than its predecessors, it has certain violations of propriety, both in the language and in the composition of the story, of which the former efforts of his muse afforded neither so many nor such striking examples. "We have not now any quarrel with Mr. Scott on account of the measure which he has chosen; still less on account of his subjects; we believe that they are both of them not only pleasing in themselves, but well adapted to each other, and to the bent of his peculiar genius. On the contrary, it is be cause we admire his genius, and are partial to the subjects which he delights in, that we so much regret he should leave room for any difference of opinion respecting them, merely from not bestowing upon his publications that common degree of labor and meditation which we cannot help saying it is scarcely decorous to withhold."-Quarterly Review, No. xxvi. July, 1815. The Lord of the Isles. CANTO FIRST. AUTUMN departs-but still his mantle's fold Rests on the groves of noble Somerville,1 Beneath a shroud of russet dropp'd with gold Tweed and his tributaries mingle still; Hoarser the wind, and deeper sounds the rill, Yet lingering notes of silvan music swell, The deep-toned cushat, and the redbreast shrill; And yet some tints of summer splendor tell When the broad sun sinks down on Ettrick's western fell. Autumn departs-from Gala's' fields no more Come rural sounds our kindred banks to cheer; Blent with the stream, and gale that wafts it o'er, No more the distant reaper's mirth we hear. The last blithe shout hath died upon our ear, And harvest-home hath hush'd the clanging wain, 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 note the red leaf shivering on the spray, 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, 1 John, fifteenth Lord Somerville, illustrious for his patriotic devotion to the science of agriculture, resided frequently in his beautiful villa called the Pavilion, situated on the Tweed over against Melrose, and was an intimate friend and almost daily companion of the poet, from whose windows at Abbotsford his lordship's plantations formed a prominent object. Lord S. died in 1819. The river Gala, famous in song, flows into the Tweed a few hundred yards below Abbotsford: but probably the word When wild November hath his bugle wound; Nor mock my toil—a lonely gleaner I,3 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, To a wild tale of Albyn's warrior day; In distant lands, by the rough West reproved, Still live some relics of the ancient lay. For, when on Coolin's hills the lights decay, With such the Seer of Skye1 the eve beguiles; "Tis known amid the pathless wastes of Reay, In Harries known, and in Iona's piles, Where rest from mortal coil the Mighty of the Isles. I. 5 "WAKE, Maid of Lorn!" the Minstrels sung. Lull'd were the winds on Inninmore, 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 naught so shy Gala here stands for the poet's neighbor and kinsman, and much attached friend, John Scott, Esq., of Gala. 3 MS."an humble gleaner I." 4 MS." the aged of Skye." 5 See Appendix, Note A. 6 MS.-" Made mountain echoes," &c. But owns the power of minstrelsy. Will pause, the harp's wild chime to hear; Rude Heiskar's seal through surges dark III. "O wake, while Dawn, with dewy shine, The dew that on the violet lies 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 gayly mann'd, We hear the merry pibrochs play, We see the streamers' silken band. What Chieftain's praise these pibrochs swell, What crest is on these banners wove, The harp, the minstrel, dare not tellThe riddle must be read by Love." 1 See Appendix, Note B. 2MS. Retired amid her menial train, Edith of Lorn received the strain." V. Retired her maiden train among, But tamed the minstrel's pride had been VI. O! lives there now so cold a maid, She mark'd her child receive their care, In finish'd loveliness-and led To where a turret's airy head, Slender and steep, and battled round, O'erlook'd, dark Mull! thy mighty Sound,' Where thwarting tides, with mingled roar, Part thy swarth hills from Morven's shore. VIII. "Daughter," she said, "these seas behold, Yet, empress of this joyful day, Edith is sad while all are gay." IX. Proud Edith's soul came to her eye, X. "Debate it not too long I strove His broadsword blazed in Scotland's war, Was hers but closed with Ronald's name. XL "Since then, what thought had Edith's heart 7 MS.-"The news." MS.-"When, from that hour, had Edith's heart A thought, and Ronald lack'd his part! And what her guerdon ?" Hunts he Bentalla's nimble deer,1 To bid some lighter love farewell, And swear, that though he may not scorn XII. -"Hush, daughter, hush! thy doubts remove, And mark the headmost, seaward cast, He chides her sloth!"-Fair Edith sigh'd, XIII. "Sweet thought, but vain!-No, Morag! mark, Type of his course, yon lonely bark, XIV. Sooth spoke the maid.-Amid the tide The skiff she mark'd lay tossing sore, MS.-" And on its dawn the bridegroom lags;Hunts he Bentalla's nimble stags ?" See Appendix, Note H. MS.-"Since dawn of morn, with vacant eyes And shifted oft her stooping side, To the poor meed which peasants share, And such the risk her pilot braves, That oft, before she wore, Her boltsprit kiss'd the broken waves, Yet, to their destined purpose true, Nor look'd where shelter lay, Around their prows the ocean roars, And chafes beneath their thousand oars, Yet bears them on their way: So chafes the war-horse in his might, That fieldward bears some valiant knight, Champs, till both bit and boss are white, But, foaming, must obey. On each gay deck they might behold Gave wilder minstrelsy. Their misty shores around; XVI. So bore they on with mirth and pride, Young Eva view'd the course she tries." 4 MS. "the breakers' verge." MS.-"So fumes," &c. MS.-"That bears to fight some gallant knight." |