While on the ancle's slender pound
Those strings of pearl fair Bertha wound,
That. bleached Lochrvan's depths withio.
Seemed dusky still on Edith's skin.
But Einion, of experience old,
Had weightiest task-the mantle's fold
In many an artful plait she tied,
To show the form it seemed to hide,
Till on the floor descending rolled
Its waves of crimson blent with gold.

VI.
O! lives there now so cold a maid,
Who thus in beauty's pomp arrayed,
In beauty's proudest pitch of power,
And conquest wonihe bridal hour-
With every charm that wins the heart,
By nature given, enhanced by art,
Could yet the fair reflection view,
In the bright mirror pictured true,
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 scorned to smile.

VII. But Morag, to whose fostering care Proud Lorn bad 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 Inviolate in highland hall-) Gray Morag sate a space apart In Edithi's eves to read her heart In vain the attendants' fond appeal To Morag's skill, to Morag's zeal; She marked her child receive their care, Cold as the image sculptured fair, (Form of some sainted patroness,) Which cloistered maids combine to dress; She marked-and knew her nursling's heart In the vain pomp took little part. Wistful a while she gazed-then pressed The maiden to her anxious breast In finished loveliness—and led To where a turret's airy head, Slender and steep, and battled round, O'erlooked, dark Mull! thy mighty sound, Where thwarting tides, with mingled roar, Part thy swarth hills from Morven's shore.

LORD OF THE ISLES,? whose lofty name A thousand bards have given to fame, The mate of monarchs, and allied On equal terms with England's pride. From chieftain's tower to bondsman's cot, Who hears the tale, and triumphs not? The damsel dons her best attire, The shepherd lights his beltane fire, Joy, joy! each warder's horn hath sung, Joy, joy! each matin bell bath rung; The holy priest says grateful mass, Loud shouts each hardy galla-glass, No mountain den holds outcast boor Of heart so dull, of soul so poor, But he hath flung his task aside, And claimed this morn for holy-tide; Yet, empress of this joyful day, Edith is sad while all are gay."

IX. Proud Edith's soul came to her eye, Resentment checked the struggling sigh, Her hurrying hand indignant dried The burning tears of injured pride“ Morag, forbear! or lend thy praise To swell yon hireling harper's lays; Make to yon maids thy boast of power, That they may waste a wondering hour, Telling of banners proudly borne, Of pealing bell and bugle-horn, Or, theme more dear, of robes of price, Crownlets and gauds of rare device, But thou, experienced as thou art, Think'st thou with these to cheat the heart That, bound in strong affection's chain, Looks for return, and looks in vain? No! sum thine Edith's wretched lot In these brief words he loves her not!

“ Daughter,” she said, “ these seas behold,
Round twice av hundred islands rolled,
From Hirt, that hears their northern roar,
To the green llay's fertile shore;
Or mainland turn, where many a tower
Owns thy bold brother's feudal power,
Each on its own dark cape reclined,
And listening to its own wild wind,
From where Mingarry, sternly placed,
O'erawes the woodland and the waste, 5
To where Dunstaffnage hears the raging
Of Connal with his rocks engaging.
Think'st thou, amid this ample round,
A single brow but thine has frowned,
To sadden this auspicious morn,
That bids the daughter of high Lorn
Impledge her spousal faith to wed
The heir of mighty Somerled:6
Ronald, from many a hero sprung,
The fair, the valiant, and the young,

" Debate it not-too long I strove
To call his cold observance love,
All blinded by the league that styled
Edith of Lorn, - while, yet a child,
She tripped the heath by Morag's side, -
The brave lord Ronald's destined bride.
Ere yet I saw him, while afar
His broadsword blazed in Scotland's war,
Trained to believe our fates the same,
My bosom throbbed when Ronald's name
Came gracing fame's heroic tale,
Like perfume on the summer gale.
What pilgrim sought our balls. nor told
Of Ronald's deeds in battle bold?
Who touched the harp to heroes' praise,
But his achievements swelled the lays?
E'en Morag-not a tale of fame
Was hers, but closed with Ronald's name.
He came! and all that had been told
Of his high worth seemed poor and cold,
Tame, lifeless, void of energy,
Unjust to Ronald and to me!

XI.
u Since then, what thought had Edith's heart
And gave not plighted love its part!
And what requital? cold delay
Excuse that shunned the spousal day.-
It dawns, and Ronald is not here!
Hunts he Bentalla's nimble deer,
Or loiters he in secret dell
To bid some lighter love farewell,
And swear, that though he may nat scorn
A daughter of the house of Lorn, 8

Yet, when these formal rites are o'er,
Again they mcet, to part no more!"

XII.
- Hush, daughter, hush! thy doubts remore,
More nobly think of Ronald's' love.
Look, where beneath the castle gray
His fleet unmoor from Aros-bay!
Seest not each galley's topmast bend,
As on the yards the sails ascend?
Hiding the dark blue land they rise,
Like the white clouds on April skies;
The shouting vassals man the oars,
Behind them sink Mull's mountain shores,
Onward their merry course they keep,
Through whistling breeze and foaming deep.
And mark the headmost, seaward cast,
Stoop to the freshening gale her mast,
As if she veiled its bannered pride,
To greet afar her prince's bride!
Thy Ronald comes, and while in speed
His galley mates the flying steed,
He chides her sloth!”—Fair Edith sighed,
Blushed, sadly smiled, and thus replied:

XII.
“Sweet thought, but vain!--No, Morag! mark,
Type of his course, yon lonely bark,
That oft hath shifted helm and sail,
To win its way against the gale.
Since peep of morn, my vacant eyes
Have viewed by fits the course she tries;
Now, though the darkening scud comes on,
And dawn's fair promises be gone,
And though the weary crew may see
Our sheltering haven on their lee,
Still eloser to the rising wind
They strive her shivering sail to bind,
Still nearer to the shelves' dread verge
At every tack her course they urge,
As if they feared Artornish more
Than adverse winds and breakers' roar.”-

XIV.
Sooth spoke the maid. --Amid the tide

The skiff she marked lay tossing sore,
And shifted oft her stooping side,

In weary tack from shore to shore.
Yet on her destined course no more

She gained, of forward way,
Than what a minstrel may compare

poor meed which peasants share,
Who toil the live-long day;
And such the risk her pilot braves,

That oft, before she wore,
Her bowsprit kissed the broken waves,
Where in white foam the ocean raves

Upon the shelving shore.
Yet, to their destined purpose true,
Undaunted toiled her hardy crew,

Nor looked where shelter lay,
Vor for Artornish castle drew,
Nor steered for Aros-bay.

XV.
Thus while they strove with wind and seas,
Borne onward by the willing breeze,

Loid Ronald's fleet swept by,
Streamered with silk, and tricked with gold,
Manned with the roble and the bold

Of island chivalry.
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 field ward bears some valiant knight,
Champs till both bit and boss are white,

But, foaming, must obcy. .
On each gay deck they might behold .
Lances of steel and crescs of gold,
And hauberks with their burnished fold,

'That shimmered fair and free;
And each proud galley, as she passed,
To the wild cadence of the blast

Gave wilder minstrelsy.
Full many a shrill triumphant note
Saline and Scallastle bade float

Their misty shores around;
And Morven's echoes answered well,
And Duart heard the distant swell
Come down the darksome sound.

XVI.
So bore they on with mirth and pride,
And if that labouring bark they spied,

'Twas with such idle eye
As nobies cast on lowly boor,
When, toiling in his task obscure,

They pass him careless by.
Let them sweep on with heedless eyes!
But, bad they known what mighty prize

In that trail vessel lay,
The famished wolf, that prowls the wold,
Had scatheless passed the unguarded fold,
Ere, drilling by these galleys bold,

Unchallenged were her way! And thou, lord Ronald, sweep thou on, With mirth and pride and minstrel tone! But had'st thou known who sailed so nigh, Far other glance were in thine eye! Far other flush were on thy brow, That, shaded by the bopnet, now Assumes but ill the blithsome cheer Of bridegroom when the bride is near.

XVII.
Yes, sweep they on!-We will not leave,
For them ihat triumph, those who grieve.

With that armada gay
Be laughter loud and jocund shout,
And bards to cheer the wassail rout,

With tale, romance, and lay;
And of wild mirth each clamorous art,
Which, if it cannot cheer the heart,
May stupify and stun its smart,

For one loud busy day.
Yes, sweep they on!- But with that skiff

Abides the minstrel tale,
Where there was dread of surge and cliff
Labour that strained each sinew stiff,
And one sad maiden's wail.

XVII.
All day with fruitless strife they toiled,
With eve the ebbing currents boiled

More fierce from streight and lake;
And midway through the channel met
Conflicting tides that foam and fret,
And high their mingled billows jet,
As spears, that, in the battle set,

Spring upward as they break.
Then too the lights of eve were past,
And louder sung ihe western blast

On rocks of luniumore;
Rent was the sail, and strained the mast,
And many a leak was gaping fast,
And the pale steersman stood aghast,

And gave the conflict o'er,

XIX.
'Twas then that one, whose lofty look
Nor labour dulled, nor terror shook,

Thus to the leader spoke:
“ Brother, how hopest thou to abide
The fury of this wildered tide,
Or how avoid the rock's rude side,

Until the day has broke?
Did'st thou not mark the vessel reel,
With quivering planks and groaning keel,

At the last billow's shock?
Yet how of better counsel tell,
Though here thou seest poor Isabel

Half dead with want and fear;
For look on sea, or look on land,
Or yon dark sky, on every hand

Despair and death are near.
For her alone I grieve-on me
Danger sits light by land and sea,

I follow where thou wilt;
Either to bide the tempest's lour,
Or wend to yon unfriendly tower,
Or rush amid their vaval power,
With war-cry wake their wassail-hour,
And die with hand on hilt.”-

XX.
That elder lcader's calm reply

In steady voice was given,
“ In man's most dark extremity

Oft succour dawns from heaven.
Edward, trim thou the shatterell sail,
The helm be mine, and down the gale

Let our free course be driven;
So shall we 'scape the western bay,
The hostile fleet, the unequal fray,
So safely bold our vessel's way,

Beneath the castle wall;
For if a hope of safety rest,
'Tis on the sacred name of guest,
Who seeks for shelter, storm distressed,

Within a chieftain's hall.
If not-it best beseems our worth,
Our name, our right, our lofty birth,
By noble hands to fall.”-

XXI.
The helm, to his strong arm consigned,
Gave the reefed sail to meet the wind,

And on her altered way,
Fierce bounding, forward sprung the ship,
Like greyhound starting from the slip,

To seize his flying prey.
Awaked before the rushing prow,
The mimic fires of ocean glow,

Those lightnings of the wave;
Wild sparkles crest the broken tides,
And, flashing round, the vessel's sides

With elvish lustre lave,
While, far behind, their livid light
To the dark billows of the night

A gloomy splendour gave.
It seems as if old ocean shakes
From his dark brow the livid Aakes

lo envious pageantry,
To match the meteor light that streaks
Grim Hecla's midnight sky,

XXII.
Nor lacked they steadier light to keep
Their course upon the darkened deep:
Artornish, on her frowning steep,

Twixt cloud and ocean hung,
Glanced with a thousand lights of glee,

And landward fur, and far tc sea,

Her festal radiance flung.
By that blith beacon-light they steered,

Whose lustre mingled well
With the pale beam that now appeared,
As the cold moon her head upreared
Above the eastern fell.

XXIII.
Thus guided, on their course they bore,
Until they neared the mainland shore,
When frequent on the bollow blast
Wild sbouts of merriment were cast,
And wind and ware and seabird's cry
With wassail sounds in concert vie
Like funeral shrieks with revelry,

Or like the battle-shout
By peasants heard from cliffs on high,
When triumph, rage, and agony,

Madden the fight and rout.
Now nearer yet, through mist and storm,
Dimly arose the castle's form,

And deepened shadow made,
Far lengthened on the main below,
Where, dancing in reflected glow,

An hundred torches played,
Spangling the wave with lights as vain
As pleasures in this vale of pain,
That dazzle as they fade.

XXIV.
Beneath the castle's sheltering lee,
They staid their course in quiet sea.
Hewn in the rock, a passage there
Sought the dark fortress by a stair

So straight, so high, so steep,.
With peasant's staff one valiant hand
Might well the dizzy pass have manned,
'Gainst hundreds armed with spear and brand

And plunged them in the deep. 10
His bugle then the helmsman wound;
Loud answered every echo round,

From turret, rock, and bay,
The postern's hinges crash and groan,
And soon the warder's cresset shone
On those rude steps of slippery stone,

To light the upward way.
“ Thrice welcome, holy síre!” he said;
“ Full long the spousal train have staid,

And, vexed at thy delay,
Feared lest, amidst these wildering seas,
The darksome night and freshening breeze
Had driven thy bark astray.”-

XXV.
“ Warder,” the younger stranger said,
" Thine erring guess some mirth had made
In mirthful hour; but nights like these,
When the rough winds wake western seas,
Brook not of glee. We crave some aid
And necdful shelter for this maid,

Until the break of day;
Por, to ourselves, the deck's rude plank
Is easy as the mossy bank

That's breathed upon by May;
And for our storm-tossed skiff we seek
Short shelter in this leeward creek,
Prompt when the dawn the east shall streak

Again to bear away.”_
Answered the warder," In what name
Assert ye hospitable claim?

Whence come, or whither bound?
Hath Erin seen your parting sails,
Or come ye on Norweyan gales?