And seek ye England's fertile vales,

Or Scotland's mountain ground?".
"Warriors-for other title none
For some brief space we list to own,
Bound by a vow-warriors are we:
In strife by land, and storm by sea,

We have been known to fame;

And these brief words have import dear,
When sounded in a noble ear,
To harbour safe, and friendly cheer,
That gives us rightful claim.
Grant us the trivial boon we seek,
And we in other realms will speak
Fair of your courtesy;
Deny-and be your niggard hold
Scorned by the noble and the bold,
Shunned by the pilgrim on the wold,
And wanderer on the lea."-

"Bold stranger, no-'gainst claim like thine,
No bolt revolves by hand of mine,
Though urged in tone that more expressed
A monarch than a suppliant guest.
Be what ye will, Artornish Hall
On this glad eve is free to all.
Though ye had drawn a hostile sword
"Gainst our ally, great England's lord,
Or mail upon your shoulders borne,
To battle with the lord of Lorn,
Or, outlawed, dwelt by greenwood tree
With the fierce knight of Ellerslie,
Or aided e'en the murderous strife,
When Comyn fell beneath the knife
Of that fell homicide the Bruce,
This night had been a term of truce.-
Ho, vassals! give these guests your care,
And show the narrow postern stair."-
XXVII.

To land these two bold brethren leapt,
(The weary crew their vessel kept,)
And, lighted by the torches' flare,
That seaward flung their smoky glare,
The younger knight that maiden bare
Half lifeless up the rock;

On his strong shoulder leaned her head,
And down her long dark tresses shed,
As the wild vine, in tendrils spread,

Droops from the mountain oak.
Him followed close that elder lord,
And in his hand a sheathed sword,

Such as few arms could wield;

But when he bouned him to such task,
Well could it cleave the strongest casque,
And rend the surest shield."

And, comrades, gaze not on the maid,
And on these men who ask our aid,

As if ye ne'er had seen
A damsel tired of midnight bark,
Or wanderers of a moulding stark,
And bearing martial mien."-
But not for Eachin's reproof
Would page or vassal stand aloof,
But crowded on to stare,
As men of courtesy untaught,
Till fiery Edward roughly caught,
From one the foremost there,
His chequered plaid, and in its shroud,
To hide her from the vulgar crowd,
Involved his sister fair.

His brother, as the clansman bent
His sullen brow in discontent,

Made brief and stern excuse;
"Vassal, were thine the cloak of pall
That decks thy lord in bridal hall,
'Twere honoured by her use."-
XXX.
Proud was his tone, but calm; his eye
Had that compelling dignity,
His mien that bearing haught and high,
Which common spirits fear;
Needed nor word nor signal more,
Nod, wink, and laughter, all were o'er:
Upon each other back they bore,

And gazed like startled deer. But now appeared the seneschal, Commissioned by his lord to call The strangers to the baron's hall,

Where feasted fair and free That Island prince in nuptial tide, With Edith there his lovely bride, And her bold brother by her side, And many a chief, the flower and pride

Of western land and sea.

Here pause we, gentles, for a space; And, if our tale hath won your grace, Grant us brief patience, and again We will renew the minstrel strain.

II.

With beakers' clang, with harpers' lay,
With all that olden time deemed gay,
The Island chieftain feasted high;
But there was in his troubled eye
A gloomy fire, and on his brow
Now sudden flushed, and faded now,
Emotions such as draw their birth
From deeper source than festal mirth.
By fits he paused, and harper's strain
And jester's tale went round in vain,
Or fell but on his idle ear

Like distant sounds which dreamers hear.
Then would he rouse him, and employ
Each art to aid the clamorous joy,

Yet nought amiss the bridal throng
Marked in brief mirth, or musing long;
The vacant brow, the unlistening ear,
They gave to thoughts of raptures near,
And his fierce starts of sudden glee,
Seemed bursts of bridegroom's ecstasy.
Nor thus alone misjudged the crowd,
Since lofty Lorn, suspicious, proud,
And jealous of his honoured line,
And that keen knight, De Argentine,1
(From England sent on errand high,
The western league more firm to tie,)
Both deemed in Ronald's mood to find
A lover's transport-troubled mind.
But one sad heart, one tearful eye,
Pierced deeper through the mystery,
And watched, with agony and fear,
Her wayward bridegroom's varied cheer.
IV.

She watched-yet feared to meet his glance,
And he shunned her's;-till when by chance,
They met, the point of foeman's lance
Had given a milder pang!
Beneath the intolerable smart

He writhed; then sternly manned his heart
To play his hard but destined part,

And from the table sprang.
"Fill me the mighty cup!" he said,
"Erst owned by royal Somerled.2
Fill it, till on the studded brim
In burning gold the bubbles swim,
And every gem of varied shine
Glow doubly bright in rosy wine!
To you, brave lord, and brother mine,
Of Lorn, this pledge I drink-
The union of our house with thine,
By this fair bridal-link!"

V.

"Let it pass round!" quoth he of Lorn,
"And in good time-that winded horn
Must of the abbot tell;

The laggard monk is come at last."-
Lord Ronald heard the bugle blast,
And, on the floor at random cast,

The untasted goblet fell.

But when the warder in his ear
Tells other news, his blither cheer

Returns like sun of May,

When through a thunder-cloud it beams;Lord of two hundred isles, he seems

As glad of brief delay,

As some poor criminal might feel,
When from the gibbet or the wheel
Respited for a day.

VI.

"Brother of Lorn," with hurried voice
He said, "And you, fair lords, rejoice!
Here, to augment our glee,
Come wandering knights from travel far,
Well proved, they say, in strife of war,
And tempest on the sea.-

Ho! give them at your board such place
As best their presences may grace,
And bid them welcome free!"
With solemn step, and silver wand,
The seneschal the presence scanned

Then lords and ladies spake aside,
And angry looks the error chide,
That gave to guests unnamed, unknown,
A place so near their prince's throne;
But Owen Erraught said,

"For forty years a seneschal,
To marshal guests in bower and hall
Has been my honoured trade.
Worship and birth to me are known,
By look, by bearing, and by tone,
Not by furred robe or broidered zone;
And 'gainst an oaken bough

I'll gage my silver wand of state,
That these three strangers oft have sate
In higher place than now."-
VIII.

"I, too," the aged Ferrand said,
"Am qualified by minstrel trade

Of rank and place to tell;

Marked ye the younger stranger's eye,
My mates, how quick, how keen, how high,
How fierce its flashes fell,
Glancing among the noble rout
As if to seek the noblest out,
Because the owner might not brook
On any save his peers to look?

And yet it moves me more,
That steady, calm, majestic brow,
With which the elder chief e'en now
Scanned the gay presence o'er,
Like being of superior kind,
In whose high-toned impartial mind
Degrees of mortal rank and state
Seem objects of indifferent weight.
The lady too-though, closely tied,
The mantle veil both face and eye,
Her motion's grace it could not hide,
Nor could her form's fair symmetry."
IX.

Suspicious doubt and lordly scorn
Loured on the haughty front of Lorn.
From underneath his brows of pride,
The stranger guests he sternly eyed,
And whispered closely what the ear
Of Argentine alone might hear;

Then questioned, high and brief,
"If, in their voyage, aught they knew
Of the rebellious Scottish crew,
Who to Rath-Erin's shelter drew,

With Carrick's outlawed chief?4
And if, their winter's exile o'er,
They harboured still by Ulster's shore
Or lanched their galleys on the main,
To vex their native land again?"

"

X. That younger stranger, fierce and high, At once confronts the chieftain's eye With look of equal scorn;

"Of repels have we nought to show;
But if of royal Bruce thou'dst know,
1 warn thee he has sworn,

Ere thrice three days shall come and go,
His banner Scottish winds shall blow,
Despite each mean or mighty foe,
From England's every bill and bow,
To Allaster of Lorn."

Kindled the mountain chieftain's ire,
But Ronald quenched the rising fire;
"Brother, it better suits the time

To chase the night with Ferrand's rhyme,
Than wake, 'midst mirth and wine, the jars
That flow from these unhappy wars."—
"Content," said Lorn; and spoke apart
With Ferrand, master of his art,

Then whispered Argentine,-
"The lay I named will carry smart
To these bold strangers' haughty heart,
If right this guess of mine."
He ceased, and it was silence all,
Until the minstrel waked the hall.

XI.

THE BROACH OF LORN.5
"Whence the broach of burning gold,
That clasps the chieftain's mantle-fold,
Wrought and chased with rare device,
Studded fair with gems of price,6
On the varied tartans beaming,

As, through night's pale rainbow gleaming,
Fainter now, now seen afar,

Fitful shines the northern star?

"Gem, ne'er wrought on highland mountain,
Did the fairy of the fountain,
Or the mermaid of the wave,
Frame thee in some coral cave?
Did in Iceland's darksome mine
Dwarf's swart hands thy metal twine?
Or, mortal-moulded, comest thou here,
From England's love, or France's fear?

XII.

SONG CONTINUED.

"No!-thy splendours nothing tell,
Foreign art or faëry spell.
Moulded thou for monarch's use,
By the over-weening Bruce,
When the royal robe he tied
O'er a heart of wrath and pride;
Thence in triumph wert thou torn,
By the victor hand of Lorn!
"When the gem was won and lost,
Wildly was the war-cry tossed!
Rung aloud Bendourish Fell,
Answered Douchart's sounding dell,
Fled the deer from wild Teyndrum,
When the homicide, o'ercome,
Hardly 'scaped with scathe and scorn,
Left the pledge with conquering Lorn!

XIII.

Bloody brand of highland steel,
English gibbet, axe, and wheel.
Let him fly from coast to coast,
Dogged by Comyn's vengeful ghost,
While his spoils, in triumph worn,
Long shall grace victorious Lorn!".
XIV.

As glares the tiger on his toes,
Hemmed in by hunters, spears, and bows,
And, ere he bounds upon the ring,
Selects the object of his spring,-
Now on the bard, now on his lord,

So Edward glared and grasped his sword--
But stern his brother spoke,-"Be still!
What! art thou yet so wild of will,
After high deeds and sufferings long,
To chafe thee for a menial's song?-
Well hast thou framed, old man, thy strains,
To praise the hand that pays thy pains;10
Yet something might thy song have told
Of Lorn's three vassals, true and bold,
Who rent their lord from Bruce's hold,
As underneath his knee he lay,
And died to save him in the fray.
I've heard the Bruce's cloak and clasp
Was clenched within their dying grasp,
What time a hundred foemen more
Rushed in and back the victor bore,
Long after Lorn had left the strife,
Full glad to 'scape with limb and life.-
Enough of this--and, minstrel, hold,
As minstrel-hire, this chain of gold,
For future lays a fair excuse,

To speak more nobly of the Bruce."-
XV.

"Now, by Columba's shrine, I swear,
And every saint that's buried there,
"Tis he himself!" Lorn sternly cries,
"And for my kinsman's death he dies."
As loudly Ronald calls-" Forbear!
Not in my sight while brand I wear,
O'ermatched by odds, shall warrior fall,
Or blood of stranger stain my hall!
This ancient fortress of my race
Shall be misfortune's resting-place,
Shelter and shield of the distressed,

No slaughter-house for shipwrecked guest.”—
"Talk not to me," fierce Lorn replied,
"Of odds or match!-when Comyn died,
Three daggers clashed within his side!
Talk not to me of sheltering hall,
The church of God saw Comyn fall!
On God's own altar streamed his blood,
While o'er my prostrate kinsman stood
The ruthless murderer--e'en as now-
With armed hand and scornful brow.—
Up, all who love me! blow on blow!
And lay the outlawed felons low!"—
XVI.

Then up sprung many a mainland lord,
Obedient to their chieftain's word.
Barcaldine's arm is high in air,
And Kinloch-Alline's blade is bare,
Black Murthok's dirk has left its sheath,
And clenched is Dermid's hand of death.
Their, muttered threats of vengeance swell
Into a wild and warlike yell;

Onward they press with weapons high,
The affrighted females shriek and fly,
And, Scotland, then thy brightest ray
Had darkened ere its noon of day,

But every chief of birth and fame,
That from the Isles of Ocean came,
At Ronald's side that hour withstood
Fierce Lorn's relentless thirst for blood.
XVII.

Brave Torquil from Dunvegan high,
Lord of the misty hills of Skye,
M'Niel, wild Bara's ancient thane,
Duart, of bold Clan Gillian's strain,
Fergus, of Canna's castled bay,
M'Duffith, lord of Colonsay,

Soon as they saw the broadswords glance,
With ready weapons rose at once,
More prompt, that many an ancient feud,
Full oft suppressed, full oft renewed,
Glowed 'twixt the chieftains of Argyle,
And many a lord of ocean's isle.

Wild was the scene-each sword was bare
Back streamed each chieftain's shaggy hair,
In gloomy opposition set,

Eyes, hands, and brandished weapons met:
Blue gleaming o'er the social board,
Flashed to the torches many a sword;
And soon those bridal lights may shine
On purple blood for rosy wine.

XVIII.

While thus for blows and death prepared,
Each harp was up, each weapon bared,
Each foot advanced,-a surly pause
Still reverenced hospitable laws.
All menaced violence, but alike
Reluctant each the first to strike,
(For aye accursed in minstrel line
Is he who brawls 'mid song and wine,)
And, matched in numbers and in might,
Doubtful and desperate seemed the fight.
Thus threat and murmur died away,
Till on the crowded hall there lay
Such silence, as the deadly still,
Ere burst the thunder on the hill.

With blade advanced, each chieftain bold
Showed like the sworder's form of old,
As wanting still the torch of life,

To wake the marble into strife.

XIX.

That awful pause the stranger maid,
And Edith, seized to pray for aid.

As to De Argentine she clung,

Away her veil the stranger flung,
And lovely, 'mid her wild despair,

Fast streamed her eyes, wide flowed her hair.

"O thou, of knighthood once the flower,

Sure refuge in distressful hour,

Thou, who in Judah well hast fought
For our dear faith, and oft has sought
Renown in knightly exercise,

When this poor hand has dealt the prize,
Say, can thy soul of honour brook
On the unequal strife to look,
When, butchered thus in peaceful hall,

Those once thy friends, my brethren, fall!"-
To Argentine she turned her word,
But her eye sought the Island lord.
A flush like evening's setting flame
Glowed on his cheek; his hardy frame,
As with a brief convulsion, shook:
With hurried voice and eager look,-
"Fear not," he said, "my Isabel!
What said I-Edith!-all is well-
Nay, fear not-I will well provide
The safety of my lovely bride-

My bride?"-but there the accents clung In tremor to his faltering tongue.

XX.

Now rose De Argentine, to claim
The prisoners in his sovereign's name,
To England's crown, who, vassals sworn,
'Gainst their liege lord had weapon borne-
(Such speech, I ween, was but to hide
His care their safety to provide;
For knight more true in thought and deed
Than Argentine ne'er spurred a steed)-
And Ronald, who his meaning guessed,
Seemed half to sanction the request.
This purpose fiery Torquil broke;-
"Somewhat we've heard of England's yoke,
He said, "and, in our islands, fame
Hath whispered of a lawful claim,
That calls the Bruce fair Scotland's lord,
Though dispossessed by foreign sword.
This craves reflection-but though right
And just the charge of England's knight,
Let England's crown her rebels seize,
Where she has power;-in towers like these,
'Midst Scottish chieftains summoned here
To bridal mirth and bridal cheer,
Be sure, with no consent of mine,
Shall either Lorn or Argentine
With chains or violence, in our sight,
Oppress a brave and banished knight.”—

XXI.

Then waked the wild debate again,

With brawling threat and clamour vain.
Vassals and menials, thronging in,
Lent their brute rage to swell the din:
When, far and wide, a bugle clang
From the dark ocean upward rang.

The abbot comes!" they cry at once,
"The holy man, whose favoured glance
Hath sainted visions known:

Angels have met him on the way
Beside the blessed martyrs' bay,

And by Columba's stone.

His monks have heard their hymnings high Sound from the summit of Dun-Y,

To cheer his penance lone,

When at each cross, on girth and wold,
(Their number thrice an hundred fold,)
His prayer he made, his beads he told,
With aves many a one-
He comes our feuds to reconcile,
A sainted man from sainted isle;
We will his holy doom abide,-
The abbot shall our strife decide."-

XXII.

Scarcely this fair accord was o'er,
When through the wide revolving door
The black-stoled brethren wind;
Twelve sandalled monks, who relics bore,
With many a torch-bearer before,

And many a cross behind.

Then sunk each fierce uplifted hand,
And dagger bright and flashing brand
Dropped swiftly at the sight;

They vanished from the churchman's eye
As shooting stars, that glance and die,
Dart from the vault of night.

XXIII.

The abbot on the threshold stood,

And in his hand the holy rood;

Back on his shoulders flowed his hood

The torches' glaring ray

-But what means this? no peace is here!-
Do dirks unsheathed suit bridal cheer?
Or are these naked brands

A seemly show for churchman's sight,
When he comes summoned to unite
Betrothed hearts and hands?"
XXIV.

Then, cloaking hate with fiery zeal,
Proud Lorn first answered the appeal;-
"Thou comest, O holy man,
True sons of blessed church to greet,
But little deeming here to meet

A wretch, beneath the ban

Of pope and church, for murder done
E'en on the sacred altar-stone!—

Well mayest thou wonder we should know
Such miscreant here, nor lay him low,
Or dream of greeting, peace, or truce,
With excommunicated Bruce!
Yet well I grant, to end debate,
Thy sainted voice decide his fate."-
XXV.

Then Ronald pled the stranger's cause,
And knighthood's oath and honour's laws;
And Isabel, on bended knee,

Brought prayers and tears to back the plea;
And Edith lent her generous aid,
And wept, and Lorn for mercy prayed.
"Hence," he exclaimed, "degenerate maid!
Was't not enough to Ronald's bower
1 brought thee, like a paramour,11
Or bond-maid at her master's gate,
His careless cold approach to wait?-
But the bold lord of Cumberland,
The gallant Clifford, seeks thy hand;
His it shall be-Nay, no reply!
Hence! till those rebel eyes be dry."-
With grief the abbot heard and saw,
Yet nought relaxed his brow of awe.
XXVI.

Then Argentine, in England's name,
So highly urged his sovereign's claim,
He waked a spark, that, long suppressed,
Had smouldered in lord Ronald's breast;
And now, as from the flint the fire,
Flashed forth at once his generous ire.—
"Enough of noble blood," he said,
"By English Edward had been shed,
Since matchless Wallace first had been
In mock'ry crowned with wreaths of green, 12
And done to death by felon hand,
For guarding well his father's land.
Where's Nigel Bruce? and De la Haye,
And valiant Seton-where are they?
Where Somerville, the kind and free?
And Fraser, flower of chivalry?13
Have they not been on gibbet bound,
Their quarters flung to hawk and hound,
And hold we here a cold debate,
To yield more victims to their fate?
What! can the English leopard's mood
Never be gorged with northern blood?
Was not the life of Athole shed,
To sooth the tyrant's sickened bed?14

And must his word, at dying day,

Be nought but quarter, hang, and slay!-15
Thou frown'st, De Argentine.-My gage
Is prompt to prove the strife I wage.'
XXVII.
"Nor deem," said stout Dunvegan's knight,
"That thou shalt brave alone the fight!
By saints of isle and mainland both,
By Woden wild, (my grandsire's oath,)16
Let Rome and England do their worst,
Howe'er attainted or accursed,

If Bruce shall e'er find friends again,
Once more to brave a battle plain,
If Douglas couch again his lance,
Or Randolph dare another chance,
Old Torquil will not be to lack,
With twice a thousand at his back.-
Nay, chafe not at my bearing bold,
Good abbot! for thou knowest of old,
Torquil's rude thought and stubborn will
Smack of the wild Norwegian still;
Nor will I barter Freedom's cause
For England's wealth or Rome's applause."
XXVIII.

The abbot seemed with eye severe
The hardy chieftain's speech to hear;
Then on king Robert turned the monk,
But twice his courage came and sunk,
Confronted with the hero's look;
Twice fell his eye, his accents shook.
At length, resolved in tone and brow,
Sternly he questioned him-" And thou,
Unhappy! what hast thou to plead,
Why I denounce not on thy deed
That awful doom, which canons tell
Shuts paradise, and opens hell;
Anathema of power so dread,
It blends the living with the dead,
Bids each good angel soar away,
And every ill one claim his prey;
Expels thee from the church's care,
And deafens heaven against thy prayer,
Arms every hand against thy life,
Bans all who aid thee in the strife,
Nay, each whose succour, cold and scant,
With meanest alms relieves thy want;
Haunts thee while living, and, when dead,
Dwells on thy yet devoted head,
Rends honour's scutcheon from thy hearse,
Stills o'er thy bier the holy verse,

And spurns thy corpse from hallowed ground,
Flung like vile carrion to the hound!
Such is the dire and desperate doom,
For sacrilege decreed by Rome;
And such the well-deserved meed
Of thine unhallowed, ruthless deed."
XXIX.

"Abbot!" the Bruce replied, "thy charge
It boots not to dispute at large.

This much, howe'er, I bid thee know,
No selfish vengeance dealt the blow,

For Comyn died his country's foe.

Nor blame I friends whose ill-timed speed
Fulfilled my soon-repented deed,

Nor censure those from whose stern tongue
The dire anathema has rung.

I only blame mine own wild ire,
By Scotland's wrongs incensed to fire.
Heaven knows my purpose to atone,
Far as I may, the evil done,
And hears a penitent's appeal
From papal curse and prelate's zeal.