« 前へ次へ »
XXXIV. No more of death and dying pang, No more of trump and bugle clang, Though through the sounding woods there come Banner and bugle, trump and drum. Armed with such powers as well had freed Young Redmond at his utmost need, And backed with such a band of horse, As might less ample powers enforce; Possessed of every proof and sign That gave an heir to Mortham's line, And yielded to a father's arms An image of his Edith's charms, Mortham is come, to hear and see Of this strange morn the history. What saw he not the church's floor, Cumbered with dead and stained with gore ; What heard he ?-not the clamorous crowd, That shout their gratulations loud ; Redmond he saw and heard alone, Clåsped him, and sobbed, “My son, my son !"
Xxxv. This chanced upon a summer morn, When yellow waved the heavy corn ;. But when brown August o'er the land Called forth the reapers' busy band, A gladsome sight the sylvan road From Eglistone to Mortham showed. A while the hardy rustic leaves The task to bind and pile the sheaves, And maids their sickles fling aside, To gaze on bridegroom and on bride, And Childhood's wondering group draws near, And from the gleaner's hands the ear Drops, while she folds them for a prayer And blessing on the lovely pair. 'Twas then the Maid of Rokeby gave Her plighted troth to Redmond brave; And Teesdale can remember yet How Fate to Virtue paid her debt, And, for their troubles, bade them prove A lengthened life of peace and love.
Time and Tide had thus their sway,
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 whoso 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.
THE LORD OF THE ISLES.
AUTUMN departs--but still his mantle's fold
Rests on the groves of noble Somerville, Beneath a shroud of russet dropped with gold
Tweed and his tributaries mingle still ;
Yet lingering notes of sylvan music swell,
And yet some tints of summer splendour tell
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 reapers' mirth we hear. The last blithe shout hath died upon our ear,
And harvest-home hath hushed 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 scattered grain. Deem'st thou these saddened scenes have pleasure still,
Lovest thou through Autumn's fading realms to stray, To see the heath-flower withered on the hill,
To listen to the woods' expiring lay,
To mark the last bright tints the mountain stain,
And moralize on mortal joy and pain ? 0! if such scenes thou lovest, scorn not the minstrel strain ! 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 trembla, sear and dry,
When wild November hath his bugle wound; Nor mock my toil-a lonely gleaner I,
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;
Still live some reliques of the ancient lay.
With such the Seer of Skye 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.
“WAKE, Maid of Lorn!” the Minstrels sung.