XXXIV. No more of death and dying pang, Though through the sounding woods there come Clasped him, and sobbed, "My son, my son!" XXXV. This chanced upon a summer morn, And Childhood's wondering group draws near, And blessing on the lovely pair. 'Twas then the Maid of Rokeby gave Her plighted troth to Redmond brave; Time and Tide had thus their sway, ADVERTISEMENT. 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. THE LORD OF THE ISLES. CANTO FIRST. 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; Hoarser the wind, and deeper sounds the rill, Yet lingering notes of sylvan music swell, The deep-toned cushat, and the red breast shrill, And yet some tints of summer splendour tell When the broad sun sinks down on Ettricke's western fell. Autumn departs-from Gala's fields no more 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 note the red leaf shivering on the spray, To mark the last bright tints the mountain stain, On the waste fields to trace the gleaner's way, And moralize on mortal joy and pain? O! if such scenes thou lovest, scorn not the minstrel strain! No! do not scorn, although its hoarser note 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, 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, Where rest from mortal coil the Mighty of the Isles. I. "WAKE, Maid of Lorn!" the Minstrels sung. And the dark seas, thy towers that lave, Lulled 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 bowèrs; Will pause, the harp's wild chime to hear; |