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.
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
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 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 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, 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; In distant lands, by the rough West reproved, Still live some reliques of the ancient lay. For, when on Coolin's hills the lights decay, 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. Thy rugged halls, Artornish! rung, And the dark seas, thy towers that lave, Heaved on the beach a softer wave, As 'mid the tuneful choir to keep The diapason of the Deep.
Lulled were the winds on Inninmore, And green Loch-Alline's woodland shore, As if wild woods and waves had pleasure In listing to the lovely measure. And ne'er to symphony more sweet Gave mountain echoes answer meet,
Since, met from mainland and from isle, Ross, Arran, Ilay, and Argyle, Each minstrel's tributary lay Paid homage to the festal day. Dull and dishonoured were the bard, Worthless of guerdon and regard, Deaf to the hope of minstrel fame, Or lady's smiles, his noblest aim, Who on that morn's resistless call Was silent in Artornish hall.
"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; Earth, Ocean, Air, have nought so shy But owns the power of minstrelsy.
In Lettermore the timid deer
Will pause, the harp's wild chime to hear; Rude Heiskar's seal through surges dark Will long pursue the minstrel's bark; To list his notes, the eagle proud Will poise him on Ben-Cailliach's cloud; Then let not Maiden's ear disdain The summons of the minstrel train,
But, while our harps wild music make, Edith of Lorn, awake, awake!
"O wake, while Dawn, with dewy shine, Wakes Nature's charms to vie with thine! She bids the mottled thrush rejoice To mate thy melody of voice; The dew that on the violet lies Mocks the dark lustre of thine eyes; But, Edith, wake, and all we see Of sweet and fair shall yield to thee !"- "She comes not yet," grey Ferrand cried; Brethren, let softer spell be tried,
Those notes prolonged, that soothing theme, Which best may mix with Beauty's dream, And whisper, with their silvery tone, The hope she loves, yet fears to own." He spoke, and on the harp-strings died The strains of flattery and of pride; More soft, more low, more tender fell The lay of love he bade them tell.
"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 gaily manned, 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 tell- The riddle must be read by Love."
Retired her maiden train among, Edith of Lorn received the song,
But tamed the Minstrel's pride had been That had her cold demeanour seen;
For not upon her cheek awoke
The glow of pride when Flattery spoke,
Nor could their tenderest numbers bring One sigh responsive to the string. As vainly had her maidens vied In skill to deck the princely bride. Her locks, in dark-brown length arrayed, Cathleen of Ulne, 'twas thine to braid;
Young Eva with meet reverence drew On the light foot the silken shoe, While on the ankle's slender round Those strings of pearl fair Bertha wound, That, bleached Lochryan's depth within, 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.
O! lives there now so cold a maid, Who thus in beauty's pomp arrayed, In beauty's proudest pitch of power, And conquest won-the 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.
But Morag, to whose fostering care
Proud Lorn had 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—) Grey Morag sate a space apart, In Edith's eyes 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 Morvern's shore.
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