THE

LORD OF THE ISLES.

CANTO FIRST.

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 hush'd 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 scatter'd grain.

Deem'st thou these sadden'd scenes have pleasure still,
Lovest thou through Autumn's fading realms to stray,

To see the heath-flower wither'd on the hill,

To listen to the wood's 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.

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 dropp'd 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 redbreast shrill;

And yet some tints of summer splendour tell

When the broad sun sinks down on Ettrick's western fell.