Bringing perchance, like my poor tale, My love shall wrap her warm, THE LORD OF THE ISLES A POEM IN SIX CANTOS When The Lord of the Isles was published, Scott wrote of it to Lady Abercorn: 'I think it is my last poetical venture, at least upon a large scale. I swear not, because I do not make any positive resolution, but I think I have written enough, and it is unlikely I shall change my opinion.' With his healthy mind, Scott was not likely to misread the signs of nature, or the movement which his intellectual interest was likely to take. When he wrote these words he had published Waverley, and was projecting Guy Mannering, and the wider range which fiction could take to include the experiences of life which most appealed to him was too evident to permit him ever to return to any considerable poetic effort. before As in the case of his earlier work, he drove two horses abreast and was at work alternately on this poem and on the novel, whose early draft he stumbled on at this time. The poem, indeed, had been projected earlier, Rokeby was written, but in the final heat it was despatched with great rapidity, for, begun at Abbotsford in the autumn of 1814, it was ended at Edinburgh the 16th of December, and published January 2, 1815. It may be mentioned,' says the anonymous editor of the British Poets Edition, that those parts of the poem which were written at Abbotsford, were composed almost all in the presence of Sir Walter Scott's family, and many in that of casual visitors also: the original cottage which he then occupied not affording him any means of retirement. Neither conversation nor music seemed to disturb him.' When he was in the midst of his work, he wrote to Morritt: My literary tormentor is a certain Lord of the Isles, famed for his tyranny of yore, and not unjustly. I am bothering some tale of him I have had long by me into a sort of romance. I think you will like it: it is Scottified up to the teeth and somehow I feel myself like the liberated chiefs of the Rolliad, "who boast their n tive philabeg restored." I believe the frolies one can cut in this loose garb are all set down by you Sassenachs to the real agility of the wearer, and not the brave, free, and independ ent character of his clothing. It is, in a worl the real Highland fling, and no one is supposed able to dance it but a native.' The poem bere this advertisement when it was printed. 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 ha been driven out of Scotland by the English. and the Barons who adhered to that foreign interest, returned from the Island of Rachr on the coast of Ireland, again to assert his claims to the Scottish crown. Many of the personages and incidents introduced are of historical ce lebrity. The authorities used are chiefly those of the venerable Lord Hailes, as well entitled to be called the restorer of Scottish history, a 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 edition of 1833 had the following introduction. those passages being omitted here which relate to The Bridal of Triermain and Harold the Dauntless, since they are printed in connection with those poems. INTRODUCTION I could hardly have chosen a subject more popular in Scotland than anything connected with the Bruce's history, unless I had attempted that of Wallace. But I am decidedly of opinion that a popular, or what is called a taking. title, though well qualified to ensure the pub lishers against loss, and clear their shelves of the original impression, is rather apt to be hazardous than otherwise to the reputation of the author. He who attempts a subject of distinguished popularity has not the privilege of awakening the enthusiasm of his audience; on the contrary, it is already awakened, and glows, t may be, more ardently than that of the author himself. In this case the warmth of the author is inferior to that of the party whom he addresses, who has therefore little chance of being, in Bayes's phrase, elevated and surprised' by what he has thought of with more enthusiasm than the writer. The sense of this risk, joined to the consciousness of striving against wind and tide, made the task of composing the proposed Poem somewhat heavy and hopeless; but, like the prize-fighter in As You Like It, I was to wrestle for my reputation, and not neglect any advantage. In a most agreeable pleasure-voyage, which I have tried to commemorate in the Introduction to the new edition of the Pirate, I visited, in social and friendly company, the coasts and islands of Scotland, and made myself acquainted with the localities of which I meant to treat. But this voyage, which was in every other effect so delightful, was in its conclusion saddened by one of those strokes of fate which so often mingle themselves with our pleasures. The accomplished and excellent person who had recommended to me the subject for The Lay of the Last Minstrel, [Harriet, Duchess of Buc 313 cleuch] and to whom I proposed to inscribe what I already suspected might be the close of my poetical labors, was unexpectedly removed from the world, which she seemed only to have visited for purposes of kindness and benevolence. It is needless to say how the author's feelings, or the composition of his trifling work, were affected by a circumstance which occasioned so many tears and so much sorrow. True it is, that The Lord of the Isles was concluded, unwillingly and in haste, under the painful feeling of one who has a task which must be finished, rather than with the ardor of one who endeavors to perform that task well. Although the Poem cannot be said to have made a favorable impression on the public, the sale of fifteen thousand copies enabled the Author to retreat from the field with the honors of war. In the mean time, what was necessarily to be considered as a failure was much reconciled to my feelings by the success attending my attempt in another species of composition. Waverley had, under strict incognito, taken its flight from the press, just before I set out upon the voyage already mentioned; it had now made its way to popularity, and the success of that work and the volumes which followed was sufficient to have satisfied a greater appetite for applause than I have at any time possessed. ABBOTSFORD, April, 1830. CANTO FIRST AUTUMN departs — but still his mantle's fold Yet lingering notes of sylvan music swell, The deep-toned cushat and the redbreast shrill; When the broad sun sinks down on Ettrick's western fell. Autumn departs - from Gala's fields no more Some age-struck wanderer gleans few ears of scattered grain. Deem'st thou these saddened scenes have pleasure still, 10 20 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, O, if such scenes thou lov'st, scorn not the minstrel strain! No! do not scorn, although its hoarser note So shalt thou list, and haply not unmoved, I 'Wake, Maid of Lorn!' the minstrels sung. Thy rugged halls, Artornish, rung, And the dark seas thy towers that lave Lulled were the winds on Inninmore 50 60 'Wake, Maid of Lorn! high right is ours III 'O, wake while Dawn with dewy shine 90 Those notes prolonged, that soothing theme, Which best may mix with Beauty's dream, Retired her maiden train among, But tamed the minstrel's pride had been 119 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, 't was 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 depths 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, 130 140 160 But Morag, to whose fostering care A single brow but thine has frowned, 200 210 Who hears the tale, and triumphs not? IX 220 Proud Edith's soul came to her eye, In these brief words - He loves her not! 230 She tripped the heath by Morag's Ere yet I saw him, while afar His broadsword blazed in Scotland's war, Trained to believe our fates the same, My bosom throbbed when Ronald's name Came gracing Fame's heroic tale, Like perfume on the summer gale. What pilgrim sought our halls nor told Of Ronald's deeds in battle bold; Who touched the harp to heroes' praise But his achievements swelled the lays? Even Morag - not a tale of fame Was hers but closed with Ronald's name. He came and all that had been told Of his high worth seemed poor and cold, Tame, lifeless, void of energy, Unjust to Ronald and to me! And mark the headmost, seaward cast, |