'O, TELL me, Harper, wherefore flow
Thy wayward notes of wail and woe
Far down the desert of Glencoe,

Where none may list their melody?
Say, harp'st thou to the mists that йy,
Or to the dun-deer glancing by,
Or to the eagle that from high

Screams chorus to thy minstrelsy?'

'No, not to these, for they have rest,
The mist-wreath has the mountain-crest,
The stag his lair, the erne her nest,
Abode of lone security.

But those for whom I pour the lay,
Not wild-wood deep nor mountain gray,
Not this deep dell that shrouds from

day,

Could screen from treacherous cruelty.

'Their flag was furled and mute their

drum,

The very household dogs were dumb,
Unwont to bay at guests that come
In guise of hospitality.

His blithest notes the piper plied,
Her
gayest snood the maiden tied,
The dame her distaff flung aside
To tend her kindly housewifery.

The hand that mingled in the meal
At midnight drew the felon steel,
And gave the host's kind breast to feel
Meed for his hospitality!

The friendly hearth which warmed that

hand

At midnight armed it with the brand

That bade destruction's flames expand Their red and fearful blazonry.

409

'Then woman's shriek was heard in vain, Nor infancy's unpitied plain,

More than the warrior's groan, could gain
Respite from ruthless butchery!
The winter wind that whistled shrill,
The snows that night that cloked the hill,
Though wild and pitiless, had still
Far more than Southern clemency.

'Long have my harp's best notes been gone, Few are its strings and faint their tone, They can but sound in desert lone

Their gray-haired master's misery. Were each gray hair a minstrel string, Each chord should imprecations fling, Till startled Scotland loud should ring, "Revenge for blood and treachery !"'

Yet again fill the wine-cup and change the sad measure,

The rites of our grief and our gratitude paid,

To our Prince, to our Heroes, devote the bright treasure,

The wisdom that planned, and the zeal that obeyed! Fill WELLINGTON's cup till it beam like his glory,

Forget not our own brave DALHOUSIE and GREME;

A thousand years hence hearts shall bound at their story,

And hallow the goblet that flows to their fame.

LINES

ADDRESSED TO RANALD MACDONALD, ESQ., OF STAFFA

These lines were written in the album kept at the Sound of Ulva Inn, in the month of August, 1814.

STAFFA, sprung from high Macdonald,
Worthy branch of old Clan-Ranald!
Staffa! king of all kind fellows!
Well befall thy hills and valleys,
Lakes and inlets, deeps and shallows-
Cliffs of darkness, caves of wonder,
Echoing the Atlantic thunder;
Mountains which the gray mist covers,
Where the Chieftain spirit hovers,
Pausing while his pinions quiver,
Stretched to quit our land forever!
Each kind influence reign above thee!
Warmer heart 'twixt this and Staffa
Beats not than in heart of Staffa!

PHAROS LOQUITUR

Robert Stevenson, grandfather of Robert Louis Stevenson, built, amongst others, the Bell Rock Lighthouse. Scott visited the place with Stevenson and the commissioners, July 30, 1814 and wrote these lines in the album kept there.

FAR in the bosom of the deep,
O'er these wild shelves my watch I keep ;
A ruddy gem of changeful light,
Bound on the dusky brow of night,
The seaman bids my lustre hail,
And scorns to strike his timorous sail.

LETTER IN VERSE

ON THE VOYAGE WITH THE COMMISSIONERS OF NORTHERN LIGHTS

during those happy six weeks, I have recov 'Of the letters which Scott wrote to his friends ered only one, and it is, thanks to the leisure of the yacht, in verse. The strong and easy heroics of the first section prove, I think, that Mr. Canning did not err when he told him that if he chose he might emulate even Dryden's command of that noble measure; and the dancing anapasts of the second show that he could with equal facility have rivalled the gay graces