He spoke, and on the harp-strings died The lay of love he bade them tell. IV. "Wake, Maid of Lorn! the moments fly, By Fear, thy bosom's fluttering guest, And wake thee at the call of Love! "Wake, Edith, wake! in yonder bay What Chieftain's praise these pibrochs swell, What crest is on these banners wove, The harp, the minstrely dare not tell The riddle must be read by Love.”- vriska .V. Retired her maiden train among, Edith of Lorn received the song, But tamed the minstrel's pride had been For not upon her cheek awoke The glow of pride when Flattery spoke, 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 array'd, On the light foot the silken shoe, While on the ancle's slender round Those strings of pearl fair Bertha wound, Seem'd dusky still on Edith's skin. Had weightiest task-the mantle's fold To shew the form it seem'd to hide, Its waves of crimson blent with gold. VI. O! lives there now so cold a maid, 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 scorn'd to smile. VII. 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- Grey Morag sate a space apart, Cold as the image sculptured fair, (Form of some sainted patroness) Which cloister'd maids combine to dress; She mark'd-and knew her nursling's heart In the vain pomp took little part. Wistful a while she gazed-then press'd The maiden to her anxious breast In finish'd loveliness and led To where a turret's airy head, Slender and steep, and battled round, O'erlook'd, dark Mull! thy mighty Sound, Where thwarting tides, with mingled roar, Part thy swarth hills from Morven's shore. VIII. "Daughter," she said, these seas behold, Round twice an hundred islands roll'd, From Hirt, that hears their northern roar, To the green Ilay's fertile shore; Or mainland turn, where many a tower |