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XII.

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Ever the breeze blows merrily,
But the galley ploughs no more the sea.
Lest, rounding wild Cantire, they meet.
The southern foemen's watchful fleet,

They held unwonted way;
Up Tarbat's western lake they bore,
Then dragg'd their bark the isthmus o'er, , :
As far as Kilmaconnel's shore,,,

Upon the eastern bay.. . . It was a wond'rous sight to see Topmast and pennon glitter free, '. High raised above the greenwood treo, As on dry land the galley moves, . . By cliff and copse and alder groves.. Deep import from that selcouth sign, Did many a mountain Seer divine,

For ancient legends told the Gael,
That when a royal bark should sail

O’er Kilmaconnel moss,

Old Albyn should in fight prevail,
And every foe should faint and quail

Before her silver Cross.

- XIII.

Now launch'd once more, the inland sea They furrow with fair augury,

And steer for Arran’s isle; The sun, ere yet he sunk behind Ben-ghoil, “ the Mountain of the Wind," Gave his grim peaks a greeting kind,

And bade Loch-Ranza smile. Thither their destined course they drew; It seem'd the isle her monarch knew, So brilliant was the landward view,

The ocean so serene;

Each puny wave in diamonds rollid
O’er the calm deep, where hues of gold

With azure strove and green.
The hill, the vale, the tree, the tower,
Glow'd with the tints of evening's hour,

The beach was silver sheen,
The wind breathed soft as lover's sigh,
And, oft renew'd, seem'd oft to die,

With breathless pause between.
O who, with speech of war and woes,
Would wish to break the soft repose

Of such enchanting scene !

XIV.

Is it of war Lord Ronald speaks?
The blush that dyes his manly cheeks,
The timid look, and down-cast eye,
And faultering voice the theme deny.

And good King Robert's brow express'd,
He ponder'd o'er some high request,

As doubtful to approve;

Yet in his eye and lip the while
Dwelt the half-pitying glance and smile,
Which manhood's graver mood beguile,

When lovers talk of love.
Anxious his suit Lord Ronald pled;
- And for my bride betrothed,” he said,
6 My Liege has heard the rumour spread
Of Edith from Artornish fled.
Too hard her fate-I claim no right
To blame her for her hasty flight;
Be joy and happiness her lot !
But she hath fled the bridal-knot,
And Lorn recall'd his promised plight,
In the assembled chieftains' sight.

When, to fulfil our fathers' band,
I proffer'd all I could—my hand-

I was repulsed with scorn;
Mine honour I should ill assert,
And worse the feelings of my heart,
If I should play a suitor's part

Again, to pleasure Lorn."

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“ Young Lord,” the Royal Bruce replied,
66 That question must the Church, decide ;
Yet seems it hard, since rumours state
Edith takes Clifford for her mate,
The very tie, which she hath broke,
To thee should still be binding yoke.
But, for my sister Isabel —
The mood of woman who can tell ?
I guess the Champion of the Rock,
Victorious in the tourney shock,
That knight unknown, to whom the prize
She dealt,—had favour in her eyes;
But since our brother Nigel's fatė,
Our ruin'd house and hapless state,
From worldly joy and hope estranged,
Much is the hapless mourner changed.
Perchance," here smiled the noble King,
“ This tale may other musings bring.'

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