-Pent in this isle we may not lie, Of my own Turnberry court our powers- The time propitious for the blow ?— Thy hills, thy dales, thy people free,— That glance of bliss is all I crave, Betwixt my labours and my grave !" grave!". Then down the hill he slowly went, Oft pausing on the steep descent, And reach'd the spot where his bold train Held rustic camp upon the plain. END OF CANTO FOURTH. THE LORD OF THE ISLES. CANTO FIFTH. ON fair Loch-Ranza stream'd the early day, Thin wreaths of cottage-smoke are upward curl'd From the lone hamlet, which her inland bay And circling mountains sever from the world. And there the fisherman his sail unfurl'd, The goat-herd drove his kids to steep Ben-Ghoil, Before the hut the dame her spindle twirl'd, Courting the sun-beam as she plied her toil,— For, wake where'er he may, Man wakes to care and coil. |