THE LORD OF THE ISLES. CANTO FIRST. AUTUMN departs-but still his mantle's fold Hoarser the wind, and deeper sounds the rill, And yet some tints of summer splendour tell When the broad sun sinks down on Ettrick's western fell. Autumn departs-from Gala's fields no more Come rural sounds our kindred banks to cheer; On the waste hill no forms of life appear, Save where, sad laggard of the autumnal train, Some age-struck wanderer gleans few ears of scatter'd grain. Deem'st thou these sadden'd scenes have pleasure still, Lovest thou through Autumn's fading realms to stray, To see the heath-flower wither'd on the hill, 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, On the waste fields to trace the gleaner's way, And moralize on mortal joy and pain?— O! if such scenes thou lovest, scorn not the minstrel strain ! No! do not scorn, although its hoarser note Scarce with the cushat's homely song can vie, Though faint its beauties as the tints remote That gleam through mist in autumn's evening sky, And few as leaves that tremble, sear and dry, When wild November hath his bugle wound; Nor mock my toil-a lonely gleaner I, Through fields time-wasted, on sad inquest bound, Where happier bards of yore have richer harvest found. So shalt thou list, and haply not unmoved, In distant lands, by the rough West reproved, For, when on Coolin's hills the lights decay, In Harries known, and in Iona's piles, Where rest from mortal coil the Mighty of the Isles. |