THE LORD OF THE ISLES. CANTO FIRST. AUTUMN departs-but still his mantle's fold Rests on the groves of noble Somerville,' Beneath a shroud of russet dropp'd with gold Tweed and his tributaries mingle still; Hoarser the wind, and deeper sounds the rill, Yet lingering notes of sylvan music swell, The deep-toned cushat, and the redbreast shrill; 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; Blent with the stream, and gale that wafts it o'er No more the distant reaper's mirth we hear. '[John, fifteenth Lord Somerville, illustrious for his patriotic devotion to the science of agriculture, resided frequently in his beautiful villa called the Pavilion, situated on the Tweed over against Melrose, and was an intimate friend and almost daily companion of the poet, from whose windows at Abbotsford his lordship's plantations formed a prominent object. Lord S. died in 1819.] "[The river Gala, famous in song, flows into the Tweed a few hundred yards below Abbotsford; but probably the word Gala here stands for the poet's neighbour and kinsman, and much attached friend, John Scott, Esq. of Gala.] The last blithe shout hath died upon our ear, And harvest-home hath hush'd the clanging wain, 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 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 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, For, when on Coolin's hills the lights decay, With such the Seer of Skye the eve beguiles; 'Tis known amid the pathless wastes of Reay, In Harries known, and in Iona's piles, Where rest from mortal coil the Mighty of the Isles. 66 I. 'WAKE, Maid of Lorn!" the Minstrels sung. Thy rugged halls, Artornish! rung,' And the dark seas, thy towers that lave, As 'mid the tuneful choir to keep Lull'd were the winds on Inninmore, And ne'er to symphony more sweet 1 [See Appendix, Note A.] II. "Wake, Maid of Lorn!" 'twas thus they sung. And yet more proud the descant rung, "Wake, Maid of Lorn! high right is ours, To charm dull sleep from Beauty's bowers; Earth, Ocean, Air, have nought so shy But owns the power of minstrelsy In Lettermore the timid deer Will pause, the harp's wild chime to hear; III. "O wake, while Dawn, with dewy shine, Wakes Nature's charms to vie with thine! She bids the mottled thrush rejoice To mate thy melody of voice; The dew that on the violet lies Mocks the dark lustre of thine eyes; But, Edith, wake, and all we see Of sweet and fair shall yield to thee!"— 'The seal displays a taste for music, which could scarcely be expected from his habits and local predilections. They will long follow a boat in which any musical instrument is played, and even a tune simply whistled has attractions for them. The Dean of the Isles says of Heiskar, a small uninhabited rock, about twelve (Scottish) miles from the isle of Uist, that an infinite slaughter of seals takes place there. S "She comes not yet," grey Ferrand cried; "Brethren, let softer spell be tried, Those notes prolong'd, that soothing theme, IV. "Wake, Maid of Lorn! the moments fly, Which yet that maiden-name allow; Wake, Maiden, wake! the hour is nigh, When Love shall claim a plighted vow. By Fear, thy bosom's fluttering guest, By Hope, that soon shall fears remove, We bid thee break the bonds of rest, And wake thee at the call of Love! "Wake, Edith, wake! in yonder bay V. Retired her maiden train among, |