I.

"Wake, Maid of Lorn!" the Minstrels sung.

Thy rugged halls, Artornish! rung,1

And the dark seas, thy towers that lave,
Heaved on the beach a softer wave,

As mid the tuneful choir to keep
The diapason of the Deep.

Lull'd were the winds on Inninmore,

And green Loch-Alline's woodland shore,
As if wild woods and waves had pleasure
In listing to the lovely measure.
And ne'er to symphony more sweet
Gave mountain echoes2 answer meet,

Since, met from mainland and from isle,
Ross, Arran, Ilay, and Argyle,
Each minstrel's tributary lay
Paid homage to the festal day.
Dull and dishonour'd were the bard,
Worthless of guerdon and regard,
Deaf to the hope of minstrel fame,
Or lady's smiles, his noblest aim,
Who on that morn's resistless call

Were silent in Artornish hall.

II.

"Wake, Maid of Lorn!" 'twas thus they sung,

And yet more proud the descant rung,

'[See Apendix, Note A.]

2 [MS.-" Made mountain echoes," &c.]

Wake, Maid of Lorn! high right is ours,
To charm dull sleep1 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;
Rude Heiskar's seal through surges dark
Will long pursue the minstrel's bark; 2
To list his notes, the eagle proud
Will poise him on Ben-Cailliach's cloud;
Then let not Maiden's ear disdain
The summons of the minstrel train,
But, while our harps wild music make,
Edith of Lorn, awake, awake!

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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;

2 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.

But, Edith, wake, and all we see

Of sweet and fair shall yield to thee!"-
"She comes not yet," gray Ferrand cried;
"Brethren, let softer spell be tried,

Those notes prolong'd, that soothing theme,
Which best may mix with Beauty's dream,
And whisper, with their silvery tone,
The hope she loves, yet fears to own."
He spoke, and on the harp-strings died
The strains of flattery and of pride;
More soft, more low, more tender fell
The lay of love he bade them tell.

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 Lies many a galley gaily mann'd, We hear the merry pibrochs play,

We see the streamers' silken band. What Chieftain's praise these pibrochs swell, What crest is on these banners wove,

The harp, the minstrel, dare not tell

The riddle must be read by Love."

V.

Retired her maiden train among,
Edith of Lorn received the song,1

But tamed the minstrel's pride had been
That had her cold demeanour seen;
For not upon her cheek awoke

The glow of pride when Flattery spoke,
Nor could their tenderest numbers bring
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,
Cathleen of Ulne, 'twas thine to braid;
Young Eva with meet reverence drew
On the light foot the silken shoe,

While on the ankle's slender round

Those strings of pearl fair Bertha wound,
That, bleach'd Lochryan's depths within,
Seem'd dusky still on Edith's skin.
But Einion, of experience old,

Had weightiest task-the mantle's fold
In many an artful plait she tied,
To show the form it seem'd to hide,
Till on the floor descending roll'd1
Its waves of crimson blent with gold.

1[MS.-"Retired amid her menial train, Edith of Lorn received the strain."]

[MS.—" The train upon the pavement } flow'd."] Then to the floor descending

VI.

O! lives there now so cold a maid,
Who thus in beauty's pomp array'd,
In beauty's proudest pitch of power,
And conquest won-the bridal hour-
With every charm that wins the heart,
By Nature given, enhanced by Art,
Could yet the fair reflection view,
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 aid1

By all a daughter's love repaid,
(Strict was that bond-most kind of all—
Inviolate in Highland hall—)
Gray Morag sate a space apart,
In Edith's eyes to read her heart.
In vain the attendants' fond appeal
To Morag's skill, to Morag's zeal;

1 [MS." But Morag, who the maid had press'd,
An infant, to her fostering breast,

And seen a mother's early aid," &c.]