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THE LADY OF THE LAKE. "Tine-man,” p. 42.-Archibald, the third Earl of Douglas, was so unfortunate in all his enterprises that he acquired the epithet of “Tineman," because he tined, or lost, his followers in every battle which he fought.

"And. Saturs." etc.. p. 82.-Scott is not here guilty of any anachronism, though the word "satyr” is doubtless misleading. The Highlanders had a mythological satyr, or urisk.

As their Tinchel,etc., p. 168A circle of sportsmen, who, by surrounding a greater space, and gradually narrowing, brought immense quantities of deer together, which usually made desperate efforts to break through the T'inchel.

THE LORD OF THE ISLES. By Woden wildmy grandsire's oath,” p. 212.-The Macleods were of Scandinavian descent-ancient worshippers of Thor and Woden.

Up Tarbert's western lake they bore,

Then dragg'd their bark the isthmus o'er."-P, 250. The peninsula of Cantire is joined to South Knapdale by a very narrow isthmus, formed by the western and eastern Loch of Tarbert. These two saltwater lakes, or bays, encroach so far upon the land, and the extremities come so near to each other that there is not a mile of land to divide them. “Tarbert" itself is anglicised Gaelic for "an isthmus.”

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THE scene of this poem lies, at first, in the Castle of Artornish, on the coast of Argyleshire; and, afterwards, in the Islands of Skye and Arran, and upon the coast of Ayrshire. Finally, it is laid near Stirling. The story opens in the spring of the year 1307, when Bruce, who had been driven out of Scotland by the English, and the Barons who adhered to that foreign interest, returned from the Island of Rachrin, on the coast of Ireland, again to assert his claims to the Scottish crown. Many of the personages and incidents introduced are of historical celebrity. The authorities used are chiefly those of the venerable Lord Hailes, as well entitled to be called the restorer of Scottish history, as Bruce the restorer of Scottish monarchy, and of Archdeacon Barbour.

CANTO FIRST.
AUTUMN departs—but still his mantle's fold
A 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.
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 saddened 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 wood's 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 moralise 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, 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,
To a wild tale of Albyn's warrior day;

In distant lands, by the rough West reproved,
Still live some relics of the ancient lay.
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.

1.

"WAKE, Maid of Lorn!” the Minstrels sung.
Thy rugged halls, Artornish ! rung,
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 of 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 echoes answer meet,
Since, met from mainland and from islo,
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 Aitornish hall.

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;
Rude Heiskar's seal through surges dark
Will long pursue the minstrel's bark ;
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 !

III,

22

"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 !"-
“She comes not yet," grey 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."

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