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? Q! 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 Harries known, and in lona's piles, Where rest from mortal coil the Mighty of the Isles. "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 on Inninmore, And green Loch-Alline's woodland shore, And ne'er to symphony more sweet Since, met from mainland and from isle, Ross, Arran, Ilay, and Argyle, Paid homage to the festal day. Dull and dishonour'd were the bard, "Wake, Maid of Lorn "twas thus they sung, In Lettermore the timid deer tenta Will long pursue the minstrel's bark; Will poise him on Ben-Cailliach's cloud; "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 voices 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; Those notes prolong'd, that soothing theme, |