A POEM OF SIX CANTOS

Autumn departs — but still his mantle's fold
Rests on the groves of noble Somerville,
Beneath a shroud of russet drooped 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 cashat and the redbreast shrill;
And yet some tints of summer splendor 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 hushed the clanging wain,
On the waste hill no forms of life appear,
Save where, sad laggard of the autumnal strain,
Some age-struck wanderer gleans few ears of scattered grain.

Deem'st thou these saddened scenes have pleasure still,
Lov'st thou through Autumn's fading realms to stray,
To see the heath-flower withered 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 lov'st, 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,
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;
'T is 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.

I

" 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.
Lulled were the winds on Inuinmore
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 isle,
Ross, Arran, Islay, and Argyle,
Each minstrel's tributary lay
Paid homage to the festal day.
Dull and dishonored 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
Was silent in Artornish hall.

II

" Wake, Maid of Lorn!" — 't was 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

" 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," gray Ferrand cried;
" Brethren, let softer spell be tried,
Those notes prolonged, 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 gayly manned,
We hear the merry pibroch's 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,
But tamed the minstrel's pride had been
That had her cold demeanor 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 arrayed,
Cathleen of Ulne, 't was 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, bleached Lochryan's depths within,
Seemed 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 seemed to hide,
Till on the floor descending rolled
Its waves of crimson blent with gold.

VI

O, lives there now so cold a maid,
Who thus in beauty's pomp arrayed,
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 telltale 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 scorned to smile.

VII

But Morag, to whose fostering care
Proud Lorn had given his daughter fair,
Morag, who saw a mother's aid
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 attendant's fond appeal
To Morag's skill, to Morag's zeal;
She marked her child receive their care,
Cold as the image sculptured fair —
Form of some sainted patroness —
Which cloistered maids combine to dress;
She marked — and knew her nursling's heart
In the vain pomp took little part.
Wistful awhile she gazed — then pressed
The maiden to her anxious breast
In finished loveliness — and led
To where a turret's airy head,
Slender and steep and battled round,
O'erlooked, dark Mull, thy mighty Sound,
Where thwarting tides with mingled roar
Part thy swarth hills from Morven's shore.

VIII

" Daughter," she said, " these seas behold,
Round twice a hundred islands rolled,
From Hirt that hears their northern roar
To the green Ilay's fertile shore;
Or mainland turn where many a tower
Owns thy bold brother's feudal power,
Each on its own dark cape reclined
And listening to its own wild wind,
From where Mingarry sternly placed
O'erawes the woodland and the waste,
To where Dunstaffnage hears the raging
Of Connal with its rocks engaging.
Think'st thou amid this ample round
A single brow but thine has frowned,
To sadden this auspicious morn
That bids the daughter of high Lorn
Impledge her spousal faith to wed
The heir of mighty Somerled?
Ronald, from many a hero sprung,
The fair, the valiant, and the young,
Lord OF THE I SLES , whose lofty name
A thousand bards have given to fame,
The mate of monarchs, and allied
On equal terms with England's pride. —
From chieftain's tower to bondsman's cot,
Who hears the tale, and triumphs not?
The damsel dons her best attire,
The shepherd lights his beltane fire,
Joy! joy! each warder's horn hath sung,
Joy! joy! each matin bell hath rung;
The holy priest says grateful mass,
Loud shouts each hardy galla-glass,
No mountain den holds outcast boor
Of heart so dull, of soul so poor,
But he hath flung his task aside,
And claimed this morn for holy-tide;
Yet, empress of this joyful day,
Edith is sad while all are gay."

IX

Proud Edith's soul came to her eye,
Resentment checked the struggling sigh.
Her hurrying hand indignant dried
The burning tears of injured pride —
" Morag, forbear! or lend thy praise
To swell yon hireling harpers' lays;
Make to yon maids thy boast of power,
That they may waste a wondering hour
Telling of banners proudly horne,
Of pealing bell and bugle horn,
Or, theme more dear, of robes of price,
Crownlets and gauds of rare device.
But thou, experienced as thou art,
Think'st thou with these to cheat the heart
That, bound in strong affection's chain,
Looks for return and looks in vain?
No! sum thine Edith's wretched lot
In these brief words — He loves her not!

X

" Debate it not — too long I strove
To call his cold observance love,
All blinded by the league that styled
Edith of Lorn — while yet a child
She tripped the heath by Morag's side —
The brave Lord Ronald's destined bride.
Ere yet I saw him, while afar
His broadsword blazed in Scotland's war,
Trained to believe our fates the same,
My bosom throbbed when Ronald's name
Came gracing Fame's heroic tale,
Like perfume on the summer gale.
What pilgrim sought our halls nor told
Of Ronald's deeds in battle bold;
Who touched the harp to heroes' praise
But his achievements swelled the lays?
Even Morag — not a tale of fame
Was hers but closed with Ronald's name.
He came! and all that had been told
Of his high worth seemed poor and cold,
Tame, lifeless, void of energy,
Unjust to Ronald and to me!

XI

" Since then, what thought had Edith's heart
And gave not plighted love its part! —
And what requital? cold delay —
Excuse that shunned the sponsal day. —
It dawns and Ronald is not here! —
Hunts he Bentalla's nimble deer,
Or loiters he in secret dell
To bid some lighter love farewell,
And swear that though he may not scorn
A daughter of the House of Lorn,
Yet, when these formal rites are o'er,
Again they meet to part no more?"

XII

" Hush, daughter, hush! thy doubts remove,
More nobly think of Ronald's love.
Look, where beneath the castle gray
His fleet unmoor from Aros bay!
See'st not each galley's topmast bend
As on the yards the sails ascend?
Hiding the dark-blue land they rise,
Like the white clouds on April skies;
The shouting vassals man the oars,
Behind them sink Mull's mountain shores,
Onward their merry course they keep
Through whistling breeze and foaming deep.
And mark the headmost, seaward cast,
Stoop to the freshening gale her mast,
As if she veiled its bannered pride
To greet afar her prince's bride!
Thy Ronald comes, and while in speed
His galley mates the flying steed,
He chides her sloth!" — Fair Edith sighed,
Blushed, sadly smiled, and thus replied:

XIII

" Sweet thought, but vain! — No, Morag! mark,
Type of his course, yon lonely bark,
That oft hath shifted helm and sail
To win its way against the gale.
Since peep of morn my vacant eyes
Have viewed by fits the course she tries;
Now, though the darkening scud comes on,
And dawn's fair promises be gone,
And though the weary crew may see
Our sheltering haven on their lee,
Still closer to the rising wind
They strive her shivering sail to bind,
Still nearer to the shelves' dread verge
At every tack her course they urge,
As if they feared Artornish more
Than adverse winds and breakers' roar."

XIV

Sooth spoke the maid. Amid the tide
The skiff she marked lay tossing sore,
And shifted oft her stooping side,
In weary tack from shore to shore.
Yet on her destined course no more
She gained of forward way
Than what a minstrel may compare
To the poor meed which peasants share
Who toil the livelong day;
And such the risk her pilot braves
That oft, before she wore,
Her boltsprit kissed the broken waves
Where in white foam the ocean raves
Upon the shelving shore.
Yet, to their destined purpose true,
Undaunted toiled her hardy crew,
Nor looked where shelter lay,
Nor for Artornish Castle drew,
Nor steered for Aros bay.

XV

Thus while they strove with wind and seas,
Borne onward by the willing breeze,
Lord Ronald's fleet swept by,
Streamered with silk and tricked with gold,
Manned with the noble and the bold
Of Island chivalry.
Around their prows the ocean roars,
And chafes beneath their thousand oars,
Yet bears them on their way:
So chafes the war-horse in his might
That fieldward bears some valiant knight,
Champs till both bit and boss are white,
But foaming must obey.
On each gay deck they might behold
Lances of steel and crests of gold,
And hauberks with their burnished fold
That shimmered fair and free;
And each proud galley as she passed
To the wild cadence of the blast
Gave wilder minstrelsy.
Full many a shrill triumphant note
Saline and Scallastle bade float
Their misty shores around;
And Morven's echoes answered well,
And Duart heard the distant swell
Come down the darksome Sound.

XVI

So bore they on with mirth and pride,
And if that laboring bark they spied,
'T was with such idle eye
As nobles cast on lowly boor
When, toiling in his task obscure,
They pass him careless by.
Let them sweep on with heedless eyes!
But had they known what mighty prize
In that frail vessel lay,
The famished wolf that prowls the wold
Had seathless passed the unguarded fold,
Ere, drifting by these galleys bold,
Unchallenged were her way!
And thou, Lord Ronald, sweep thou on
With mirth and pride and minstrel tone!
But hadst thou known who sailed so nigh,
Far other glance were in thine eye!
Far other flush were on thy brow,
That, shaded by the bonnet, now
Assumes but ill the blithesome cheer
Of bridegroom when the bride is near!

XVII

Yes, sweep they on! — We will not leave,
For them that triumph, those who grieve.
With that armada gay
Be laughter loud and jocund shout,
And bards to cheer the wassail rout
With tale, romance, and lay;
And of wild mirth each clamorous art,
Which, if it cannot cheer the heart,
May stupefy and stan its smart
For one loud busy day.
Yes, sweep they on! — But with that skiff
Abides the minstrel tale,
Where there was dread of surge and cliff,
Labor that strained each sinew stiff,
And one sad maiden's wail.

XVIII

All day with fruitless strife they toiled,
With eve the ebbing currents boiled
More fierce from strait and lake;
And midway through the channel met
Conflicting tides that foam and fret,
And high their mingled billows jet,
As spears that in the battle set
Spring upward as they break.
Then too the lights of eve were past,
And louder sung the western blast
On rocks of luninmore;
Rent was the sail, and strained the mast,
And many a leak was gaping fast,
And the pale steersman stood aghast
And gave the conflict o'er.

XIX

'T was then that One whose lofty look
Nor labor dulled nor terror shook
Thus to the leader spoke: —
" Brother, how hop'st thou to abide
The fury of this wildered tide,
Or how avoid the rock's rude side
Until the day has broke?
Didst thou not mark the vessel reel
With quivering planks and groaning keel
At the last billow's shock?
Yet how of better counsel tell,
Though here thou see'st poor Isabel
Half dead with want and fear;
For look on sea, or look on land,
Or you dark sky, on every hand
Despair and death are near.
For her alone I grieve — on me
Danger sits light by land and sea,
I follow where thou wilt;
Either to bide the tempest's lour,
Or wend to yon unfriendly tower,
Or rush amid their naval power,
With war-cry wake their wassail-hour,
And die with hand on hilt."

XX

That elder leader's calm reply
In steady voice was given,
" In man's most dark extremity
Oft succor dawns from heaven.
Edward, trim thou the shattered sail,
The helm be mine, and down the gale
Let our free course be driven;
So shall we 'scape the western bay,
The hostile fleet, the unequal fray,
So safely hold our vessel's way
Beneath the castle wall;
For if a hope of safety rest,
'T is on the sacred name of guest,
Who seeks for shelter storm-distressed
Within a chieftain's hall.
If not — it best beseems our worth,
Our name, our right, our lofty birth,
By noble hands to fall."

XXI

The helm, to his strong arm consigned,
Gave the reefed sail to meet the wind,
And on her altered way
Fierce bounding forward sprung the ship,
Like greyhound starting from the slip
To seize his flying prey.
Awaked before the rushing prow
The mimic fires of ocean glow,
Those lightnings of the wave;
Wild sparkles crest the broken tides,
And flashing round the vessel's sides
With elfish lustre lave,
While far behind their livid light
To the dark billows of the night
A gloomy splendor gave,
It seems as if old Ocean shakes
From his dark brow the lucid flakes
In envious pageantry,
To match the meteor-light that streaks
Grim Hecla's midnight sky.

XXII

Nor lacked they steadier light to keep
Their course upon the darkened deep; —
Artornish, on her frowning steep
'Twixt cloud and ocean hung,
Glanced with a thousand lights of glee,
And landward far, and far to sea
Her festal radiance flung.
By that blithe beacon-light they steered,
Whose lustre mingled well
With the pale beam that now appeared,
As the cold moon her head upreared
Above the eastern fell.

XXIII

Thus guided, on their course they bore
Until they neared the mainland shore,
When frequent on the hollow blast
Wild shouts of merriment were cast,
And wind and wave and sea-birds' cry
With wassail sounds in concert vie,
Like funeral shrieks with revelry,
Or like the battle-shout
By peasants heard from cliffs on high
When Triumph, Rage, and Agony
Madden the fight and rout.
Now nearer yet through mist and storm
Dimly arose the castle's form
And deepened shadow made,
Far lengthened on the main below,
Where dancing in reflected glow
A hundred torches played,
Spangling the wave with lights as vain
As pleasures in this vale of pain,
That dazzle as they fade.

XXIV

Beneath the castle's sheltering lee
They staid their course in quiet sea.
Hewn in the rock, a passage there
Sought the dark fortress by a stair,
So strait, so high, so steep,
With peasant's staff one valiant hand
Might well the dizzy pass have manned
'Gainst hundreds armed with spear and brand
And plunged them in the deep.
His bugle then the helmsman wound:
Loud answered every echo round
From turret, rock, and bay;
The postern's hinges crash and groan,
And soon the warder's cresset shone
On those rude steps of slippery stone,
To light the upward way.
" Thrice welcome, holy Sire!" he said;
" Full long the spousal train have staid,
And, vexed at thy delay,
Feared lest amidst these wildering seas
The darksome night and freshening breeze
Had driven thy bark astray." —

XXV

" Warder," the younger stranger said,
" Thine erring guess some mirth had made
In mirthful hour; but nights like these,
When the rough winds wake western seas,
Brook not of glee. We crave some aid
And needful shelter for this maid
Until the break of day;
For to ourselves the deck's rude plank
Is easy as the mossy bank
That 's breathed upon by May.
And for our storm-tossed skiff we seek
Short shelter in this leeward creek,
Prompt when the dawn the east shall streak
Again to bear away."
Answered the warder, " In what name
Assert ye hospitable claim?
Whence come or whither bound?
Hath Erin seen your parting sails,
Or come ye on Norweyan gales?
And seek ye England's fertile vales,
Or Scotland's mountain ground?"

XXVI

" Warriors — for other title none
For some brief space we list to own,
Bound by a vow — warriors are we;
In strife by land and storm by sea
We have been known to fame;
And these brief words have import dear,
When sounded in a noble ear,
To harbor safe and friendly cheer
That gives us rightful claim.
Grant us the trivial boon we seek,
And we in other realms will speak
Fair of your courtesy;
Deny — and be your niggard hold
Scorned by the noble and the bold,
Shunned by the pilgrim on the wold
And wanderer on the lea!"

XXVII

" Bold stranger, no — 'gainst claim like thine
No bolt revolves by hand of mine,
Though urged in tone that more expressed
A monarch than a suppliant guest.
Be what ye will, Artornish Hall
On this glad eve is free to all.
Though ye had drawn a hostile sword
'Gainst our ally, great England's Lord,
Or mail upon your shoulders borne
To battle with the Lord of Lorn,
Or outlawed dwelt by greenwood tree
With the fierce Knight of Ellerslie,
Or aided even the murderous strife
When Comyn fell beneath the knife
Of that fell homicide the Bruce,
This night had been a term of truce. —
Ho, vassals! give these guests your care,
And show the narrow postern stair."

XXVIII

To land these two bold brethren leapt —
The weary crew their vessel kept —
And, lighted by the torches' flare
That seaward flung their smoky glare,
The younger knight that maiden bare
Half lifeless up the rock;
On his strong shoulder leaned her head,
And down her long dark tresses shed,
As the wild vine in tendrils spread
Droops from the mountain oak.
Him followed close that elder lord,
And in his hand a sheathed sword
Such as few arms could wield;
But when he bouned him to such task
Well could it cleave the strongest casque
And rend the surest shield.

XXIX

The raised portcallis' arch they pass,
The wicket with its bars of brass,
The entrance long and low,
Flanked at each turn by loop-holes strait,
Where bowmen might in ambush wait —
If force or fraud should burst the gate —
To gall an entering foe.
But every jealous post of ward
Was now defenceless and unbarred,
And all the passage free
To one low-browed and vaulted room
Where squire and yeoman, page and groom,
Plied their loud revelry.

XXX

And " Rest ye here," the warder bade,
" Till to our lord your suit is said. —
And, comrades, gaze not on the maid
And on these men who ask our aid,
As if ye ne'er had seen
A damsel tired of midnight bark
Or wanderers of a moulding stark
And bearing martial mien."
But not for Eachin's reproof
Would page or vassal stand aloof,
But crowded on to stare,
As men of courtesy untaught,
Till Fiery Edward roughly caught
From one the foremost there
His chequered plaid, and in its shroud,
To hide her from the vulgar crowd,
Involved his sister fair.
His brother, as the clansman bent
His sullen brow in discontent,
Made brief and stern excuse:
" Vassal, were thine the cloak of pall
That deeks thy lord in bridal hall,
'T were honored by her use."

XXXI

Proud was his tone but calm; his eye
Had that compelling dignity,
His mien that bearing haught and high,
Which common spirits fear;
Needed nor word nor signal more,
Nod, wink, and laughter, all were o'er;
Upon each other back they bore
And gazed like startled deer.
But now appeared the seneschal,
Commissioned by his lord to call
The strangers to the baron's hall,
Where feasted fair and free
That Island Prince in nuptial tide
With Edith there his lovely bride,
And her bold brother by her side,
And many a chief, the flower and pride
Of Western land and sea.

Here pause we, gentles, for a space;
And, if our tale hath won your grace,
Grant us brief patience and again
We will renew the minstrel strain.