So pass'd he on, when that fourth Maid,

As starting from a trance,

Upon the harp her finger laid;
Her magic touch the chords obey'd,
Their soul awaked at once!

SONG OF THE FOURTH MAIDEN.

"Quake to your foundations deep,
Stately Towers, and Banner'd keep,
Bid your vaulted echoes moan,
As the dreaded step they own.
"Fiends, that wait on Merlin's spell,
Hear the foot-fall! mark it well!
Spread your dusky wings abroad,
Boune ye for your homeward road!
"It is His, the first who e'er

Dared the dismal Hall of Fear:
HIS, who hath the snares defied
Spread by Pleasure, Wealth, and Pride.
"Quake to your foundations deep,

Bastion huge, and Turret steep!
Tremble, Keep! and totter, Tower!
This is Gyneth's waking hour."

XXXVII.

Thus while she sung, the venturous Knight
Has reach'd a bower, where milder light
Through crimson curtains fell;
Such soften'd shade the hill receives,
Her purple veil when twilight leaves
Upon its western swell.

That bower, the gazer to bewitch,
Had wondrous store of rare and rich
As c'er was seen with eye;
For there by magic skill, I wis,
Form of each thing that living is

Was limn'd in proper dye.
All seem'd to sleep-the timid haro
On form, the stag upon his lair,
The eagle in her eyrie fair

Between the earth and sky.
But what of pictured rich and rare
Could win De Vaux's eye-glance, where,
Deep slumbering in the fatal chair,

He saw King Arthur's child!
Doubt, and anger, and dismay,
From her brow had pass'd away,
Forgot was that fell tourney-day,

For, as she slept, she smiled: It seem'd, that the repentant Seer Her sleep of many a hundred year With gentle dreams beguiled.

XXXVIII.

That form of maiden loveliness,

"Twixt childhood and 'twixt youth, That ivory chair, that silvan dress, The arms and ankles bare, express Of Lyulph's tale the truth. Still upon her garment's hem Vanoc's blood made purple gem, And the warder of command Cumber'd still her sleeping hand; Still her dark locks dishevell'd flow From net of pearl o'er breast of snow; And so fair the slumberer seems, That De Vaux impeach'd his dreams,

Vapid all and void of might,
Hiding half her charms from sight.
Motionless a while he stands,

Folds bis arms and clasps his hands,
Trembling in his fitful joy,
Doubtful how he should destroy
Long-enduring spell;

Doubtful, too, when slowly rise
Dark-fringed lids of Gyneth's eyes,
What these eyes shall tell.--
"St. George! St. Mary! can it be,
That they will kindly look on me!'

XXXIX.

Gently, lo! the Warrior kneels,
Soft that lovely hand he steals,
Soft to kiss, and soft to clasp--
But the warder leaves her grasp;

Lightning flashes, rolls the thunder!
Gyneth startles from her sleep,
Totters Tower, and trembles Keep,

Burst the Castle-walls asunder!
Fierce and frequent were the shocks,-
Melt the magic halls away;
-But beneath their mystic rocks,
In the arms of bold De Vaux,
Safe the princess lay;

Safe and free from magic power,
Blushing like the rose's flower

Opening to the day;

And round the Champion's brows were bound The crown that Druidess had wound,

Of the green laurel-bay.

And this was what remain'd of all
The wealth of each enchanted hall,
The Garland and the Dame:

But where should Warrior seek the meed,
Due to high worth for daring deed,
Except from LOVE and FAME!

CONCLUSION.

I.

MY LUCY, when the Maid is won,

The Minstrel's task, thou know'st, is done; And to require of bard

That to his dregs the tale should run,

Were ordinance too hard.

Our lovers, briefly be it said,
Wedded as lovers wont to wed,

When tale or play is o'er;
Lived long and blest, loved fond and true,
And saw a numerous race renew

The honours that they bore.
Know, too, that when a pilgrim strays,
In morning mist or evening maze,
Along the mountain lone,
That fairy fortress often mocks
His gaze upon the castled rocks

Of the Valley of St. John;

But never man since brave De Vaux
The charmed portal won.

"Tis now a vain illusive show,
That molts whene'er th

unbeams glow,

Or the fresh breeze hath blown.

But see, my love, where far below
Our lingering wheels are moving slow,
The whiles, up-gazing still,

Our menials eye our steepy way,
Marvelling, perchance, what whim can stay
Our steps when eve is sinking grey

On this gigantic hill.

So think the vulgar-Life and time
Ring all their joys in one dull chime

Of luxury and ease;

And, O! beside these simple knaves,
How many better-born are slaves

To such coarse joys as these,
Dead to the nobler sense that glows
When nature's grander scenes uncloso!
But, Lucy, we will love them yet,
The mountain's misty coronet,

The greenwood, and the wold; And love the more, that of their maze Adventure high of other days

By ancient bards is told, Bringing, perchance, like my poor tale, Some moral truth in fiction's veil: Nor love them less, that o'er the hill The evening breeze, as now, comes chill;— My love shall wrap her warm, And, fearless of the slippery way, While safe she trips the heathy brae, Shall hang on Arthur's arm.

NOTE A.

the Baron of Triermain.-P. 309. THIS branch of Vaux, with its collateral alliances, is now represented by the family of Braddyl of Conishcad Priory, in the county palatine of Lancaster; for it appears that about the time above mentioned, the house of Triermain was united to its kindred family Vaux of Caterlen, and, by marriage with the heiress of Delamore and Leybourne, became the representative of those ancient and noble families. The male line failing in John de Vaux, about the year 1665, his daughter and heiress, Mabel, married Christopher Richmond, Esq., of Highhead Castle, in the county of Cumberland, descended from an ancient family of that name, Lords of Corby Castle, in the same county, soon after the Conquest, and which they alienated about the 15th of Edward the Second, to Andrea de Harela, Earl of Carlisle. Of this family was Sir Thomas de Raigemont, (miles auratus,) in the reign of King Edward the First, who appears to have greatly distinguished himself at the siege of Kaerlaveroc, with William, Baron of Leybourne. In an ancient heraldic poem, now extant, and preserved in the British Museum, describing that siege, his arms are stated to be, Or, 2 Bars Gemelles Gules, and a Chief Or, the same borne by his descendants at the present day. The Richmonds removed to their Castle of Highhead in the reign of Henry the Eighth, when the then representative of the family married Margaret, daughter of Sir Hugh Lowther, by the Lady Dorothy de Clifford, only child by a second marriage of Henry Lord Clifford, great-grandson of John Lord Clifford, by Elizabeth Percy, daughter of Henry (surnamed Hotspur) by Elizabeth Mortimer, which said Elizabeth was daughter of Edward Mortimer, third Earl of Marche, by Philippa, sole daughter and heiress of Lionel, Duke of Clarence.

The third in descent from the above-mentioned John Richmond, became the representative of the families of Vaux, of Triermain, Caterlen, and Torerossock, by his marriage with Mabel de Vaux, the heiress of them. His grandson Henry Richmond died without issue, leaving five sisters coheiresses, four of whom married; but Margaret, who married William

Gale, Esq., of Whitehaven, was the only one who had male issue surviving. She had a son, and a daughter married to Henry Curwen of Workington, Esq., who represented the county of Cumberland for many years in Parliament, and by her had a daughter, married to Christian, Esq. (now Curwen). John, son and heir of William Gale, married Sarah, daughter and heiress of Christopher Wilson of Bardsea Hall, in the county of Lancaster, by Margaret, aunt and coheiress of Thomas Braddyl, Esq., of Braddyl, and Conishead Priory, in the same county, and had issue four sons and two daughters. 1st, William Wilson, died an infant; 2nd, Wilson, who upon the death of his cousin, Thomas Braddyl, without issue, succeeded to his estates, and took the name of Braddyl, in pursuance of his will, by the King's sign-manual; 3rd, William, died young; and, 4th, Henry Richmond, a lieutenantgeneral of the army, married Sarah, daughter of the Rev. R. Baldwin; Margaret married Richard Greaves Townley, Esq., of Fulbourne, in the county of Cambridge, and of Bellfield, in the county of Lancaster; Sarah married to George Bigland of Bigland Hall, in the same county. Wilson Braddyl, eldest son of John Gale, and grandson of Margaret Richmond, married Jane, daughter and heiress of Matthias Gale, Esq., of Catgill Hall, in the county of Cumberland, by Jane, daughter and heiress of the Rev. S. Bennet, D.D.; and, as the eldest surviving male branch of the families above mentioned, he quarters, in addition to his own, their paternal coats in the following order, as appears by the records in the College of Arms. 1st, Argent, a fess azure, between 3 saltiers of the same, charged with an anchor between 2 lions' heads erased, or,-Gale. ad, Or, 2 bars gemelles gules, and a chief or,Richmond. 3d, Or, a fess chequey, or and gules between 9 gerbes gules,-Vanx of Caterlen. 4th, Gules, a fess chequey, or and gules between 6 gerbes or,-Vaux of Torcrossock. 5th, Argent, (not vert, as stated by Burn,) a bend chequey, or and gules, for Vaux of Triermain. 6th, Gules, a cross patonce, or,-Delamore. 7th, Gules, 6 lions rampant argent, 3. 2, and 1, Leybourne.--This more detailed genealogy of the family of Triermain was obligingly sent to the author by Major Braddyll of Conishead Priory.

INTRODUCTION.

I COULD hardly have chosen a subject more popular in Scotland, than any thing connected with the Bruce's history, unless I had attempted that of Wallace. But I am decidedly of opinion that a popular, or what is called taking title, though well qualified to ensure the publishers against loss, and clear their shelves of the original impression, is rather apt to be hazardous than otherwise to the reputation of the author. He who attempts a subject of distinguished popularity, has not the privilege of awakening the enthusiasm of his audience; on the contrary, it is already awakened, and glows, it may be, more ardently than that of the author himself. In this case, the warmth of the author is inferior to that of the party whom he addresses, who has, therefore, little chance of being, in Bayes's phrase, "elevated and surprised" by what he has thought of with more enthusiasm than the writer. The sense of this risk, joined to the consciousness of striving against wind and tide, made the task of composing the proposed Poem somewhat heavy and hopeless; but, like the prizefighter in "As You Like It," I was to wrestle for my reputation, and not neglect any advantage. In a most agreeable pleasure-voyage, which I have tried to commemorate in the Introduction to the new edition of "The Pirate," I visited, in social and friendly company, the coasts and islands of Scotland, and made myself acquainted with the localities of which I meant to treat. But this voyage, which was in every other effect so delightful, was in its conclusion saddened by one of those strokes of fate which so often mingle themselves with our pleasures. The accomplished and excellent person who had recommended to me the subject for "The Lay of the Last Minstrel," and to whom I proposed to inscribe what I already suspected might be the close of my poetical labours, was unexpectedly removed from the world, which she seemed only to have visited for purposes of kindness and benevolence. It is needless to say how the Author's feelings, or the composition of his trifling work, were affected by a circumstance which occasioned so many tears and so much sorrow. True it is, that "The Lord of the Isles "was concluded, unwillingly and in haste, under the painful feeling of one who has a task which must be finished, rather than with the ardour of one who endeavours to perform that task well. Although the Poem cannot be said to have made a favourable impression on the public,

the sale of fifteen thousand copies enabled the Author to retreat from the field with the honours of war.

In the meantime, what was necessarily to be considered as a failure, was much reconciled to my feelings by the success attending my attempt in another species of composition. 'Waverley" had, under strict incognito, taken its flight from the press, just before I set out upon the voyage already mentioned; it had now made its way to popularity, and the success of that work and the volumes which followed, was sufficient to have satisfied a greater appetite for applause than I have at any time possessed.

I may as well add in this place, that, being much urged by my intimate friend, now unhappily no more, William Erskine, (a Scottish judge, by the title of Lord Kinedder,) I agreed to write the little romantic tale called "The Bridal of Triermain;" but it was on the condition, that he should make no serious effort to disown the composition, if report should lay it at his door. As he was more than suspected of a taste for poetry, and as I took care, in several places, to mix something which might resemble (as far as was in my power) my friend's feeling and manner, the train easily caught, and two large editions were sold. A third being called for, Lord Kinedder became unwilling to aid any longer a deception which was going farther than he expected or desired, and the real Author's name was given. Upon another occasion, I sent up another of these trifles, which, like schoolboy's kites, served to show how the wind of popular taste was setting. The manner was supposed to be that of a rude minstrel, or Scald, in opposition to "The Bridal of Triermain," which was designed to belong rather to the Italian school. This new fugitive piece was called "Harold the Dauntless;" and I am still astonished at my having committed the gross error of selecting the very name which Lord Byron had made so famous. It encountered rather an odd fate. My ingenious friend, Mr. James Hogg, had published, about the same time, a work called "The Poetic Mirror," containing imitations of the principal living poets. There was in it a very good imitation of my own style, which bore such a resemblance to "Harold the Dauntless," that there was no discovering the original from the imitation; and I believe that many who took the trouble of thinking upon the subject, were rather of opinion that my ingenious friend was the true, and not the fictitious, Simon Pure. Since this period,

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, a correct edition of whose Metrical History of Robert Bruce will soon, I trust, appear, under the care of my learned friend,

the Rev. Dr. Jamieson.

ABBOTSFORD, 10th December, 1814.

And few as leaves that tremble, scar 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; "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.

"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,
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, Ilay, and Argyle,
Each minstrel's tributary lay
Paid homage to the festal day.
Dull and dishonour'd were the bard,
Deaf to the hope of minstrel fame,
Worthless of guerdon and regard,
Who on that morn's resistless call
Or lady's smiles, his noblest aim,
Were silent in Artornish hall.

II.

"Wake, Maid of Lorn!" 'twas thus they sung, And yet more proud the descant rung,

1 See Note A.

"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 cagle proud
Will poise him on Ben-Cailliach's cloud;
Then let not Maiden's car 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," 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."
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,
But tamed the minstrel's pride had been
That had her cold demeanour scen;
For not upon her cheek awoke

The glow of pride when Flattery spoke,

1 The seal displays a taste for music, which could scarcely be expected from his habits and local predilec tions. 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 au infinite slaughter of seala takes place there,

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'd
Its waves of crimson blent with gold.

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--)
Grey 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;

She mark'd her child receive their care,
Cold as the image sculptured fair,
(Form of some sainted patroness,)
Which cloister'd maids combine to dress:
She mark'd-and knew her nursling's heart
In the vain pomp took little part.
Wistful a while she gazed-then press'd
The maiden to her anxious breast
In finish'd loveliness-and led
To where a turret's airy head,
Slender and steep, and battled round,
O'erlook'd, dark Mull! thy mighty Sound,'

1 The Sound of Mull, which divides that island from the continent of Scotland, is one of the most striking scenes which the Hebrides afford to the traveller. Sailing from Oban to Aros, or Tobermory, through a narrow channel, yet deep enough to bear vessels of the largest burden, he has on his left the bold and mountainous shores of Mull; on the right those of that district of Argyleshire called Morven, or Morvern, successively indented by deep salt-water lochs, running up many miles inland. To the south-eastward arise a prodigious range of mountains, among which Cruachan Ben is pre-eminent. And to the north-east is the no less huge and picturesque range of the Ardnamurchan hills. Many ruinous castles, situated generally upon cliffs overhanging the ocean, add interest