And back'd with such a band of horse,
As might less ample powers enforce;
Possess'd of every proof and sign
That gave an heir to Mortham's line,
And yielded to a father's arms
An image of his Edith's charms,—
Mortham is come, to hear and see
Of this strange morn the history.
What saw he?-not the church's floor,
Cumber'd with dead and stain'd with gore ;
What heard he?-not the clamorous crowd,
That shout their gratulations loud:

Redmond he saw and heard alone,

Clasp'd him, and sobb'd, "My son! my son!"—

This chanced upon a summer morn,
When yellow waved the heavy corn:
But when brown August o'er the land
Call'd forth the reaper's busy band,
A gladsome sight the silvan road
From Eglistone to Mortham show'd.
A while the hardy rustic leaves
The task to bind and pile the sheaves,
And maids their sickles fling aside,
To gaze on bridegroom and on bride,
And childhood's wondering group draws near,
And from the gleaner's hands the ear
Drops, while she folds them for a prayer

And blessing on the lovely pair.

"Twas then the Maid of Rokeby gave

Her plighted troth to Redmond brave;
And Teesdale can remember yet
How Fate to Virtue paid her debt,
And, for their troubles, bade them prove
A lengthen'd life of peace and love.

Time and Tide had thus their sway,
Yielding, like an April day,
Smiling noon for sullen morrow,
Years of joy for hours of sorrow!

THE LORD OF THE ISLES

IN SIX CANTOS

1815

CANTO FIRST

AUTUMN departs-but still his mantle's fold
Rests on the groves of noble Somerville,1
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 silvan 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 sadden'd scenes have pleasure still, Lovest thou through Autumn's fading realms to stray,

1 Lord Somerville was one of Scott's neighbours at Abbotsford. His plantations on the opposite side of the Tweed were visible from the windows.

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 moralize 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,

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.

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,

1 The opening scene of the poem lies in the Castle of Artornish, the residence of the Lords of the Isles, on the mainland side of the Sound of Mull. The ruins are still visible on Ardtornish Point. The Maid of Lorn was in the castle of her bridegroom on the wedding-day, in accordance with an ancient Highland custom. See Canto ii. St. 25.

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,
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,
"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," 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 tellThe 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 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,