Such silence, as the deadly still,
Ere bursts the thunder on the hill
With blade advanced, each Chieftain bold
Show'd like the Sworder's form of old,'
As wanting still the torch of life,

To wake the marble into strife.

XIX.

That awful pause the stranger maid,
And Edith, seized to pray for aid.
As to De Argentine she clung,
Away her veil the stranger flung,
And, lovely 'mid her wild despair,

Fast stream'd her eyes, wide flow'd her hair. "O thou, of knighthood once the flower,

Sure refuge in distressful hour,
Thou, who in Judah well hast fought
For our dear faith, and oft hast sought
Renown in knightly exercise,

When this poor hand has dealt the prize,
Say, can thy soul of honor brook
On the unequal strife to look,
When, butcher'd thus in peaceful hall,
Those once thy friends, my brethren, fall!”
To Argentine she turn'd her word,
But her eye sought the Island Lord.3
A flush like evening's setting flame
Glow'd on his cheek; his hardy frame,
As with a brief convulsion, shook:
With hurried voice and eager look,-
"Fear not," he said, "my Isabel!
What said I-Edith-all is well-
Nay, fear not-I will well provide
The safety of my lovely bride-

My bride "--but there the accents clung
In tremor to his faltering tongue.

XX.

Now rose De Argentine, to claim
The prisoners in his sovereign's name,
To England's crown, who, vassals sworn,
'Gainst their liege lord had weapon borne-
(Such speech, I ween, was but to hide
His care their safety to provide;
For knight more true in thought and deed
Than Argentine ne'er spurr'd a steed)—
And Ronald. who his meaning guess'd,
Seem'd half to sanction the request.
This purpose fiery Torquil broke :—
"Somewhat we've heard of England's yoke,"
He said, and, in our islands, Fame

Hath whisper'd of a lawful claim,
That calls the Bruce fair Scotland's Lord,
Though dispossess'd by foreign sword.
This craves reflection-but though right
And just the charge of England's Knight,
Let England's crown her rebels seize
Where she has power;-in towers like
these,

'Midst Scottish Chieftains summon'd here
To bridal mirth and bridal cheer,
Be sure, with no consent of mine,
Shall either Lorn or Argentine
With chains or violence, in our sight,
Oppress a brave and banish'd Knight."

XXI.

Then waked the wild debate again,
With brawling threat and clamor vain
Vassals and menials, thronging in,
Lent their brute rage to swell the din;
When, far and wide, a bugle-clang
From the dark ocean upward rang.
"The Abbot comes !" they cry at once,
"The holy man, whose favor'd glance
Hath sainted visions known;
Angels have met him on the way,
Beside the blessed martyrs' bay,

And by Columba's stone.

His monks have heard their hymnings high
Sound from the summit of Dun-Y,

To cheer his penance lone,
When at each cross, on girth and wold*
(Their number thrice a hundred fold),
His prayer he made, his beads he told,
With Aves many a one-
He comes our feuds to reconcile,
A sainted man from sainted isle;
We will his holy doom abide,
The Abbot shall our strife decide."

XXII.

Scarcely this fair accord was o'er,"
When through the wide revolving door
The black-stoled brethren wind;
Twelve sandall'd monks, who relics bore,
With many a torch-bearer before,
And many a cross behind.'
Then sunk each fierce uplifted hand,
And dagger bright and flashing brand
Dropp'd swiftly at the sight;
They vanish'd from the Churchman's eye,

6 MS.-"We will his holy rede obey,

The Abbot's voice shall end the fray."

• MS. Scarce was this peaceful paction o'er."
MS." Did slow procession wind;

Twelve monks, who stole and mantle wore,
And chalice, pyx, and relics bore,

With many," &c.

As shooting stars, that glance and die, Dart from the vault of night.

XXIII.

The Abbot on the threshold stood,
And in his hand the holy rood;

Back or his shoulders flow'd his hood,
The torch's glaring ray
Showd, in its red and flashing light,
His wither'd cheek and amice white,
His blue eye glistening cold and bright,
His tresses scant and gray.

"Fair Lords," he said, "Our Lady's love, And peace be with you from above,

And Benedicite!

-But what means this? no peace is here!-
Do dirks unsheathed suit bridal cheer?
Or are these naked brands

A seemly show for Churchman's sight,
When he comes summon'd to unite
Betrothed hearts and hands?"

XXIV.

Then, cloaking hate with fiery zeal,
Proud Lorn first answer'd the appeal;-
"Thou comest, O holy Man,
True sons of blessed church to greet,'
But little deeming here to meet

A wretch, beneath the ban
Of Pope and Church, for murder done
Even on the sacred altar-stone !-2
Well mayst thou wonder we should know
Such miscreant here, nor lay him low,
Or dream of greeting, peace, or truce,
With excommunicated Bruce!
Yet will I grant, to end debate,
Thy sainted voice decide his fate."

XXV.

Then Ronald pled the stranger's cause.
And knighthood's oath and honor's laws;
And Isabel, on bended knee,

Brought pray'rs and tears to back the plea:
And Edith lent her generous aid,

And wept, and Lorn for mercy pray'd."
"Hence," he exclaim'd, degenerate maid
Was't not enough to Roland's bower
I brought thee, like a paramour,'
Or bond-maid at her master's gate,
His careless cold approach to wait?—
But the bold Lord of Cumberland,
The gallant Clifford, seeks thy hand;
His it shall be--Nay, no reply!
Hence! till those rebel eyes be dry."
With grief the Abbot heard and saw,
Yet naught relax'd his brow of awe.

Their quarters flung to hawk and hound,
And hold we here a cold debate,
To yield more victims to their fate?
What! can the English Leopard's mood
Never be gorged with northern blood?
Was not the life of Athole shed,
To soothe the tyrant's sicken'd bed?'
And must his word, till dying day,
Be naught but quarter, hang, and slay!-
Thou frown'st, De Argentine,-My gage
Is prompt to prove the strife I wage."-

XXVII.

"Nor deem," said stout Dunvegan's knight,
"That thou shalt brave alone the fight!
By saints of isle and mainland both,
By Woden wild (my grandsire's oath),*
Let Rome and England do their worst,
Howe'er attainted or accursed,
If Bruce shall e'er find friends again,
Once more to brave a battle-plain,
If Douglas couch again his lance,
Or Randolph dare another chance,
Old Torquil will not be to lack
With twice a thousand at his back.--
Nay, chafe not at my bearing bold,
Good Abbot! for thou know'st of old,
Torquil's rude thought and stubborn will
Smack of the wild Norwegian still;
Nor will I barter Freedom's cause

For England's wealth, or Rome's applause."
XXVIII.

The Abbot seem'd with eye severe
The hardy Chieftain's speech to hear;
Then on King Robert turn'd the Monk,"
But twice his courage came and sunk,
Confronted with the hero's look;
Twice fell his eye, his accents shook;
At length, resolved in tone and brow,
Sternly he question'd him-" And thou,
Unhappy! what hast thou to plead,
Why I denounce not on thy deed
That awful doom which canons tell
Shuts paradise, and opens hell;
Anathema of power so dread,
It blends the living with the dead,
Bids each good angel soar away,
And every ill one claim his prey;
Expels thee from the church's care,
And deafens Heaven against thy prayer;

1 See Appendix, Note Y.

2 See Appendix, Note Z.

In the MS. this couplet is wanting, and, without breaking the stanza, Lord Roland continues,

"By saints of isle," &c.

4 The MacLeods, and most other distinguished Hebridean Families, were of Scandinavian extraction, and some were late

Arms every hand against thy life,
Bans all who aid thee in the strife,
Nay, each whose succor, cold and scant,"
With meanest alms relieves thy want;
Haunts thee while living,-and, when dead,
Dwells on thy yet devoted head,
Rends Honor's scutcheon from thy hearse,
Stills o'er thy bier the holy verse,

And spurns thy corpse from hallow'd ground,
Flung like vile carrion to the hound;
Such is the dire and desperate doom
For sacrilege, decreed by Rome;
And such the well-deserved meed
Of thine unhallow'd, ruthless deed."

XXIX.

"Abbot!" the Bruce replied, "thy charge
It boots not to dispute at large.
This much, howe'er, I bid thee know,
No selfish vengeance dealt the blow,
For Comyn died his country's foe.
Nor blame I friends whose ill-timed speed
Fulfill'd my soon-repented deed,

Nor censure those from whose stern tongre
The dire anathema has rung.

I only blame mine own wi'd ire,
By Scotland's wrongs incensed to fire.
Heaven knows my purpose to atone,
Far as I may, the evil done,
And hears a penitent's appeal
From papal curse and prelate's zeal.
My first and dearest task achieved,
Fair Scotland from her thrall relieved,
Shall many a priest in cope and stole
Say requiem for Red Comyn's soul,
While I the blessed cross advance,
And expiate this unhappy chance
In Palestine, with sword and lance.'
But, while content the Church should know
My conscience owns the debt I owe,
Unto De Argentine and Lorn
The name of traitor I return,
Bid them defiance stern and high,

And give them in their throats the lie!
These brief words spoke, I speak no more.
Do what thou wilt; my shrift is o'er."

XXX.

Like man by prodigy amazed, Upon the King the Abbot gazed; Then o'er his pallid features glance,

or imperfect converts to Christianity. The family names of

Torquil, Thormod, &c. are all Norwegian.

6 MS." Then turn'd him on the Bruce the Monk." MS.-"Nay, curses each whose succor scant."

7 See Appendix, Note 2 A.

8 The MS. adds:- For this ill-timed and luckless blow' MS. "bold and high."

Convulsions of ecstatic trance.

His breathing came more thick and fast,
And from his pale blue eyes were cast
Strange rays of wild and wandering light;
Uprise his locks of silver white,

Flush'd is his brow, through every vein
In azure tide the currents strain,
And undistinguish'd accents broke
The awful silence ere he spoke.'

XXXI.

"De Bruce! I rose with purpose dread To speak my curse upon thy head," And give thee as an outcast o'er

To him who burns to shed thy gore;-
But, like the Midianite of old,
Who stood on Zophim, heaven-controll'd,'
I feel within mine aged breast
A power that will not be repress'd.

It prompts my voice, it swells my veins,

It burns, it maddens, it constrains !—
De Bruce, thy sacrilegious blow
Hath at God's altar slain thy foe:
O'ermaster'd yet by high behest,

I bless thee, and thou shalt be bless'd !"
He spoke, and o'er the astonish'd throng
Was silence, awful, deep, and long.

XXXII.

Again that light has fired his eye,
Again his form swells bold and high,
The broken voice of age is gone,
'Tis vigorous manhood's lofty tone:---

1 MS.-"Swell on his wither'd brow the veins,
Each in its azure current strains,
And interrupted tears express'd
The tumult of his laboring breast."

2 See Appendix, Note 2 B.

* See the Book of NUMBERS, chap. xxiii. and xxiv. 4 See Appendix, Note 2 C.

5 Ibid. Note 2 D.

6" On this transcendent passage we shall only remark, that of the gloomy part of the prophecy we hear nothing more through the whole of the poem, and though the Abbot informs the King that he shall be On foreign shores a man exiled,' the poet never speaks of him but as resident in Scotland, up to the period of the battle of Bannockburn."-Critical Review.

7 The MS. has not this couplet.

"The conception and execution of these stanzas constitute excellence which it would be difficult to match from any other part of the poem. The surprise is grand and perfect. The monk, struck with the heroism of Robert, foregoes the intended anathema, and breaks out into a prophetic annunciation of his Anal triumph over all his enemies, and the veneration in which his name will be held by posterity. These stanzas, which conelude the second Canto, derive their chief title to encomium from the emphatic felicity of their burden,

'I bless thee, and thou shalt be bless'd;' which few and simple words following, as they do, a series

"Thrice vanquish'd on the battle-plain,
Thy followers slaughter'd, fled, or ta'en,
A hunted wanderer on the wild,
On foreign shores a man exiled,"
Disown'd, deserted, and distress'd,

I bless thee, and thou shalt be bless'd!
Bless'd in the hall and in the field,
Under the mantle as the shield.
Avenger of thy country's shame,
Restorer of her injured fame,
Bless'd in thy sceptre and thy sword,
De Bruce, fair Scotland's rightful Lord,
Bless'd in thy deeds and in thy fame,
What lengthen'd honors wait thy name!
In distant ages, sire to son

Shall tell thy tale of freedom won,
And teach his infants, in the use
Of earliest speech, to falter Bruce.
Go, then, triumphant! sweep along
Thy course, the theme of many a song!

The Power, whose dictates swell my breast,
Hath bless'd thee, and thou shalt be bless'd !—
Enough-my short-lived strength decays,
And sinks the momentary blaze.-
Heaven hath our destined purpose broke,
Not here must nuptial vow be spoke;'
Brethren, our errand here is o'er,
Our task discharged.-Unmoor, unmoor!"
His priests received the exhausted Monk,
As breathless in their arms he sunk.
Punctual his orders to obey,

The train refused all longer stay,
Embark'd, raised sail, and bore away.

of predicated ills, there is an energy that instantaneously ap peals to the heart, and surpasses, all to nothing, the results of passages less happy in their application, though more labored and tortuous in their construction.”—Critical Review.

"The story of the second Canto exhibits fewer of Mr. Scott's characteristical beauties than of his characteristical faults. The scene itself is not of a very edifying description; nor is the want of agreeableness in the subject compensated by any detached merit in the details. Of the language and versifica tion in many parts, it is hardly possible to speak favorably. The same must be said of the speeches which the different characters address to each other. The rude vehemence which they display seems to consist much more in the loudness and gesticulation with which the speakers express themselves thar in the force and energy of their sentiments, which, for the a part, are such as the barbarous chiefs, to whom they are at tributed, might, without any great premeditation, either as t the thought or language, have actually uttered. To frd n guage and sentiments proportioned to characters of such extraordinary dimensions as the agents in the poems of H and Milton, is indeed an admirable effort of genius; but tc make such as we meet with in the epic poetry of the present day, persons often below the middle size, and never very much above it, merely speak in character, is not likely to occasion either much difficulty to the poet, or much pleasure to the reader. As an example, we might adduce the speech of stou, Dunvegan's knight, stanza xxvii., which is not the less wanting in taste, because it is natural and characteristic."—Quarter Review.

The Lord of the Isles.

CANTO THIRD.

I.

HAST thou not mark'd, when o'er thy startled head

Sudden and deep the thunder-peal has roll'd, How, when its echoes fell, a silence dead Sunk on the wood, the meadow, and the wold? The rye-grass shakes not on the sod-built fold, The rustling aspen's leaves are mute and still,' The wall-flower waves not on the ruin'd hold, Till, murmuring distant first, then near and shrill, [groaning hill. The savage whirlwind wakes, and sweeps the

II.

Artornish such a silence sunk
Upon thy halls, when that gray Monk

His prophet-speech had spoke;
And his obedient brethren's sail
Was stretch'd to meet the southern gale

Before a whisper woke.

Then murmuring sounds of doubt and fear,
Close pour'd in many an anxious ear,

The solemn stillness broke;
And still they gazed with eager guess,
Where, in an oriel's deep recess,

The Island Prince seem'd bent to press
What Lorn, by his impatient cheer,

And gesture fierce, scarce deign'd to hear.

III.

Starting at length, with frowning look,
His hand he clench'd, his head he shook,
And sternly flung apart ;--

"And deem'st thou me so mean of mood,
As to forget the mortal feud,

And clasp the hand with blood imbrued2

From my dear Kinsman's heart?

Is this thy rede?-a due return
For ancient league and friendship sworn!
But well our mountain proverb shows
The faith of Islesmen ebbs and flows.
Be it even so-believe, ere long,

He that now bears shall wreak the wrong.

Call Edith-call the Maid of Lorn!
My sister, slaves!--for further scorn,
Be sure nor she nor I will stay.-
Away, De Argentine, away!-

1 MS. The rustling aspen bids his leaf be still." MS.-" And casp the bloody hand imbrued." MS." Nor brother we, nor ally know."

The MS. has.

"Such was fierce Lorn's cry."

We nor ally nor brother know,3
In Bruce's friend, or England's foe."

IV.

But who the Chieftain's rage can tell,
When, sought from lowest dungeon cell
To highest tower the castle round,
No Lady Edith was there found!
He shouted, "Falsehood!-treachery !—
Revenge and blood!—a lordly meed
To him that will avenge the deed!
A Baron's lands!"-His frantic mood
Was scarcely by the news withstood,
That Morag shared his sister's flight,
And that, in hurry of the night,
'Scaped noteless, and without remark,
Two strangers sought the Abbot's bark.-
"Man every galley!-fly-pursue!
The priest his treachery shall rue!
Ay, and the time shall quickly come,
When we shall hear the thanks that Rome
Will pay his feigned prophecy !"
Such was fierce Lorn's indignant cry !*
And Cormac Doil in haste obey'd,
Hoisted his sail, his anchor weigh'd
(For, glad of each pretext for spoil,
A pirate sworn was Cormac Doil).
But others, lingering, spoke apart,—
"The Maid has given her maiden heart
To Ronald of the Isles,

And, fearful lest her brother's word
Bestow her on that English Lord,

She seeks Iona's piles,

And wisely deems it best to dwell
A votaress in the holy cell,

Until these feuds so fierce and feil
The Abbot reconciles."

V.

As, impotent of ire, the hall
Echo'd to Lorn's impatient call,
"My horse, my mantle, and my train!
Let none who honors Lorn remain !"-
Courteous, but stern, a bold request
To Bruce De Argentine express'd.
"Lord Earl," he said,-" I cannot chuse
But yield such title to the Bruce,
Though name and earldom both are gone,
Since he braced rebel's armor on-

But, Earl or Serf-rude phrase was thine
Of late, and launch'd at Argentine;
Such as compels me to demand
Redress of honor at thy hand.