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AT morn the black-cock trims his jetty wing,
'Tis morning prompts the linnet's blithest lay;
All nature's children feel the matin spring
Of life reviving with reviving day;

And while yon little bark glides down the bay,
Wafting the stranger on his way again,

Morn's genial influence roused a minstrel grey,

And sweetly o'er the lake was heard thy strain, Mix'd with the sounding harp, O white-hair'd Allan-bane!


Not faster yonder rowers' might
Flings from their oars the spray,
Not faster yonder rippling bright,
That tracks the shallop's course in light,
Melts in the lake away,

Than men from memory erase
The benefits of former days;

Then, stranger, go, good speed the while,

Nor think again of the lone isle.

High place to thee in royal court,

High place in battled line,

Good hawk and hound for sylvan sport,
Where beauty sees the brave resort,
The honour'd meed be thine.

True be thy sword, thy friend sincere,
Thy lady constant, kind, and dear,
And lost in love's and friendship's smile,
Be memory of the lonely isle.



But if beneath yon southern sky
A plaided stranger roam,
Whose drooping crest and stifled sigh,
And sunken cheek and heavy eye,
Pine for his highland home;
Then, warrior, then be thine to show
The care that sooths a wanderer's woe;
Remember then thy hap ere while
A stranger in the lonely isle.

Or if on life's uncertain main
Mishap shall mar thy sail;

If faithful, wise, and brave in vain,
Woe, want, and exile thou sustain
Beneath the fickle gale;

Waste not a sigh on fortune changed,
On thankless courts, or friends estranged,
But come where kindred worth shall smile,
To greet thee in the lonely isle.


As died the sounds upon the tide,

The shallop reach'd the main-land side,

And ere his onward way he took,
The stranger cast a lingering look,
Where easily his eye might reach
The harper on the islet beach,
Reclined against a blighted tree,
As wasted, grey, and worn as he.
To minstrel meditation given,

His reverend brow was raised to heaven,
As from the rising sun to claim
A sparkle of inspiring flame;
His hand, reclined upon the wire,
Seem'd watching the awakening fire.
So still he sate, as those who wait
Till judgment speak the doom of fate;
So still, as if no breeze might dare
To lift one lock of hoary hair;
So still, as life itself were fled,
In the last sound his harp had sped.


Upon a rock with lichens wild,
Beside him Ellen sate and smiled.
Smiled she to see the stately drake
Lead forth his fleet upon the lake,
While her vex'd spaniel, from the beach,
Bay'd at the prize beyond his reach ?
Yet tell me then the maid who knows,
Why deepen'd on her cheek the rose?-
Forgive, forgive, Fidelity!

Perchance the maiden smiled to see
Yon parting lingerer wave adieu,
And stop and turn to wave anew;
And, lovely ladies, ere your ire
Condemn the heroine of my lyre,

Show me the fair would scorn to spy,
And prize such conquest of her eye!


While yet he loiter'd on the spot,
It seem'd as Ellen mark'd him not;
But when he turn'd him to the glade,
One courteous parting sign she made;
And after, oft that Knight would say,
That not when prize of festal day
Was dealt him by the brightest fair,
Who e'er wore jewel in her hair,
So highly did his bosom swell,
As at that simple mute farewell.
Now with a trusty mountain guide,
And his dark stag-hounds by his side,
He parts-the maid, unconscious still,
Watch'd him wind slowly down the hill;
But when his stately form was hid,
The guardian in her bosom chid-
"Thy Malcolm! vain and selfish maid !"
'T was thus upbraiding conscience said,
"Not so had Malcolm idly hung

On the smooth phrase of southern tongue :
Not so had Malcolm strain'd his eye
The step of parting fair to spy."---
"Wake, Allan-bane," aloud she cried,
To the old minstrel by her side,
"Arouse thee from thy moody dream!
I'll give thy harp heroic theme,
And warm thee with a noble name;
Pour forth the glory of the Græme."
Scarce from her lip the word had rush'd,
When deep the conscious maiden blush'd,

For of his clan, in hall and bower,

Young Malcolm Græme was held the flower.


The minstrel waked his harp--three times
Across the well-known martial chimes,
And thrice their high heroic pride
In melancholy murmurs died.

"Vainly thou bidst, O noble maid,"
Clasping his wither'd hands, he said,
Vainly thou bidst me wake the strain,
Though all unwont to bid in vain.
Alas! than mine a mightier hand

Has tuned my harp, my strings has spann'd;
I touch the chords of joy, but low

And mournful answer notes of woe;
And the proud march which victors tread,
Sinks in the wailing for the dead.-

O well for me, if mine alone

That dirge's deep prophetic tone!
If, as my tuneful fathers said,

This harp, which erst Saint Modan sway'd,

Can thus its master's fate foretell,

Then welcome be the minstrel's knell!


"But ah! dear lady, thus it sigh'd,

The eve thy sainted mother died;

And such the sounds which, while I strove

To wake a lay of war or love,

Came marring all the festal mirth,

Appalling me who gave them birth,

And, disobedient to my call,

Wail'd loud through Bothwell's banner'd hall,

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