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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 remained 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!



MY LUCY, when the maid is won,
The Minstrel's task, thou know'st, is done;
And to require of bard
That to the dregs his 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 blessed, 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 Saint John;

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

"Tis now a vain illusive show,

That melts whene'er the sunbeams 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 unclose.
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.



A Poem.


First published January 2, 1815.


THE Scene of this Poem lies, at first, in the Castle of Artornish, on the coast of Argyleshire; and, afterwards, in the Islands of Skye and Arran, and upon the coast of Ayrshire. Finally, it is laid near Stirling. The story opens in the spring of the year 1307, when 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.

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