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 lonely isle.

"High place to thee in royal court,
High place in battle line,

Good hawk and hound for silvan 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 and friendship's smile
Be memory of the lonely isle.

I happened to be a witness of the dishonour done to the muse, at the house of one of the chiefs, where two of these bards were set at a good distance, at the lower end of a long table, with a parcel of Highlanders of no extraordinary appearance, over a cup of ale. Poor inspiration! They were not asked to drink a glass of wine at our table, though the whole company consisted only of the great man, one of his near relations, and myself. After some little time, the chief ordered one of them to sing me a Highland song. The bard readily obeyed, and with a hoarse voice, and in a tune of few various notes, began, as I was told, one of his own lyricks: and when he had proceeded to the fourth or fifth stanza, I perceived, by the names of several persons, glens, and mountains, which I had known or heard of before, that it was an account of some clan battle. But in his going on, the chief (who piques himself upon his school-learning) at some particular passage, bid him cease, and cried out, "There's nothing like that in Virgil or Homer." I bowed and told him I believed so. This you may believe was very edifying and delightful.—Letters, ii. 167.

1 MS.-At tourneys where the brave resort.

III.

Song continued.

"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 soothes 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."

IV.

As died the sounds upon the tide,

The shallop reach'd the mainland 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,

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.

V.

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

You 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!

VI..

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 the 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 round the hill;
But when his stately form was hid,
The guardian in her bosom chid-
"Thy Malcolm! vain and selfish maid!”
'Twas 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,
Another step than thine to spy.1
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!"2

1 MS. The loveliest Lowland fair to spy.

2 The ancient and powerful family of Graham (which, for metrical reasons, is here spelt after the Scottish pronunciation) held extensive possessions in the counties of Dumbarton and Stirling. Few families can boast of more historical renown, having claim to three of the most remarkable characters in the Scottish annals. Sir John the Græme, the faithful and undaunted