XXXI.

SONG.

"Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,

Sleep the sleep that knows no breaking;
Dream of battled fields no more,

Days of danger, nights of waking.
In our isle's enchanted hall,

Hands unseen thy couch are strewing,

Fairy strains of music fall,

Every sense in slumber dewing.

Soldier, rest! thy warfare o’er,

Dream of fighting fields no more;

Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,
Morn of toil, nor night of waking.

wire, and the strings of the harps of sinews; which strings they strike either with their nayles, growing long, or else with an instrument appointed for that use. They take pleasure to decke their harps and clairschoes with silver and precious stones; the poor ones that cannot attayne hereunto, decke them with christall. They sing verses prettily compound, contayning (for the most part) prayses of valiant men. There is not almost any other argument, whereof their rhymes intreat. They speak the ancient French language altered a little.'* The harp and the clairschoes are now only heard in the Highlands in ancient song. At what period these instruments ceased to be used is not on record; and tradition is silent on this head. But, as Irish harpers occasionally visited the Highlands and Western Isles until lately, the harp might have been extant so late as the middle of the present century. Thus far we know, that from remote times down to

* Vide "Certayne Matters concerning the Realme of Scotland, etc., as they were Anno Domini 1597. Lond., 1603," 4to.

"No rude sound shall reach thine ear,1
Armor's clang, or war-steed champing,
Trump nor pibroch summon here

Mustering clan, or squadron tramping.
Yet the lark's shrill fife may come

At the daybreak from the fallow,
And the bittern sound his drum,

Booming from the sedgy shallow.
Ruder sounds shall none be near,
Guards nor warders challenge here,
Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing,
Shouting clans, or squadrons stamping."

the present, harpers were received as welcome guests, particu-
larly in the Highlands of Scotland; and so late as the latter
end of the sixteenth century, as appears by the above quota-
tion, the harp was in common use among the natives of the
Western Isles. How it happened that the noisy and unhar-
monious bagpipe banished the soft and expressive harp we
cannot say; but certain it is, that the bagpipe is now the only
instrument that obtains universally in the Highland districts."
-CAMPBELL'S Journey through North Britain.
1808, 4to, I. 175.

Lond.,

Mr. Gunn, of Edinburgh, has lately published a curious Essay upon the Harp and Harp Music of the Highlands of Scotland. That the instrument was once in common use there is most certain. Cleland numbers an acquaintance with it among the few accomplishments which his satire allows to the Highlanders:

"In nothing they're accounted sharp,
Except in bagpipe or in harp."

1 MS.: "Noon of hunger, night of waking.

No rude sound shall rouse thine ear."

XXXII.

She paused—then, blushing, led the lay 1
To grace
the stranger of the day.
Her mellow notes awhile prolong
The cadence of the flowing song,
Till to her lips in measured frame
The minstrel verse spontaneous came.

SONG CONTINUED.

"Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done,
While our slumbrous spells assail ye,2
Dream not, with the rising sun,
Bugles here shall sound reveillé.
Sleep! the deer is in his den;

Sleep! thy hounds are by thee lying;
Sleep! nor dream in yonder glen,
How thy gallant steed lay dying.
Huntsman, rest; thy chase is done;
Think not of the rising sun,
For at dawning to assail ye,
Here no bugles sound reveillé.”

XXXIII.

The hall was clear'd — the stranger's bed Was there of mountain heather spread,

1 MS.: "She paused—but waked again the lay." 2 MS.: Slumber sweet our spells shall deal ye,

avail ye,

Let our slumbrous spells { beguile ye."

Where oft a hundred guests had lain,
And dream'd their forest sports again.1
But vainly did the heath-flower shed
Its moorland fragrance round his head;
Not Ellen's spell had lull'd to rest
The fever of his troubled breast.
In broken dreams the image rose
Of varied perils, pains, and woes:
His steed now flounders in the brake,
Now sinks his barge upon the lake;
Now leader of a broken host,

His standard falls, his honor's lost.

Then, from my couch may heavenly might

Chase that worst phantom of the night!—

Again return'd the scenes of youth,
Of confident undoubting truth;

Again his soul he interchanged

With friends whose hearts were long estranged. They come, in dim procession led,

The cold, the faithless, and the dead;

As warm each hand, each brow as gay,

As if they parted yesterday.

And doubt distracts him at the view, -
O were his senses false or true!
Dream'd he of death, or broken vow,
Or is it all a vision now! 2

1 MS.: "And dream'd their mountain chase again."

2 "Ye guardian spirits, to whom man is dear,

From these foul demons shield the midnight gloom: Angels of fancy and of love, be near.

And o'er the blank of sleep diffuse a bloom.

Evoke the sacred shades of Greece and Rome,

XXXIV.

At length, with Ellen in a grove

He seem'd to walk, and speak of love;
She listen'd with a blush and sigh,

His suit was warm, his hopes were high.
He sought her yielded hand to clasp,
And a cold gauntlet met his grasp:

The phantom's sex was changed and gone,
Upon its head a helmet shone;

Slowly enlarged to giant size,

With darkened cheek and threatening eyes,
The grisly visage, stern and hoar,

To Ellen still a likeness bore.

He woke, and, panting with afright,
Recall'd the vision of the night.1

And let them virtue with a look impart;
But chief, awhile, O! lend us from the tomb

Those long-lost friends for whom in love we smart,
And fill with pious awe and joy-mixt woe the heart.

"Or are you sportive ? — bid the morn of youth
Rise to new light, and beam afresh the days
Of innocence, simplicity and truth;

To cares estranged, and manhood's thorny ways.
What transport to retrace our boyish plays,

Our easy bliss, when each thing joy supplied;
The woods, the mountains, and the warbling maze

Of the wild brooks!"- Castle of Indolence, Canto I.

1 "Such a strange and romantic dream as may be naturally expected to flow from the extraordinary events of the past day. It might, perhaps, be quoted as one of Mr. Scott's most successful efforts in descriptive poetry. Some few lines of it are indeed unrivalled for delicacy and melancholy tenderness." · Critical Review.