The Lord of the Isles. ADVERTISEMENT TO THE FIRST EDITION. 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. 1 The work alluded to appeared in 1820, under the title of presume, to match that of The Lady of the Lake;' but there "The Bruce and Wallace." 2 vols. 4to. is no analogy in the stories-nor does the title, on this occa2 "Here is another genuine lay of the great Minstrel, with sion, correspond very exactly with the contents. It is no unall his characteristic faults, beauties, and irregularities. The usual misfortune, indeed, for the author of a modern Epic to same glow of colouring-the same energy of narration-the have his hero turn out but a secondary personage, in the grasame amplitude of description, are conspicuous here, which dual unfolding of the story, while some unruly underling runs distinguish all his other productions: with the same still more off with the whole glory and interest of the poem. But here characteristic disdain of puny graces and small originalities- the author, we conceive, must have been aware of the misthe true poetical hardihood, in the strength of which he urges nomer from the beginning; the true, and indeed the ostenon his Pegasus fearlessly through dense and rare, and aiming sible hero being, from the very first, no less a person than gallantly at the great ends of truth and effect, stoops but King Robert Bruce."—Edinburgh Review, No. xlviii. 1815 rarely to study the means by which they are to be attained- "If it be possible for a poet to bestow upon his writings a avails himself, without scruple. of common sentiments and superfluous degree of care and correction, it may also be poscommon images wherever they seem fitted for his purposes-sible, we should suppose, to bestow too little. Whether this and is original by the very boldness of his borrowing, and im- be the case in the poem before us, is a point upon which Mr. pressive by his disregard of epigram and emphasis. "Though bearing all these marks of the master's hand, the work before us does not come up, in interest, to the Lady of the Lake, or even to Marmion. There is less connected story; and, what there is, is less skilfully complicated and disentangled, and less diversified with change of scene, or variety of character. In the scantiness of the narrative, and the broken and discontinuous order of the events, as well as the inartificial insertion of detached descriptions and morsels of ethical reflection, it bears more resemblance to the earliest of the author's greater productions; and suggests a comparison, perhaps not altogether to his advantage, with the structure and execution of the Lay of the Last Minstrel :-for though there is probably more force and substance in the latter parts of the present work, it is certainly inferior to that enchanting performance in delicacy and sweetness, and even-is it to be wondered at, after four such publications?-in originality. "The title of The Lord of the Isles,' has been adopted, we Scott can possibly form a much more competent judgment than ourselves; we can only say, that without possessing greater beautics than its predecessors, it has certain violations of propriety, both in the language and in the composition of the story, of which the former efforts of his muse afforded neither so many nor such striking examples. "We have not now any quarrel with Mr. Scott on account of the measure which he has chosen; still less on account of his subjects: we believe that they are both of them not only pleasing in themselves, but well adapted to each other, and to the bent of his peculiar genius. On the contrary, it is because we admire his genius, and are partial to the subjects which he delights in, that we so much regret he should leave room for any difference of opinion respecting them, merely from not bestowing upon his publications that common degree of labour and meditation which we cannot help saying it is scarcely decorous to withhold."—Quarterly Review, No. xxvi. July, 1815. The Lord of the Esles. CANTO FIRST. AUTUMN departs-but still his mantle's fold The deep-toned cushat, and the redbreast shrill; Autumn departs-from Gala's fields no more Come rural sounds our kindred banks to cheer; Blent with the stream, and gale that wafts it o'er, No more the distant reaper's mirth we hear. The last blithe shout hath died upon our ear, And harvest-home hath hush'd the clanging wain, On the waste hill no forms of life appear, Save where, sad laggard of the autumnal train, Some age-struck wanderer gleans few ears of scatter'd grain. Deem'st thou these sadden'd scenes have pleasure still, Lovest thou through Autumn's fading realms to stray, To see the heath-flower wither'd on the hill, To note the red leaf shivering on the spray, To mark the last bright tints the mountain stain, On the waste fields to trace the gleaner's way, And moralize on mortal joy and pain? O! if such scenes thou lovest, scorn not the minstrel strain. No! do not scorn, although its hoarser note Scarce with the cushat's homely song can vie, Though faint its beauties as the tints remote That gleam through mist in autumn's evening sky, And few as leaves that tremble, sear and dry, When wild November hath his bugle wound; Nor mock my toil-a lonely gleaner 1,3 Through fields time-wasted, on sad inquest bound, Where happier bards of yore have richer harvest ' found. 1 John, fifteenth Lord Somerville, illustrious for his patriotic devotion to the science of agriculture, resided frequently in his beautiful villa called the Pavilion, situated on the Tweed over against Melrose, and was an intimate friend and almost daily companion of the poet, from whose windows at Abbotsford his lordship's plantations formed a prominent object. Lord S. died in 1819. The river Gala, famous in song, flows into the Tweed a few hundred yards below Abbotsford, but probably the word So shalt thou list, and haply not unmoved, To a wild tale of Albyn's warrior day; In distant lands, by the rough West reproved, Still live some relics of the ancient lay. For, when on Coolin's hills the lights decay, With such the Seer of Skye the eve beguiles; "Tis known amid the pathless wastes of Reay, In Harries known, and in Iona's piles, Where rest from mortal coil the Mighty of the Isles. I. "WAKE, Maid of Lorn!" the Minstrels sung. Thy rugged halls, Artornish! rung," Lull'd were the winds on Inninmore, II. "Wake, Maid of Lorn!" 'twas thus they sung, And yet more proud the descant rung, Will pause, the harp's wild chime to hear; Will poise him on Ben-Cailliach's cloud; Then let not Maiden's ear disdain The summons of the minstrel train, But, while our harps wild music make, Edith of Lorn, awake, awake! III. "O wake, while Dawn, with dewy shine, IV. "Wake, Maid of Lorn! the moments fly, Which yet that maiden-name allow; Wake, Maiden, wake! the hour is nigh, When Love shall claim a plighted vow. By Fear, thy bosom's fluttering guest, By Hope, that soon shall fears remove, We bid thee break the bonds of rest, And wake thee at the call of Love! "Wake, Edith, wake! in yonder bay Lies many a galley gaily mann'd, We hear the merry pibrochs play, We see the streamers' silken band. What Chieftain's praise these pibrochs swell, What crest is on these banners wove, The harp, the minstrel, dare not tellThe riddle must be read by Love." V. Retired her maiden train among, In skill to deck the princely bride. Her locks, in dark-brown length array'd, Had weightiest task-the mantle's fold VI. O! lives there now so cold a maid, VII. But Morag, to whose fostering care (Form of some sainted patroness,) Which cloister'd maids combine to dress; She mark'd-and knew her nursling's heart In the vain pomp took little part. In finish'd loveliness-and led Slender and steep, and battled round, 1 MS.-"Retired amid her menial train, Edith of Lorn received the strain." MS.-"The train upon the pavement Then to the floor descending flow'd." 3 MS. But Morag, who the maid had press'd, Where thwarting tides, with mingled roar, Part thy swarth hills from Morven's shore. VIII. "Daughter," she said, "these seas behold, Yet, empress of this joyful day, IX. 5 Proud Edith's soul came to her eye, Telling of banners proudly borne, X. "Debate it not too long I strove To call his cold observance love, His broadsword blazed in Scotland's war, Was hers but closed with Ronald's name. XI. "Since then, what thought had Edith's heart To bid some lighter love farewell, XII. -"Hush, daughter, hush! thy doubts remove, More nobly think of Ronald's love. |