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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 "The Bruce and Wallace." 2 vols. 4to.

2"Here is another genuine lay of the great Minstrel, with all his characteristic faults, beauties, and irregularities. The same glow of coloring-the same energy of narration-the same amplitude of description, are conspicuous here, which distinguish all his other productions: with the same still more characteristic disdain of puny graces and small originalitiesthe true poetical hardihood, in the strength of which he urges on his Pegasus fearlessly through dense and rare, and aiming gallantly at the great ends of truth and effect, stoops but rarely to study the means by which they are to be attained-avails himself, without scruple, of common sentiments and common images wherever they seem fitted for his purposes-and is original by the very boldness of his borrowing, and impressive by his disregard of epigram and emphasis.

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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

presume, to match that of 'The Lady of the Lake;' but there is no analogy in the stories-nor does the title, on this occasion, correspond very exactly with the contents. It is no unusual misfortune, indeed, for the author of a modern Epic to have his hero turn out but a secondary personage, in the gradual unfolding of the story, while some unruly underling runs off with the whole glory and interest of the poem. But here the author, we conceive, must have been aware of the misnomer from the beginning; the true, and indeed the ostensible hero being, from the very first, no less a person than King Robert Bruce."-Edinburgh Review, No. xlviii. 1815.

"If it be possible for a poet to bestow upon his writings a superfluous degree of care and correction, it may also be possible, we should suppose, to bestow too little. Whether this be the case in the poem before us, is a point upon which Mr. Scott can possibly form a much more competent judgment than ourselves; we can only say, that without possessing greater beauties 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 labor and meditation which we cannot help saying it is scarcely decorous to withhold."—Quarterly Review, No. xxvi. July, 1815.

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When wild November hath his bugle wound;
Nor mock my toil-a lonely gleaner I,
Through fields time-wasted, on sad inquest
bound,

Where happier bards of yore have richer harvest found.

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 Skye1 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,"
And the dark seas, thy towers that lave,
Heaved on the beach a softer wave,
As 'mid the tuneful choir to keep
The diapason of the Deep.

Lull'd were the winds on Inninmore,
And green Loch-Alline's woodland shore,
As if wild woods and waves had pleasure
In listing to the lovely measure.
And ne'er to symphony more sweet
Gave mountain echoes" answer meet,
Since, met from mainland and from isle,
Ross, Arran, Пlay, and Argyle,
Each minstrel's tributary lay
Paid homage to the festal day.
Dull and dishonor'd were the bard,
Worthless of guerdon and regard,
Deaf to the hope of minstrel fame,
Or lady's smiles, his noblest aim,
Who on that morn's resistless call
Were silent in Artornish hall.

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But owns the power of minstrelsy.
In Lettermore the timid deer

Will pause, the harp's wild chime to hear;

Rude Heiskar's seal through surges dark
Will long pursue the minstrel's bark;'
To list his notes, the eagle proud
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,
Wakes Nature's charms to vie with thine!
She bids the mottled thrush rejoice
To mate thy melody of voice;
The dew that on the violet lies
Mocks the dark lustre of thine eyes;
But, Edith, wake, and all we see
Of sweet and fair shall yield to thee !"-
"She comes not yet," gray Ferrand cried;
"Brethren, let softer spell be tried,
Those notes prolong'd, that soothing theme,
Which best may mix with Beauty's dream,
And whisper, with their silvery tone,
The hope she loves, yet fears to own."
He spoke, and on the harp-strings died
The strains of flattery and of pride;
More soft, more low, more tender fell
The lay of love he bade them tell.

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 gayly 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."

1 See Appendix, Note B.

2MS.-"Retired amid her menial train, Edith of Lorn received the strain."

V.

Retired her maiden train among,
Edith of Lorn received the song,

But tamed the minstrel's pride had been
That had her cold demeanor seen;
For not upon her cheek awoke

The glow of pride when Flattery spoke,
Nor could their tenderest numbers bring
One sigh responsive to the string.
As vainly had her maidens vied
In skill to deck the princely bride.
Her locks, in dark-brown length array'd,
Cathleen of Ulne, 'twas thine to braid;
Young Eva with meet reverence drew
On the light foot the silken shoe,
While on the ankle's slender round
Those strings of pearl fair Bertha wound,
That, bleach'd Lochryan's depths within,
Seem'd dusky still on Edith's skin.
But Einion, of experience old,
Had weightiest task-the mantle's fold
In many an artful plait she tied,
To show the form it seem'd to hide,
Till on the floor descending roll'd'
Its waves of crimson blent with gold.

VI.

O! lives there now so cold a maid,
Who thus in beauty's pomp array'd,
In beauty's proudest pitch of power,
And conquest won-the bridal hour-
With every charm that wins the heart,
By Nature given, enhanced by Art,
Could yet the fair reflection view,
In the bright mirror pictured true,
And not one dimple on her cheek
A tell-tale consciousness bespeak ?—
Lives still such maid?-Fair damsels, say,
For further vouches not my lay,

Save that such lived in Britain's isle,
When Lorn's bright Edith scorn'd to smile.

VII.

But Morag, to whose fostering care
Proud Lorn had given his daughter fair,
Morag, who saw a mother's aid
By all a daughter's love repaid,
(Strict was that bond-most kind of all—
Inviolate in Highland hall)-
Gray Morag sate a space apart,
In Edith's eyes to read her heart.
In vain the attendants' fond appeal
To Morag's skill, to Morag's zeal;

SMS.-"The train upon the pavement flow'd.'
Then to the floor descending

MS.-"But Morag, who the maid had press'd,
An infant, to her fostering breast,
And seen a mother's early aid," &c.

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"Daughter," she said, "these seas behold,
Round twice a hundred islands roll'd,
From Hirt, that hears their northern roar,
To the green Ilay's fertile shore;2
Or mainland turn, where many a tower
Owns thy bold brother's feudal power,3
Each on its own dark cape reclined,
And listening to its own wild wind,
From where Mingarry, sternly placed,
O'erawes the woodland and the waste,*
To where Dunstaffnage hears the raging
Of Connal with his rocks engaging.
Think'st thou, amid this ample round,
A single brow but thine has frown'd,
To sadden this auspicious morn,
That bids the daughter of high Lorn
Impledge her spousal faith to wed
The heir of mighty Somerled !5
Ronald, from many a hero sprung,
The fair, the valiant, and the young,
LORD OF THE ISLES, whose lofty name
A thousand bards have given to fame,
The mate of monarchs, and allied
On equal terms with England's pride.
From chieftain's tower to bondsman's cot,
Who hears the tale,' and triumphs not?
The damsel dons her best attire,
The shepherd lights his beltane fire,
Joy, joy! each warder's horn hath sung,
Joy, joy! each matin bell hath rung
The holy priest says grateful mass,
Loud shouts each hardy galla-glass,
No mountain den holds outcast boor,
Of heart so dull, of soul so poor,
But he hath flung his task aside,
And claim'd this morn for holy-tide;

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Yet, empress of this joyful day, Edith is sad while all are gay."

IX.

Proud Edith's soul came to her eye,
Resentment check'd the struggling sigh.
Her hurrying hand indignant dried
The burning tears of injured pride-

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'Morag, forbear! or lend thy praise
To swell yon hireling harpers' lays;
Make to yon maids thy boast of power,
That they may waste a wondering hour,
Telling of banners proudly borne,
Of pealing bell and bugle-horn,
Or, theme more dear, of robes of price,
Crownlets and gauds of rare device.
But thou, experienced as thou art,
Think'st thou with these to cheat the heart,
That, bound in strong affection's chain,
Looks for return, and looks in vain ?
No! sum thine Edith's wretched lot
In these brief words-He loves her not!

X.

"Debate it not too long I strove
To call his cold observance love,
All blinded by the league that styled
Edith of Lorn,-while yet a child,
She tripp'd the heath by Morag's side,—
The brave Lord Ronald's destined bride.
Ere yet I saw him, while afar

His broadsword blazed in Scotland's war,
Train'd to believe our fates the same,
My bosom throbb'd when Ronald's name
Came gracing Fame's heroic tale,
Like perfume on the summer gale.
What pilgrim sought our halls, nor told
Of Ronald's deeds in battle bold;
Who touch'd the harp to heroes' praise,
But his achievements swell'd the lays?
Even Morag-not a tale of fame

Was hers but closed with Ronald's name.
He came and all that had been told
Of his high worth seem'd poor and cold,
Tame, lifeless, void of energy,

Unjust to Ronald and to me!

XI.

"Since then, what thought had Edith's heart
And gave not plighted love its part!—
And what requital? cold delay-
Excuse that shunn'd the spousal day.—
It dawns, and Ronald is not here!-

7 MS.-"The news."

8 MS.-"When, from that hour, had Edith's heart A thought, and Ronald iack'd his part! And what her guerdon?"

Hunts he Bentalla's nimble deer,'
Or loiters he in secret dell

To bid some lighter love farewell,

And swear, that though he may not scorn
A daughter of the House of Lorn,2
Yet, when these formal rites are o'er,
Again they meet, to part no more!"

XII.

-"Hush, daughter, hush! thy doubts remove,
More nobly think of Ronald's love.
Look, where beneath the castle gray
His fleet unmoor from Aros bay!
See'st not each galley's topmast bend,
As on the yards the sails ascend?
Hiding the dark-blue land, they rise
Like the white clouds on April skies;
The shouting vassals man the oars,
Behind them sink Mull's mountain shores,
Onward their merry course they keep,
Through whistling breeze and foaming
deep.

And mark the headmost, seaward cast,
Stoop to the freshening gale her mast,
As if she veil'd its banner'd pride,
To greet afar her prince's bride!
Thy Ronald comes, and while in speed
His galley mates the flying steed,
He chides her sloth!"-Fair Edith sigh'd,
Blush'd, sadly smiled, and thus replied:-

XIII.

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"Sweet thought, but vain!-No, Morag! mark,

Type of his course, yon lonely bark,
That oft hath shifted helm and sail,
To win its way against the gale.
Since peep of morn, my vacant eyes
Have view'd by fits the course she tries;
Now, though the darkening scud comes on,
And dawn's fair promises be gone,
And though the weary crew may see
Our sheltering haven on their lee,
Still closer to the rising wind
They strive her shivering sail to bind,
Still nearer to the shelves' dread verge
At every tack her course they urge,
As if they fear'd Artornish more
Than adverse winds and breakers' roar."

XIV.

Sooth spoke the maid.-Amid the tide The skiff she mark'd lay tossing sore,

1 MS.-" And on its dawn the bridegroom lags ;Hunts he Bentalla's nimble stags ?''

See Appendix, Note H.

MS.-"Since dawn of morn, with vacant eyes

And shifted oft her stooping side,
In weary tack from shore to shore.
Yet on her destined course no more
She gain'd, of forward way,
Than what a minstrel may compare
To the poor meed which peasants share,
Who toil the livelong day;

And such the risk her pilot braves,

That oft, before she wore,

Her boltsprit kiss'd the broken waves,
Where in white foam the ocean raves

Upon the shelving shore.
Yet, to their destined purpose true,
Undaunted toil'd her hardy crew,

Nor look'd where shelter lay,
Nor for Artornish Castle drew,
Nor steer'd for Aros bay.

XV.

Thus while they strove with wind and

seas,

Borne onward by the willing breeze,

Lord Ronald's fleet swept by, Streamer'd with silk, and trick'd with gold, Mann'd with the noble and the bold

Of Island chivalry.

Around their prows the ocean roars,
And chafes beneath their thousand oars,
Yet bears them on their way:

So chafes the war-horse in his might,
That fieldward bears some valiant knight,
Champs, till both bit and boss are white,

But, foaming, must obey.

On each gay deck they might behold
Lances of steel and crests of gold,
And hauberks with their burnish'd fold,
That shimmer'd fair and free;
And each proud galley, as she pass'd,
To the wild cadence of the blast
Gave wilder minstrelsy.
Full many a shrill triumphant note
Saline and Scallastle bade float

Their misty shores around;
And Morven's echoes answer'd well,
And Duart heard the distant swell
Come down the darksome Sound.

XVI.

So bore they on with mirth and pride,
And if that laboring bark they spied,
'Twas with such idle eye

As nobles cast on lowly boor,
When, toiling in his task obscure,

Young Eva view'd the course she tries."

4 MS."the breakers' verge."

6 MS.-"So fumes," &c.

MS.-"That bears to fight some gallant knight."

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