The eager Edward said; "Eternal as his own, my hate Surmounts the bounds of mortal fate,

And dies not with the dead!
Such hate was his on Solway's strand,
When vengeance clench'd his palsied hand,
That pointed yet to Scotland's land,'

As his last accents pray'd
Disgrace and curse upon his heir,
If he one Scottish head should spare,
Till stretch'd upon the bloody lair

Each rebel corpse was laid!
Such hate was his, when his last breath
Renounced the peaceful house of death,
And bade his bones to Scotland's coast
Be borne by his remorseless host,
As if his dead and stony eye
Could still enjoy her misery!
Such hate was his-dark, deadly, long;
Mine, as enduring, deep, and strong!"-

V.

"Let women, Edward, war with words,
With curses monks, but men with swords:
Nor doubt of living foes, to sate
Deepest revenge and deadliest hate.2
Now, to the sea! behold the beach,
And see the galleys' pendants stretch
Their fluttering length down favoring gale!
Aboard, aboard! and hoist the sail.
Hold we our way for Arran first,
Where meet in arms our friends dispersed ;
Lennox the loyal, De la Haye,
And Boyd the bold in battle fray.
I long the hardy band to head,

And see once more my standard spread.—
Does noble Ronald share our course,

Or stay to raise his island force ?"

2The Bruce was, unquestionably, of a temper never surpassed for its humanity, munificence, and nobleness; yet to represent him sorrowing over the death of the first Plantagenet, after the repeated and tremendous ills inflicted by that man on Scotland-the patriot Wallace murdered by his order, as well as the royal race of Wales, and the very brothers of The Bruce, slaughtered by his command-to represent the just and generous Robert, we repeat, feeling an instant's compassion for the sudden fate of a miscreant like this, is, we are

With Torquil's aid, a gallant fleet, If aught avails their Chieftain's hest Among the islesmen of the west."

VI.

Thus was their venturous council said.
But, ere their sails the galleys spread,
Coriskin dark and Coolin high
Echoed the dirge's doleful cry.
Along that sable lake pass'd slow,—
Fit scene for such a sight of woe,-
The sorrowing islesmen, as they bore
The murder'd Allan to the shore.
At every pause, with dismal shout,
Their coronach of grief rung out,
And ever, when they moved again,
The pipes resumed their clamorous strain,
And, with the pibroch's shrilling wail,
Mourn'd the young heir of Donagaile.
Round and around, from cliff and cave,
His answer stern old Coolin gave,
Till high upon his misty side
Languish'd the mournful notes, and died.
For never sounds, by mortal made,
Attain'd his high and haggard head,
That echoes but the tempest's moan,
Or the deep thunder's rending groan.

A summons these of war and wrath
To the brave clans of Sleat and Strath,
And, ready at the sight,

Each warrior to his weapons sprung,
And targe upon his shoulder flung,

Impatient for the fight.
Mac-Kinnon's chief, in warfare gray,
Had charge to muster their array,
And guide their barks to Brodick-Bay.
VIII.

Signal of Ronald's high command,
A beacon gleam'd o'er sea and land,
From Canna's tower, that, steep and gray,
Like falcon-nest o'erhangs the bay.1
Seek not the giddy crag to climb,
To view the turret scathed by time;
It is a task of doubt and fear
To aught but goat or mountain-deer.
But rest thee on the silver beach,
And let the aged herdsman teach
His tale of former day;

His cur's wild clamor he shall chide,
And for thy seat by ocean's side,

His varied plaid display;

Then tell, how with their Chieftain came,
In ancient times, a foreign dame

To yonder turret gray.'
Stern was her Lord's suspicious mind,
Who in so rude a jail confined

So soft and fair a thrall!
And oft, when moon on ocean slept,
That lovely lady sate and wept
Upon the castle-wall,

And turn'd her eye to southern climes,
And thought perchance of happier times,
And touch'd her lute by fits, and sung
Wild ditties in her native tongue.
And still, when on the cliff and bay
Placid and pale the moonbeams play,
And every breeze is mute,
Upon the lone Hebridean's ear
Steals a strange pleasure mix'd with fear,
While from that cliff he seems to hear
The murmur of a lute,

And sounds, as of a captive lone,

That mourns her woes in tongue unknown.—
Strange is the tale-but all too long
Already hath it staid the song-

Yet who may pass them by,
That crag and tower in ruins gray,'
Nor to their hapless tenant pay
The tribute of a sigh !

IX.

Merrily, merrily bounds the bark
O'er the broad ocean driven,
Her path by Ronin's mountains dark
The steersman's hand hath given.
And Ronin's mountains dark have sent
Their hunters to the shore,
And each his ashen bow unbent,

And gave his pastime o'er,
And at the Island Lord's command,
For hunting spear took warrior's brand.
On Scooreigg next a warning light
Summon'd her warriors to the fight;
A numerous race, ere stern MacLeod
O'er their bleak shores in vengeance strode,
When all in vain the ocean-cave

Its refuge to his victims gave.

The Chief, relentless in his wrath,
With blazing heath blockades the path;
In dense and stifling volumes roll'd,
The vapor fill'd the cavern'd hold!
The warrior-threat, the infant's plain,
The mother's screams, were heard in vain;
The vengeful Chief maintains his fires,
Till in the vault' a tribe expires!
The bones which strew that cavern's gloom,
Too well attest their dismal doom.

X.

Merrily, merrily goes the bark

On a breeze from the northward free, So shoots through the morning sky the lark, Or the swan through the summer sea. The shores of Mull on the eastward lay, And Ulva dark and Colonsay, And all the group of islets gay

That guard famed Staffa round." Then all unknown its columns rose,

We could almost be tempted to believe that he was on his return from Skye when he wrote this portion of his poem:--from Skye, the depository of the mighty cup of royal Somerled,' as well as of Rorie More's' comparatively modern ‘horn'— and that, as he says himself of a minstrel who celebrated the hospitalities of Dunvegan-castle in that island, it is pretty plain, that when this tribute of poetical praise was bestowed, the horn of Rorie More had not been inactive.' "'-Monthly Review. See Appendix, Note M.

"Of the prominent beauties which abound in the poem, the most magnificent we consider to be the description of the celebrated Cave of Fingal, which is conceived in a mighty mind, and is expressed in a strain of poetry, clear, simple, and sublime."-British Critic.

T

Where dark and undisturbed repose1
The cormorant had found,
And the shy seal had quiet home,
And welter'd in that wondrous dome,
Where, as to shame the temples deck'd
By skill of earthly architect,
Nature herself, it seem'd, would raise
A Minster to her Maker's praise !?
Not for a meaner use ascend
Her columns, or her arches bend;
Nor of a theme less solemn tells

That mighty surge that ebbs and swells,
And still, between each awful pause,
From the high vault an answer draws,
In varied tone prolong'd and high,
That mocks the organ's melody.
Nor doth its entrance front in vain
To old Iona's holy fane,

That Nature's voice might seem to say,
"Well hast thou done, frail Child of clay!
Thy humble powers that stately shrine
Task'd high and hard-but witness mine !"

XI.

Merrily, merrily goes the bark,

Before the gale she bounds;

So darts the dolphin from the shark,
Or the deer before the hounds.
They left Loch-Tua on their lee,

And they waken'd the men of the wild Tiree,

And the Chief of the sandy Coll;

They paused not at Columba's isle,
Though peal'd the bells from the holy pile

With long and measur'd toll ;*

No time for matin or for mass,
And the sounds of the holy summons pass
Away in the billows' roll.
Lochbuie's fierce and warlike Lord
Their signal saw, and grasp'd his sword,
And verdant Пlay call'd her host,
And the clans of Jura's rugged coast
Lord Ronald's call obey,

And Scarba's isle, whose tortured shore
Still rings to Corrievreken's roar,

And lonely Colonsay;

-Scenes sung by him who sings no more!

1 MS.-"Where niched, his undisturb'd repose." 2 See Appendix, Note 2 P.

3 The MS. adds,

"Which, when the ruins of thy pile

Cumber the desolated isle,

Firm and immutable shall stand,

'Gainst winds, and waves, and spoiler's hand."

4 "We were now treading that illustrious island, which was once the luminary of the Caledonian regions, whence savage clans and roving barbarians derived the benefits of knowledge, and the blessings of religion. To abstract the mind from all local emotion would be impossible, if it were endeavored, and

His bright and brief career is o'er, And mute his tuneful strains; Quench'd is his lamp of varied lore, That loved the light of song to pour; A distant and a deadly shore

Has LEYDEN's cold remains!

XII.

Ever the breeze blows merrily,
But the galley ploughs no more the sea.
Lest, rounding wild Cantyre, they meet
The southern foeman's watchful fleet,
They held unwonted way :-
Up Tarbat's western lake they bore,
Then dragg'd their bark the isthmus o'er,"
As far as Kilmaconnel's shore,

Upon the eastern bay.

It was a wondrous sight to see
Topmast and pennon glitter free,
High raised above the greenwood tree,
As on dry land the galley moves,
By cliff and copse and alder groves.
Deep import from that selcouth sign,
Did many a mountain Seer divine,
For ancient legends told the Gael,
That when a royal bark should sail
O'er Kilmaconnel moss,
Old Albyn should in fight prevail,
And every foe should faint and quail
Before her silver Cross.

XIII.

..

Now launch'd once more, the inland sea They furrow with fair augury,

And steer for Arran's isle; The sun, ere yet he sunk behind Ben-Ghoil," the Mountain of the Wind," Gave his grim peaks a greeting kind,

Legenf

And bade Loch Ranza smile." Thither their destined course they drew; It seem'd the isle her monarch knew, So brilliant was the landward view,

The ocean so serene; Each puny wave in diamonds roll'd O'er the calm deep, where hues of gold With azure strove and green.

would be foolish, if it were possible. Whatever withdraws us from the power of our senses; whatever makes the past, the distant, or the future predominate over the present, advances us in the dignity of thinking beings. Far from me and from my friends be such frigid philosophy, as may conduct us indif ferent and unmoved over any ground which has been dignified by wisdom, bravery, or virtue. That man is little to be envied, whose patriotism would not gain force upon the plain of Marathon, or whose piety would not grow warmer among the ruins of Iona."-JOHNSON.

See Appendix, Note 2 Q. MS. His short but bright," &c. 7 See Appendix, Note 2 R.

6 Ibid. Note 2 S.

The hill, the vale, the tree, the tower, Glow'd with the tints of evening's hour,

The beach was silver sheen, The wind breathed soft as lover's sigh, And, oft renew'd, seem'd oft to die,

With breathless pause between. O who, with speech of war and woes, Would wish to break the soft repose Of such enchanting scene!

XIV.

Is it of war Lord Ronald speaks!
The blush that dyes his manly cheeks,
The timid look and downcast eye,
And faltering voice the theme deny.
And good King Robert's brow express'd,
He ponder'd o'er some high request,
As doubtful to approve;
Yet in his eye and lip the while,
Dwelt the half-pitying glance and smile,
Which manhood's graver mood beguile,
When lovers talk of love.
Anxious his suit Lord Ronald pled;
-"And for my bride betrothed," he said,
"My liege has heard the rumor spread
Of Edith from Artornish fled.

Too hard her fate-I claim no right'
To blame her for her hasty flight;
Be joy and happiness her lot!—
But she hath fled the bridal-knot,
And Lorn recall'd his promised plight,
In the assembled chieftains' sight.—
When, to fulfil our fathers' band,
I proffer'd all I could-my hand-
I was repulsed with scorn;
Mine honor I should ill assert,
And worse the feelings of my heart,
If I should play a suitor's part
Again, to pleasure Lorn."-

XV.

แ 'Young Lord," the Royal Bruce' replied,
"That question must the Church decide:
Yet seems it hard, since rumors state
Edith takes Clifford for her mate,
The very tie, which she hath broke,
To thee should still be binding yoke.
But, for my sister Isabel-

The mood of woman who can tell?
I guess the Champion of the Rock,
Victorious in the tourney shock,
That knight unknown, to whom the prize
She dealt, had favor in her eyes;
But since our brother Nigel's fate,

Our ruin'd house and hapless state,
From worldly joy and hope estranged,
Much is the hapless mourner changed.
Perchance," here smiled the noble King,
"This tale may other musings bring.
Soon shall we know—yon mountains hide
The little convent of Saint Bride;
There, sent by Edward, she must stay,
Till fate shall give more prosperous day;
And thither will I bear thy suit,
Nor will thine advocate be mute."

XVI.

As thus they talk'd in earnest mood,
That speechless boy beside them stood.
He stoop'd his head against the mast,
And bitter sobs came thick and fast,
A grief that would not be repress'd,
But seem'd to burst his youthful breast.
His hands, against his forehead held,
As if by force his tears repell'd,
But through his fingers, long and slight,
Fast trill'd the drops of crystal bright.
Edward, who walk'd the deck apart,
First spied this conflict of the heart.
Thoughtless as brave, with bluntness kind
He sought to cheer the sorrower's mind;
By force the slender hand he drew

From those poor eyes that stream'd with dew.
As in his hold the stripling strove,-
('Twas a rough grasp, though meant in love),
Away his tears the warrior swept,
And bade shame on him that he wept.*
"I would to heaven, thy helpless tongue
Could tell me who hath wrought thee wrong!
For, were he of our crew the best,

The insult went not unredress'd.
Come, cheer thee; thou art now of age
To be a warrior's gallant page;
Thou shalt be mine!-a palfrey fair
O'er hill and holt my boy shall bear,
To hold my bow in hunting grove,
Or speed on errand to my love
For well I wot thou wilt not tell
The temple where my wishes dwell."

XVII.

Bruce interposed,-" Gay Edward, no,
This is no youth to hold thy bow,
To fill thy goblet, or to bear
Thy message light to lighter fair.
Thou art a patron all too wild
And thoughtless, for this orphan child.
See'st thou not how apart he steals,

3 MS. "Thither, by Edward sent, she stays
Till fate shall lend more prosperous days."

4 MS." And as away the tears he swept,
He bade shame on him that he wept."

Keeps lonely couch, and lonely meals?
Fitter by far in yon calm cell
To tend our sister Isabel,
With father Augustin to share

The peaceful change of convent prayer,
Than wander wild adventures through,
With such a reckless guide as you.”—
"Thanks, brother!" Edward answer'd gay,
"For the high laud thy words convey!
But we may learn some future day,
If thou or I can this poor boy
Protect the best, or best employ.
Meanwhile, our vessel nears the strand;
Launch we the boat, and seek the land."

XVIII.

To land King Robert lightly sprung,
And thrice aloud his bugle rung
With note prolong'd and varied strain,
Till bold Ben-Ghoil replied again.
Good Douglas then, and De la Haye,
Had in a glen a hart at bay,

And Lennox cheer'd the laggard hounds, When waked that horn the greenwood bounds.

"It is the foe!" cried Boyd, who came In breathless haste with eye of flame,"It is the foe !-Each valiant lord Fling by his bow, and grasp his sword!"— "Not so,” replied the good Lord James, "That blast no English bugle claims. Oft have I heard it fire the fight, Cheer the pursuit, or stop the flight. Dead were my heart, and deaf mine ear, If Bruce should call, nor Douglas hear! Each to Loch Ranza's margin spring; That blast was winded by the King!"1

XIX.

Fast to their mates the tidings spread,
And fast to shore the warriors sped.
Bursting from glen and greenwood tree,
High waked their loyal jubilee!
Around the royal Bruce they crowd,
And clasp'd his hands, and wept aloud.
Veterans of early fields were there,
Whose helmets press'd their hoary hair,
Whose swords and axes bore a stain
From life-blood of the red-hair'd Dane;"
And boys, whose hands scarce brook'd to
wield

1 See Appendix, Note 2 T.

2 MS.-"Impress'd by life-blood of the Dane." MS. "If not on Britain's warlike ground."

4 "Ours are the tears, though few, sincerely shed, When Ocean shrouds and sepulchres our dead. For us, even banquets fond regret supply

The heavy sword or bossy shield.
Men too were there, that bore the scars
Impress'd in Albyn's woeful wars,
At Falkirk's fierce and fatal fight,
Teyndrum's dread rout, and Methven's
flight;

The might of Douglas there was seen,
There Lennox with his graceful mien;
Kirkpatrick, Closeburn's dreaded Knight;
The Lindsay, fiery, fierce, and light;
The Heir of murder'd De la Haye,
And Boyd the grave, and Seton gay.
Around their King regain'd they press'd,
Wept, shouted, clasp'd him to their breast,
And young and old, and serf and lord,
And he who ne'er unsheathed a sword,
And he in many a peril tried,
Alike resolved the brunt to bide,
And live or die by Bruce's side!

XX.

Oh, War! thou hast thy fierce delight,
Thy gleams of joy, intensely bright!
Such gleams, as from thy polish'd shield
Fly dazzling o'er the battle-field!
Such transports wake, severe and high,
Amid the pealing conquest cry;
Scarce less, when, after battle lost,
Muster the remnants of a host,
And as each comrade's name they tell
Who in the well-fought conflict fell,
Knitting stern brow o'er flashing eye,
Vow to avenge them or to die!—
Warriors-and where are warriors found,
If not on martial Britain's ground?3
And who, when waked with note of fire,
Love more than they the British lyre?
Know ye not,-hearts to honor dear!
That joy, deep-thrilling, stern, severe,
At which the heart-strings vibrate high,
And wake the fountains of the eye?*
And blame ye, then, the Bruce, if trace
Of tear is on his manly face,
When, scanty relics of the train
That hail'd at Scone his early reign,
This patriot band around him hung,
And to his knees and bosom clung?—
Blame ye the Bruce?-his brother blamed,
But shared the weakness, while ashamed,
With haughty laugh his head he turn'd,
And dash'd away the tear he scorn'd."