CANTO SECOND. THE ISLAND. I. Ar morn the black-cock trims his jetty wing, And while yon little bark glides down the bay, Morn's genial influence roused a minstrel grey, And sweetly o'er the lake was heard thy strain, 5 Mix'd with the sounding harp, O white-hair'd Allan-Bane! II. 'Not faster yonder rowers' might Flings from their oars the spray, Not faster yonder rippling bright, That tracks the shallop's course in light, 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 battled line, Good hawk and hound for silvan sport, The honour'd meed be thine! True be thy sword, thy friend sincere, And lost in love's and friendship's smile Be memory of the lonely isle. III. Song continued. 'But if beneath yon southern sky A plaided stranger roam, Whose drooping crest and stifled sigh, Pine for his Highland home; Then, warrior, then be thine to show ΤΟ 15 5 The care that soothes a wanderer's woe; But come where kindred worth shall smile, IV. As died the sounds upon the tide, His reverend brow was raised to heaven, As from the rising sun to claim 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.- 5 IO 15 20 5 Forgive, forgive, Fidelity! Perchance the maiden smiled to see VI. While yet he loiter'd on the spot, On the smooth phrase of southern tongue; 10 15 5 ΙΟ 15 20 Wake, Allan-Bane,' aloud she cried, Young Malcolm Græme was held the flower. VII. The Minstrel waked his harp-three times And thrice their high heroic pride In melancholy murmurs died. 25 30 'Vainly thou bidst, O noble maid,' 5 Clasping his wither'd hands, he said, 'Vainly thou bidst me wake the strain, Though all unwont to bid in vain. Alas! than mine a mightier hand Has tuned my harp, my strings has spann'd! 10 And mournful answer notes of woe; I touch the chords of joy, but low And the proud march, which victors tread, Sinks in the wailing for the dead. O well for me, if mine alone That dirge's deep prophetic tone! If, as my tuneful fathers said, This harp, which erst Saint Modan sway'd, 15 20 |