And O! beide these simple knaves,
How many better born are slaves
To such coarse joys as these;
Dead to the nobler sense that glows
When Nature's grander scenes unclose.
But, Lucy, we will love them yet,
The mountain's misty coronet,

The greenwood, and the wold;
And love the more, that of their maze
Adventure high of other days

By ancient bards is told,

Bringing, perchance, like my poor tale,
Some moral truth in fiction's veil:
Nor love them less, that o'er the hill
The evening breeze, as now, comes chill ;-
My love shall wrap her warm,
And, fearless of the slippery way,
While safe she trips the heathy brae,
Shall hang on Arthur's arm

THE

LORD OF THE ISLES.

A Poem.

IN SIX CANTOS.

First published January 2, 1815.

ADVERTISEMENT.

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,

THE

LORD OF THE ISLES.

CANTO FIRST.

AUTUMN departs-but still his mantle's fold Rests on the groves of noble Somerville, Beneath a shroud of russet dropped with gold Tweed and his tributaries mingle still; Hoarser the wind, and deeper sounds the rill, Yet lingering notes of sylvan music swell, The deep-toned cushat, and the redbreast shrill; And yet some tints of summer splendour tell When the broad sun sinks down on Ettricke's western fell, 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 reapers' mirth we hear. The last blithe shout hath died upon our ear,

And harvest-home hath hushed 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 scattered grain. Deem'st thou these saddened scenes have pleasure still, Lovest thou through Autumn's fading realms to stray, To see the heath-flower withered on the hill,

To listen to the woods' expiring lay,

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 moralise on mortal joy and pain?

Oh, 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 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 reliques 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,
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.

Lulled 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 dishonoured 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
Was silent in Artornish Hall.

II.

"Wake, Maid of Lorn!" 'twas thus they sung,
And yet more proud the descant rung,
"Wake, Maid of Lorn! high right is ours,
To charm dull sleep from Beauty's bowers;
Earth, Ocean, Air, have nought so shy
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.

Oh, 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;