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now

With that same passion that inflamed his check;

Yet in his cheek there was the sickliness Which thought and feeling leave, wearing away

The hue of youth. Inclining on his harp,
He, while his comrades in probation song
Approved their claim, stood hearkening, as
it seemed,

And yet like unintelligible sounds
He heard the symphony and voice attuned;
Even in such feelings as, all undefined,
Come with the flow of waters to the soul,
Or with the motions of the moonlight-sky.
But when his bidding came, he at the call
Arising from that dreamy mood, advanced,
Threw back his mantle, and began the lay.

maintain

Perpetual summer, where one emerald lig Through the green element for ever flow

Twice have the sons of Britain left her she
As the fledged eaglets quit their native m
Twice over ocean have her fearless sons
For ever sailed away. Again they lai
Their vessels to the deep.-Who mo
the bark?

The son of Owen, the beloved Prince.
Who never for injustice reared his arm
Respect his enterprize, ye ocean-waves!
Ye Winds of Heaven, waft Madoc on his w
The Waves of Ocean, and the Winds
Heaven
and Madoc found
Who seeks the bett
land?

Became his ministers,
The world he sought.

tribe,

The faithful? Following their beloved Chief, They the Green Islands of the Ocean sought; Nor human tongue hath told, nor human ear, Since from the silver shores they went their

way, Hath heard their fortunes. In his crystal Ark, Whither sailed Merlin with his band of Bards,

Old Merlin, master of the mystic lore?
Belike his crystal Ark, instinct with life,
Obedient to the mighty Master, reached
The Land of the Departed; there, belike,
They in the clime of immortality,
Themselves immortal, drink the gales of
bliss,

Which o'er Flathinnis breathe eternal spring,
Blending whatever odours make the gale
Of evening sweet, whatever melody
Charms the wood-traveller. In their high-
roofed halls

There, with the Chiefs of other days, feel
they
The mingled joy pervade them?-Or beneath
The mid-sea waters, did that crystal Ark
Down to the secret depths of Ocean plunge
Its fated crew? Dwell they in coral bowers
With Mermaid loves, teaching their para-

mours

The songs that stir the sea, or make the winds

Hush, and the waves be still? In fields of joy

INTRODUCTION.

Now burst, ye winter-clouds that lower,
Fling from your folds the piercing shower;
Sing to the tower and leafless tree,
Ye cold winds of adversity;

Your blights, your chilling influence shed,
On wareless heart, and houseless head,
Your ruth or fury I disdain,
I've found my Mountain-Lyre again.

Come to my heart, my only stay!
Companion of a happier day!
Thou gift of Heaven, thou pledge of good,
Harp of the mountain and the wood!
I little thought, when first I tried
Thy notes by lone Saint Mary's side,
When in a deep untrodden den,
I found thee in the braken glen,
little thought that idle toy
Should e'er become my only joy!

A maiden's youthful smiles had wove
Around my heart the toils of love,
When first thy magic wires I rung,
And on the breeze thy numbers flung,
The fervid tear played in mine eye;
trembled, wept, and wondered why.
Sweet was the thrilling ecstasy :
know not if 'twas love or thee.

Weened not my heart, when youth had flown,

riendship would fade, or fortune frown; Vhen pleasure, love, and mirth were past, That thou shouldst prove my all at last! eered by conceit and lordly pride, flung my soothing harp aside; With wayward fortune strove a while; Vrecked in a world of self and guile. Again I sought the braken hill; gain sat musing by the rill; Ay wild sensations all were gone, and only thou wert left alone. ong hast thou in the moorland lain, Now welcome to my heart again!

The russet weed of mountain gray No more shall round thy border play;

No more the brake-flowers, o'er thee piled,
Shall mar thy tones and measures wild:
Harp of the Forest, thou shalt be
Fair as the bud on forest-tree!
Sweet be thy strains, as those that swell
In Ettrick's green and fairy dell;
Soft as the breeze of falling even,
And purer than the dews of heaven.

Of minstrel-honours, now no more; Of bards who sung in days of yore; Of gallant chiefs, in courtly guise; Of ladies' smiles, of ladies' eyes; Of royal feast and obsequies; When Caledon, with look severe, Saw Beauty's hand her sceptre bear,By cliff and haunted wild I'll sing, Responsive to thy dulcet string.

When wanes the circling year away, When scarcely smiles the doubtful day, Fair daughter of Dunedin, say, Hast thou not heard, at midnight deep, Soft music on thy slumbers creep? At such a time, if careless thrown Thy slender form on couch of down, Hast thou not felt, to nature true, The tear steal from thine eye so blue? If then thy guiltless bosom strove In blissful dreams of conscious love, Of lover's visionary hand, And even shrunk from proffer bland

On such ecstatic dream when brake Hast thou not weened thyself on high, The music of the midnight Wake, List'ning to angels' melody,

'Scaped from a world of cares away, To dream of love and bliss for aye?

The dream dispelled, the music gone, Hast thou not, sighing, all alone, Proffered thy vows to Heaven, and then Blest the sweet Wake, and slept again?

Then list, ye maidens, to my lay, Though old the tale, and past the day; Those Wakes, now played by minstrels poor, At midnight's darkest, chillest hour,

Those humble Wakes, now scorned by all,
Were first begun in courtly hall,
When royal MARY, blithe of mood,
Kept holiday at Holyrood.

Scotland, involved in factious broils,
Groaned deep beneath her woes and toils,
And looked o'er meadow, dale and lea,
For many a day her Queen to see;
Hoping that then her woes would cease,
And all her valleys smile in peace.
The Spring was past, the Summer gone;
Still vacant stood the Scottish throne:
But scarce had Autumn's mellow hand
Waved her rich banner o'er the land,
When rang the shouts, from tower and tree,
That Scotland's Queen was on the sea.
Swift spread the news o'er down and dale,
Swift as the lively autumn-gale;
Away, away, it echoed still,

O'er many a moor and Highland hill,
Till rang each glen and verdant plain,
From Cheviot to the northern main.

Each bard attuned the loyal lay,
And for Dunedin hied away;

Each harp was strung in woodland-bower,
In praise of beauty's bonniest flower.
The chiefs forsook their ladies fair;
The priest his beads and books of prayer;
The farmer left his harvest-day,
The shepherd all his flocks to stray;
The forester forsook the wood
And hasted on to Holyrood.

After a youth, by woes o'ercast, After a thousand sorrows past, The lovely Mary once again Set foot upon her native plain; Kneeled on the pier with modest grace, And turned to heaven her beauteous face. 'Twas then the caps in air were blended, A thousand thousand shouts ascended; Shivered the breeze around the throng; Gray barrier-cliff's the peals prolong; And every tongue gave thanks to Heaven, That Mary to their hopes was given.

Her comely form and graceful mien, Bespoke the Lady and the Queen; The woes of one so fair and young, Moved every heart and every tongue. Driven from her home, a helpless child, To brave the winds and billows wild; An exile bred in realms afar, Amid commotion, broil, and war: In one short year her hopes all crossed,— A parent, husband, kingdom lost! And all ere eighteen years had shed Their honours o'er her royal head. For such a Queen, the Stuarts' heir, A Queen so courteous, young, and fair, Who would not every foe defy!

Light on her airy steed she sprung
Around with golden tassels hung,
No chieftain there rode half so free,
Or half so light and gracefully.
How sweet to see her ringlets pale
Wide waving in the southland-gale.
Which through the broom-wood blows
flew,

To fan her cheeks of rosy hue!
Whene'er it heaved her bosom's screen.
What beauties in her form were seen.
And when her courser's mane it swung
A thousand silver bells were rung.
A sight so fair, on Scottish plain,
A Scot shall never see again.

When Mary turned her wondering On rocks that seemed to prop the skis On palace, park, and battled pile; On lake, on river, sea, and isle; O'er woods and meadows bathed in dev To distant mountains wild and blue; She thought the isle, that gave her b The sweetest, wildest land on earth.

Slowly she ambled on her way Amid her lords and ladies gay. Priest, abbot, layman, all were there. And presbyter with look severe: There rode the lords of France and Sp Of England, Flanders, and Lorraine, While serried thousands round them From shore of Leith to Holyrood.

Though Mary's heart was light as a To find a home so wild and fair; To see a gathered nation by,

And rays of joy from every eye; Though frequent shouts the wellin Though courtiers bowed and ladies An absent look they oft could trace Deep settled on her comely face. Was it the thought that all alone She must support a rocking throne! That Caledonia's rugged land Might scorn a Lady's weak comman And the Red Lion's haughty eye Scowl at a maiden's feet to lie?

No; 'twas the notes of Scottish Soft pealing from the countless thr So mellowed came the distant swell, That on her ravished ear it fell Like dew of heaven, at evening-clo On forest-flower or woodland-rose For Mary's heart, to nature true. The powers of song and music knew But all the choral measures bland. Of anthems sung in southern land, Appeared an useless pile of art, Unfit to sway or melt the heart, Compared with that which floated' Her simple native melody.

As she drew nigh the Abbey-st

She heard the Caledonian lyre
Pour forth its notes of Runic fire;
But scarcely caught the ravished Queen
The minstrel's song that flowed between;
Entranced upon the strain she hung,
'Twas thus the gray-haired minstrel sung:

O! Lady dear, fair is thy noon,
But man is like the inconstant moon:
Last night she smiled o'er lawn and lea;
That moon will change, and so will he.

Thy time, dear Lady, 's a passing shower;
Thy beauty is but a fading flower;
Watch thy young bosom, and maiden eye,
For the shower must fall, and the floweret die.

What ails my Queen? said good Argyle, Why fades upon her cheek the smile? Say, rears your steed too fierce and high? Or sits your golden seat awry?

Ah! no, my Lord! this noble steed, Of Rouen's calm and generous breed, Has borne me over hill and plain, Swift as the dun-deer of the Seine. But such a wild and simple lay, Poured from the harp of minstrel gray, My every sense away it stole,

And swayed a while my raptured soul. O! say, my Lord, (for you must know What strains along your valleys flow And all the hoards of Highland lore) Vas ever song so sweet before?—

Replied the Earl, as round he flung,eeble the strain that minstrel sung! 1y royal Dame, if once you heard

he Scottish lay from Highland bard, hen might you say, in raptures meet, o song was ever half so sweet! - nerves the arm of warrior wight o deeds of more than mortal might; will make the maid, in all her charms, all weeping in her lover's arms;

will charm the mermaid from the deep; ake mountain-oaks to bend and weep; hrill every heart with horrors dire, nd shape the breeze to forms of fire. hen poured from green-wood-bower at

Yet, though at table all were seen
To wonder at her air and mien;
Though courtiers fawned and ladies sung,
Still in her ear the accents rung,-
Watch thy young bosom, and maiden eye,
For the shower must fall, and the floweret die.
These words prophetic seemed to be
Foreboding woe and misery;

And much she wished to prove, ere long,
The wond'rous powers of Scottish song.

When next to ride the Queen was bound, To view the city's ample round, On high amid the gathered crowd, A herald thus proclaimed aloud :—

"Peace, peace to Scotland's wasted vales,
To her dark heaths and Highland dales; ̧
To her brave sons of warlike mood,
To all her daughters fair and good;
Peace o'er her ruined vales shall pour,
Like beam of heaven behind the shower.
Let every harp and echo ring;
Let maidens smile and poets sing;
For love and peace entwined shall sleep,
Calm as the moon-beam on the deep,
By waving wood and wandering rill,
On purple heath and Highland hill.
The soul of warrior stern to charm,
And bigotry and rage disarm,
Our Queen commands, that every bard
Due honours have, and high regard.
If, to his song of rolling fire,
He join the Caledonian lyre,
And skill in legendary lore,

Still higher shall his honour soar.
For all the arts beneath the heaven,
That man has found, or God has given,
None draws the soul so sweet away,
As music's melting mystic lay;
Slight emblem of the bliss above,
It sooths the spirit all to love.
To cherish this attractive art,
To lull the passions, mend the heart,
And break the moping zealot's chains,
Hear what our lovely Queen ordains.

"Each Caledonian bard must seek
Her courtly halls on Christmas-week,
That then the Royal Wake may be
Cheered by their thrilling minstrelsy.
No ribaldry the Queen must hear,
No song unmeet for maiden's ear,
No jest, nor adulation bland,
But legends of our native land;
And he whom most the court regards,
High be his honours and rewards.
Let every Scottish bard give ear,
Let every Scottish bard appear;

He then before the court must stand,
In native garb, with harp in hand.

At home no minstrel dare to tarry:

High the behest.-God save Queen Mary!"