Little recked they, that idle throng,
Of music's power or minstrel's song;
But crowding their young Queen around,
Whose stately courser pawed the ground,
Her beauty more their wonder swayed,
Than all the noisy herald said;
Judging the proffer all in sport,
And idle whim of idle court.

But many a bard preferred his prayer;
For many a Scottish bard was there.
Quaked each fond heart with raptures strong,
Each thought upon his harp and song;
And turning home without delay,
Conned his wild strain by mountain gray.

Each glen was sought for tales of old,
Of luckless love, of warrior bold,
Of ravished maid, or stolen child
By freakish fairy of the wild;

Of sheeted ghost, that had revealed
Dark deeds of guilt, from man concealed;
Of boding dreams, of wandering spright,
Of dead-lights glimmering through the night;
Yea, every tale of ruth or weir,
Could waken pity, love, or fear,
Were decked anew, with anxious pain,
And sung to native airs again.

Alas! those lays of fire once more
Are wrecked 'mid heaps of mouldering lore!

And feeble he who dares presume
That heavenly Wake-light to relume.
But, grieved the legendary lay
Should perish from our land for aye,
While sings the lark above the wold,
And all his flocks rest in the fold,
Fondly he strikes, beside the pen,
The harp of Yarrow's braken glen.

December came; his aspect stern Glared deadly o'er the mountain-cairn ; A polar sheet was round him flung, And ice-spears at his girdle hung; O'er frigid field, and drifted cone, He strode undaunted and alone; Or, throned amid the Grampians gray, Kept thaws and suns of heaven at bay.

Not stern December's fierce controul

Could quench the flame of minstrel's soul:
Little recked they, our bards of old,

Of Autumn's showers, or Winter's cold.
Sound slept they on the nighted hill,
Lulled by the winds or babbling rill:
Curtained within the winter-cloud;

The heath their couch, the sky their shroud.
Yet theirs the strains that touch the heart,
Bold, rapid, wild, and void of art.

Unlike the bards, whose milky lays Delight in these degenerate days: Their crystal spring, and heather brown, Is changed to wine and couch of down;

Effeminate as lady gay,

Such as the bard, so is his lay!

But then was seen, from every val Through drifting snows and rattling hai Each Caledonian minstrel true,

Dressed in his plaid and bonnet blue,
With harp across his shoulders slung.
And music murmuring round his tonge
Forcing his way, in raptures high,
To Holyrood, his skill to try.

Ah! when at home the songs they ras When gaping rustics stood and gazed, Each bard believed, with ready will, Unmatched his song, unmatched his ski But when the royal halls appeared, Each aspect changed, each bosom fear, And when in court of Holyrood Filed harps and bards around him stood His eye emitted cheerless ray, His hope, his spirit sunk away: There stood the minstrel, but his min Seemed left in native glen behind.

Unknown to men of sordid heart, What joys the poet's hopes impart; Unknown, how his high soul is torn By cold neglect, or canting scorn: That meteor-torch of mental light A breath can quench, or kindle bright Oft has that mind, which braved serene The shafts of poverty and pain, The summer-toil, the winter-blast, Fallen victim to a frown at last. Easy the boon he asks of thee; O! spare his heart in courtesy!

There rolled each bard his anxions en Or strode his adversary by: No cause was there for names to scan, Each minstrel's plaid bespoke his clan; And the blunt borderer's plain arrayThe bonnet broad and blanket gray. Bard sought of bard a look to steal; Eyes measured each from head to heel. Much wonder rose, that men so famed, Men save with rapture never named, Looked only so,-they could not tell,Like other men, and scarce so well. Though keen the blast, and long the When twilight closed that dubious day, When round the table all were set, Small heart had they to talk or eat; Red look askance, blunt whisper low, Awkward remark, uncourtly bow, Were all that past in that bright throng group of genuine sons of song.

That

One did the honours of the board, Who seemed a courtier or a lord: Strange his array and speech withal, Gael deemed him southern-southern, Gr Courteous his mien, his accents weak, Lady in manner as in make;

Yet round the board a whisper ran,
That that same gay and simpering man
A minstrel was, of wond'rous fame,
Who from a distant region came,
fo bear the prize beyond the sea
To the green shores of Italy.

The wine was served, and, sooth to say, 'nsensibly it stole away.

Thrice did they drain the allotted store,
And wondering skinkers dun for more;
Which vanished swifter than the first,-
ittle weened they the poets' thirst.

Still as that ruddy juice they drained, The eyes were cleared, the speech regained; And latent sparks of fancy glowed, Till one abundant torrent flowed Of wit, of humour, social glee, Wild music, mirth, and revelry.

Just when a jest had thrilled the crowd, Just when the laugh was long and loud, Entered a squire with summons smart.[hat was the knell that pierced the heart!The Court awaits ;" he bowed-was gone,Our bards sat changed to busts of stone. As ever ye heard the green-wood dell, On morn of June, one warbled swell, f burst the thunder from on high, How hushed the woodland-melody! Even so our bards shrunk at the view Of what they wished, and what they knew.

: Their numbers given, she lots were cast, To fix the names of first and last; Then to the dazzling hall were led 'oor minstrels less alive than dead.

There such a scene entranced the view, As heart of poet never knew. -Twas not the flash of golden gear, Nor blaze of silver chandelier; Not Scotland's chiefs of noble air, Nor dazzling rows of ladies fair; Twas one enthroned the rest above,Sure 'twas the Queen of grace and love! Caper the form, and fair the breast

on radiant golden zones invest, Where the vexed rubies blench in death, Beneath yon lips and balmy breath. Coronal gems of every dye Look dim above yon beaming eye; Yon cheeks outvie the dawning's glow, Red shadowed on a wreath of snow.

Oft the rapt bard had thought alone Of charms by mankind never known, Df virgins, pure as opening day, Or bosom of the flower of May; Oft dreamed of beings free from stain, Of maidens of the emerald main, Of fairy dames in grove at even, Of angels in the walks of heaven:

Short was the pause; the stranger youth,
The gaudy minstrel of the south,
Whose glossy eye and lady-form
Had never braved the northern storm,
Stepped lightly forth,-kneeled three times
low,-

And then, with many a smile and bow,
Mounted the form amid the ring,
And rung his harp's responsive string.
Though true the chords, and mellow-toned,
Long, long he twisted, long he conned ;
Well pleased to hear his name they knew;
'Tis Rizzio! round in whispers flew.

Valet with Parma's knight he came,
An angler in the tides of fame;
And oft had tried, with' anxious pain,
Respect of Scotland's Queen to gain.
Too well his eye, with searching art,
Perceived her fond, her wareless heart;
And though unskilled in Scottish song,
Her notice he had wooed so long,
With pain by night, and care by day,
He framed this fervid, flowery lay.-

MALCOLM OF LORN. THE FIRST BARD'S SONG. Came ye by Ora's verdant steep

That smiles the restless ocean over? Heard ye a suffering maiden weep?

Heard ye her name a faithful lover? Saw ye an aged matron stand O'er yon green grave above the strand, Bent like the trunk of withered tree, Or yon old thorn that sips the sea; Fixed her dim eye, her face as pale As the mists that o'er her flew? Her joy is fled like the flower of the vale, Her hope like the morning-dew ! That matron was lately as proud of her stay, As the mightiest monarch of sceptre or sway. O list to the tale! 'tis a tale of soft sorrow, Of Malcolm of Lorn, and young Ann of Glen

Ora.

The sun is sweet at early morn,

Just blushing from the ocean's bosom; The rose that decks the woodland-thorn

Is fairest in its opening blossom; Sweeter than opening rose in dew, Than vernal flowers of richest hue, Than fragrant birch or weeping willow, Than red sun resting on the billow; Sweeter than aught to mortals given The heart and soul to prove; Sweeter than aught beneath the heaven, The joys of early love!

Never did maiden, and manly youth, Love with such fervor, and love with such truth;

Or pleasures and virtues alternately borrow, As Malcolm of Lorn, and fair Ann of GlenOra.

The day is come, the dreaded day,
Must part two loving hearts for ever;
The ship lies rocking in the bay,

The boat comes rippling up the river;
Oh happy has the gloaming's eye

In green Glen-Ora's bosom seen them!
But soon shall lands and nations lie,

And angry oceans roll between them.
Yes, they must part, for ever part,
Chill falls the truth on either heart;
For honor, titles, wealth, and state,
In distant lands her sire await.

The maid must with her sire away,
She cannot stay behind;
Straight to the south the pennons play,
And steady is the wind.

Shall Malcolm relinquish the home of his youth,

And sail with his love to the lands of the

|Forbid it!-He yields; to the boat her nigh

Haste, Malcolm, aboard, and revertsta eye.

That trembling voice, in murmurs va Comes not to blast the hopes before a For pity, Malcolm, turn, and take

A last farewell of her that bore the She says no word to mar thy bliss; A last embrace, a parting kiss, Her love deserves;-then be thou g A mother's joys are thine alone. Friendship may fade, and fortune pro Deccitful to thy heart;

But never can a mother's love

From her own offspring part That tender form, now bent and gr Shall quickly sink to her native clay; Then who shall watch her parting be And shed a tear o'er her couch of der Who follow the dust to its long, long b And lay that head in an honored tomb

Oft hast thou, to her bosom prest.

For many a day about been borne: Oft hushed and cradled on her breast

And canst thou leave that breast lent O'er all thy ails her heart has bled; Oft has she watched beside thy bed; Oft prayed for thee in dell at even, Beneath the pitying stars of heaves. Ah! Malcolm, ne'er was parent yet So tender, so benign!

south?

tomb

One parent survives in her desolate home! No child but her Malcolm to cheer her lone

way;

Break not her fond heart, gentle Malcolm, O, stay!

The boat impatient leans ashore,
Her prow sleeps on a sandy pillow;
The rower leans upon his oar,

Already bent to brush the billow.
O! Malcolm, view yon melting eyes,
With tears yon stainless roses steeping!
O! Malcolm, list thy mother's sighs;
She's leaning o'er her staff and weeping;
Thy Anna's heart is bound to thine,
And must that gentle heart repine!
Quick from the shore the boat must fly;
Her soul is speaking through her eye;
Think of thy joys in Ora's shade;

From Anna canst thou sever? Think of the vows thou often hast made, To love the dear maiden for ever. And canst thou forego such beauty and youth,

Such maiden honor and spotless truth?

The boat across the tide flew fast.

And left a silver curve behind; Loud sung the sailor from the mast Spreading his sails before the wisd The stately ship, adown the bay,

A corslet framed of heaving snov, And flurred on high the slender spray,

Till rainbows gleamed around her How strained was Malcolm's watery ey Yon fleeting vision to descry! But, ah! her virgin form so fair, Soon vanished in the liquid air. Away to Ora's headland steep

The youth retired the while, And saw the unpitying vessel sweep Around yon Highland isle.

His heart and his mind with that ves gone; His sorrow was deep, and despairin

moan,

When,lifting his eyes from the green hos deep,

He prayed the Almighty his Anna to i

High o'er the crested cliff's of Lorn
The curlew conned her wild bravura;
The sun, in pall of purple borne,

Was hastening down the steeps of Jura: The glowing ocean heaved her breast,

Her wandering lover's glances under:
And shewed his radiant form, imprest
Deep in a wavy world of wonder.
Not all the ocean's dyes at even,
Though varied as the bow of heaven;
The countless isles so dusky blue,
Nor medley of the gray curlew,
Could light on Malcolm's spirit shed;
Their glory all was gone!

For his joy was fled, his hope was dead,
And his heart forsaken and lone.
The sea-bird sought her roofless rest,
To warm her brood with her downy breast;
And near her home, on the margin dun,
A mother weeps o'er her duteous son.

One little boat alone is seen

On all the lovely dappled main, That softly sinks the waves between, Then vaults their heaving breasts again; With snowy sail, and rower's sweep, Across the tide she seems to fly: Why bears she on yon headland steep, Where neither house nor home is nigh? s that a vision from the deep 'hat springs ashore and scales the steep, Nor ever stays its ardent haste ill sunk upon young Malcolm's breast! h! spare that breast so lowly laid, So fraught with deepest sorrow! t is his own, his darling maid, = Young Anna of Glen-Ora!My Malcolm! part we ne'er again! Ly father saw thy bosom's pain; itied my grief from thee to sever; Tow 1, and Glen-Ora, are thine for ever!"

hat blaze of joy, through clouds of woe, Too fierce upon his heart did fall; or, ah! the shaft had left the bow, - Which power of man could not recall! To word of love could Malcolm speak; No raptured kiss his lips impart; o tear bedewed his shivering cheek, To ease the grasp that held his heart. is arms essayed one kind embraceWill they enclose her? never! never! smile set softly on his face, But ah! the eye was set for ever! was more than broken heart could brook: Tow throbs that breast!-How still that look! ne shiver more! All! all is o'er!— s melts the wave on level shore; s fades the dye of falling even, ar on the silver verge of heaven; s on thy ear the minstrel's lay,—

died the comely youth away.

The strain died soft in note of woe, or breath nor whisper 'gan to flow

From courtly circle; all was still
As midnight on the lonely hill.
So well that foreign minstrel's strain
Had mimicked passion, woe, and pain,
Seemed even the chilly hand of death
Stealing away his mellow breath.
So sighed so stopped—so died his lay,—
His spirit too seemed fled for aye.

'Tis true, the gay attentive throng
Admired, but loved not much, his song;
Admired his wond'rous voice and skill,
His harp that thrilled or wept at will.
But that affected gaudy rhyme,
The querulous keys and changing chime,
Scarce could the Highland chieftain brook :
Disdain seemed kindling in his look,
That song so vapid, artful, terse,
Should e'er compete with Scottish verse.

But she, the fairest of the fair, Who sat enthroned in gilded chair, Well skilled in foreign minstrelsy And artful airs of Italy, Listened his song, with raptures wild, And on the happy minstrel smiled. Soon did the wily stranger's eye The notice most he wished espy, Then poured his numbers bold and free, Fired by the grace of majesty ; And when his last notes died away, When sunk in well-feigned death he lay, When round the crowd began to ring, Thinking his spirit on the wing,First of the dames she came along, Wept, sighed, and marvelled 'mid the throng. And when they raised him, it was said The beauteous sovereign deigned her aid; And in her hands, so soft and warm, Upheld the minstrel's hand and arm. Then oped his eye with rapture fired; He smiled, and, bowing oft, retired; Pleased he so soon had realized What more than gold or fame he prized.

Next in the list was Gardyn's name: No sooner called than forth he came. Stately he strode, nor bow made he, Nor even a look of courtesy. The simpering cringe, and fawning look, Of him who late the lists forsook, Roused his proud heart, and fired his eye, That glowed with native dignity.

Full sixty years the bard had seen, Yet still his manly form and mien, His garb of ancient Caledon, Where lines of silk and scarlet shone And golden garters 'neath his knee, Announced no man of mean degree.

Upon his harp, of wond'rous frame, Was carved his lineage and his name. There stood the cross that name above, Fair emblem of almighty love;