tricts, which it was the custom of that excellent man regularly to visit.

This custom (of duels) still prevailed on the Borders, where Saxon barbarism held its latest possession. These wild Northumbrians indeed went beyond the ferocity of their ancestors. They were not content with a duel: each contending party used to muster what adherents he could, and commence a kind of petty war. So that a private grudge would often occaon much bloodshed.

. It happened that a quarrel of this kind was on foot when Mr Gilpin was at Rothbury, in those parts. During the two or three first days of his preaching, the contending parties observed some decorum, and never appeared at church together. At length, however, they

One party had been early at church, and just as Mr Gilpin began his sermon the other entered. They stood not long silent: inflamed at the sight of each other, they began to clash their weapons, for they were all armed with javelins and swords, and mutually approach. Awed, however, by the sacredness of the place, the tumult in some degree ceased. Mr Gilpin proceeded: when again the combatants began to brandish their weapons, and draw towards each other. As a fray seemed near, Mr Gilpin stepped from the pulpit, went between them, and addressed the leaders, put an end to the quarrel for the present, but could not effect an entire reconciliation. They promised him, however, that till the sermon was over they would make no more disturbance. He then went again into the pulpit, and spent the rest of the time in endeavouring to make tarm ashamed of what they had done. His behaviour and discourse affected them so much, that, at his farther entreaty, they promised to forbear all acts of hostility while he continued in the country. And so much respected was he among them, that whoever was in fear of his enemy used to resort where Mr Gilpin was, estreming his presence the best protection.

One Sunday morning, coming to a church in those parts before the people were assembled, he observed a flove hanging up, and was informed by the sexton that it was meant as a challenge to any one who should take it down. Mr Gilpin ordered the sexton to reach it him; but upon his utterly refusing to touch it, he took it down himself, and put it in his breast. When the people were assembled, he went into the pulpit, and, before he concluded his sermon, took occasion to rebuke them severely for these inhuman challenges. 'I hear, saith he, that one among you hath hanged up a glove, even in this sacred place, threatening to fight any one who taketh it down: see, I have taken it down; I and, pulling out the glove, he held it up to the congregation, and then showed them how unsuitable such savage practices were to the profession of christianity, using such persuasives to mutual love as he thought would most affect them.»-Life of Bernard Gilpin, Lond. 1753, 8vo, p. 177.

Note 2. Stanza xxxii.

A horseman arm'd, at headlong speed.

thentic form. The chief place of his retreat was not Lord's Island in Derwentwater, but Curwen's Island in the Lake of Windermere.

« This island formerly belonged to the Philipsons, a family of note in Westmoreland. During the civil wars, two of them, an elder and a younger brother, served the king. The former, who was the proprietor of it, commanded a regiment; the latter was a major.

« The major, whose name was Robert, was a man of great spirit and enterprise; and for his many feats of personal bravery had obtained, among the Oliverians of those parts, the appellation of Robin the Devil.

« After the war had subsided, and the direful effects of public opposition had ceased, revenge and malice long kept alive the animosity of individuals. Colonel Briggs, a steady friend to usurpation, resided at this time at Kendal, and, under the double character of a leading magistrate (for he was a justice of peace) and an active commander, held the country in awe. This person, having heard that Major Philipson was at his brother's house on the island in Windermere, resolved, if possible, to seize and punish a man who had made himself so particularly obnoxious. How it was conducted, my' authority does not inform us-whether he got together the navigation of the lake, and blockaded the place by sea, or whether he landed and carried on his approaches in form. Neither do we learn the strength of the garrison within, nor of the works without. All we learn is, that Major Philipson endured a siege of eight months with great gallantry, till his brother, the colonel, raised a party, and relieved him.

<< It was now the major's turn to make reprisals. He put himself, therefore, at the head of a little troop of horse, and rode to Kendal. Here, being informed that Colonel Briggs was at prayers (for it was on a Sunday morning), he stationed his men properly in the avenues, and himself, armed, rode directly into the church. It probably was not a regular church, but some large place of meeting. It is said he intended to seize the colonel, and carry him off; but as this seems to have been totally impracticable, it is rather probable that his intention was to kill him on the spot, and in the midst Whatever his intention of the confusion to escape. was, it was frustrated, for Briggs happened to be elsewhere.

«The congregation, as might be expected, was thrown into great confusion on seeing an armed man on horseback make his appearance among them; and the major, taking advantage of their astonishment, turned his horse round, and rode quietly out. having given an alarm, he was presently assaulted as he left the assembly, and being seized, his girths were cut, and he was unhorsed.

But

«At this instant his party made a furious attack on the assailants, and the major killed with his own hand the man who had seized him, clapped his saddle, ungirthed as it was, upon the horse, and vaulting into it, rode full speed through the streets of Kendal, calling his men to follow him; and with his whole party made a safe retreat to his asylum in the lake. The action

Dr Burn's History of Westmoreland.»

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. 1 Abbotsford, 10th December, 1814.

Now published.

THE

LORD OF THE ISLES.

CANTO I.

AUTUMN departs-but still his mantle's fold
Rests on the groves of noble Somerville,
Beneath a shroud of russet dropp'd 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 Ettrick'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 reaper's mirth we hear. The last blithe shout hath died upon our ear, And harvest-home hath hush'd 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 scatter'd grain.

I.

« WAKE, Maid of Lorn!»"the minstrels sung.
Thy rugged halls, Artornish! rung, (1)
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.
Lull'd 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 main-land and from isle,
Ross, Arran, Hlay, and Argyle,
Each minstrel's tributary lay
Paid homage to the festal day.
Dull and dishonour'd 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 moru's resistless call
Was silent in Artornish hall.

II.

Wake, Maid of Lorn!» 't was thus they sung,
And yet more proud the descant rung,
a 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; (2)
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.

e0 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;

The dew that on the violet lies

Mocks the dark lustre of thine eyes;
But, Edith, wake, and all we see
Of sweet and fair shall yield to thee!»-
«She comes not yet,» gray Ferrand cried :
Brethren, let softer spell be tried,
Those notes prolong'd, that soothing theme,
Which best may mix with beauty's dream,
And whisper, with their silvery tone,
The hope she loves, yet fears to own.»>—
Hle spoke, and on the harp-strings died
The strains of flattery and of pride;
More soft, more low, more tender fell
The lay of love he bade them tell.

As vainly had her maidens vied
In skill to deck the princely bride.
Her locks, in dark-brown length array'd,
Cathleen of Ulne, 't was thine to braid;
Young Eva with meet reverence drew
On the light foot the silken shoe,
While on the ancle's slender round
Those strings of pearl fair Bertha wound,
That, bleach'd Lochryan's depths within,
Seem'd dusky still on Edith's skin.
But Einion, of experience old,

Had weightiest task-the mantle's fold
In many an artful plait she tied,
To show the form it seem'd to hide,
Till on the floor descending roll'd
Its waves of crimson blent with gold.

VI.

O! lives there now so cold a maid,
Who thus in beauty's pomp array'd,
In beauty's proudest pitch of power,
And conquest won-the bridal hour--
With every charm that wins the heart,
By nature given, enhanced by art,
Could yet the fair reflection view,
In the bright mirror pictured true,
And not one dimple on her cheek
A tell-tale consciousness bespeak?—
Lives still such maid?-Fair damsels, say,
For further vouches not my lay,

Save that such lived in Britain's isle,
When Lorn's bright Edith scorn'd to smile.

VII.

But Morag, to whose fostering care
Proud Lorn had given his daughter fair,
Morag, who saw a mother's aid

By all a daughter's love repaid,
(Strict was that bond-most kind of all-
Inviolate in Highland hall-)
Gray Morag sate a space apart
In Edith's eyes to read her heart.
In vain the attendants' fond appeal
To Morag's skill, to Morag's zeal;

She mark'd her child receive their care,

Cold as the image sculptured fair

(Form of some sainted patroness)

Which cloister'd maids combine to dress;

She mark'd-and knew her nursling's heart
In the vain pomp took little part.
Wistful awhile she gazed-then press'd

The maiden to her anxious breast

In finish'd loveliness-and led

To where a turret's airy head,
Slender and steep, and battled round,
O'erlook'd, dark Mull! thy mighty sound, (3)
Where thwarting tides, with mingled roar,
Part thy swarth hills from Morven's shore.

VIII.

« Daughter," she said, «these seas behold,
Round twice an hundred islands roll'd,
From Hirt, that hears their northern roar,
To the green Ilay's fertile shore; (4)
Or main-land turn, where many a tower
Owns thy bold brother's feudal power,

Each on its own dark cape reclined,
And listening to its own wild wind,
From where Mingarry, sternly placed,
O'erawes the woodland and the waste, (5)
To where Dunstaffnage hears the raging
Of Connal with his rocks engaging.
Think'st thou, amid this ample round,
A single brow but thine has frown'd,
To sadden this auspicious mora,
That bids the daughter of high Lorn
Impledge her spousal faith to wed
The Heir of mighty Somerled; (6)
Ronald, from many a hero sprung,
The fair, the valiant, and the young,
LORD OF THE ISLES, (7) whose lofty name
A thousand bards have given to fame,
The mate of monarchs, and allied
On equal terms with England's pride.—
From chieftain's tower to bondsman's cot,
Who hears the tale, and triumphs not?
The damsel dons her best attire,
The shepherd lights his beltane fire,
Joy, joy! each warder's horn hath sung,
Joy, joy! each matin bell hath rung;
The holy priest says grateful mass,
Loud shouts each hardy galla-glass,
No mountain den holds outcast boor,
Of heart so dull, of soul so poor,
But he hath flung his task aside,
And claim'd this morn for holy-tide;

Yet, empress of this joyful day,
Edith is sad while all are gay.»—

IX.

Proud Edith's soul came to her eye,
Resentment cheek'd the struggling sigh,
Her hurrying hand indignant dried
The burning tears of injured pride-

Morag, forbear! or lend thy praise.
To swell yon hireling harper's lays;
Make to yon maids thy boast of power,
That they may waste a wondering hour,
Telling of banners proudly borne,
Of pealing bell and bugle-horn,

Or, theme more dear, of robes of price,
Crownlets and gauds of rare device.
But thou, experienced as thou art,
Think'st thou with these to cheat the heart,
That bound in strong affection's chain,
Looks for return and looks in vain?
No! sum thine Edith's wretched lot

In these brief words-He loves her not!

X.

« Debate it not-too long I strove
To call his cold observance love,
All blinded by the league that styled
Edith of Lorn,-while, yet a child,
She tripp'd the heath by Morag's side,-
The brave Lord Ronald's destined bride.
Ere yet I saw him, while afar

His broadsword blazed in Scotland's war,
Train'd to believe our fates the same,
My bosom throbb'd when Ronald's name
Came gracing Fame's heroic tale,
Like perfume on the summer gale.

What pilgrim sought our halls, nor told
Of Ronald's deeds in battle bold?
Who touch'd the harp to heroes' praise,
But his achievements swell'd the lays?
Even Morag-not a tale of fame
Was hers, but closed with Ronald's name.
He came! and all that had been told
Of his high worth seem'd poor and cold,
Tame, lifeless, void of energy,

Unjust to Ronald and to me!

XI.

<< Since then, what thought had Edith's heart,
And gave not plighted love its part!-
And what requital? cold delay-
Excuse that shunn'd the spousal day-
It dawns, and Ronald is not here!
Hunts he Bentalla's nimble deer,
Or loiters he in secret dell

To bid some lighter love farewell,
And swear, that though he may not scorn

A daughter of the house of Lorn, (8)
Yet, when these formal rites are o'er,
Again they meet, to part no more?»-

XII.

- Hush, daughter, hush! thy doubts remove,
More nobly think of Ronald's love.
Look, where beneath the castle gray
Ilis fleet unmoor from Aros-bay!
Seest not each galley's topmast bend,
As on the yards the sails ascend?
Hiding the dark-blue land they rise,
Like the white clouds on April skies;
The shouting vassals man the oars,
Behind them sink Mull's mountain shores,
Onward their merry course they keep,
Through whistling breeze and foaming deep.
And mark the headmost, seaward cast,
Stoop to the freshening gale her mast,
As if she vail'd its banner'd pride,
To greet afar her prince's bride!
Thy Ronald comes, and while in speed
His galley mates the flying steed,
He chides her sloth!»-Fair Edith sigh'd,
Blush'd, sadly smiled, and thus replied:-

XIII.

«Sweet thought, but vain!-No, Morag! mark
Type of his course, yon lonely bark,
That oft hath shifted helm and sail,
To win its way against the gale.
Since peep of morn, my vacant eyes
Have view'd by fits the course she tries;
Now, though the darkening scud comes on,
And dawn's fair promises be gone,
And though the weary crew may see
Our sheltering haven on their lee,
Still closer to the rising wind
They strive her shivering sail to bind,
Still nearer to the shelves' dread verge
At every tack her course they urge,
As if they fear'd Artornish more
Than adverse winds and breakers' roar.»-

XIV.

Sooth spoke the maid.—Amid the tide
The skiff she mark'd lay tossing sore,
And shifted oft her stooping side,

In weary tack from shore to shore.
Yet on her destined course no more
She gain'd, of forward way,
Than what a minstrel may compare

To the poor meed which peasants share,
Who toil the livelong day;

And such the risk her pilot braves,
That oft, before she wore,

Her bowsprit kiss'd the broken waves,
Where in white foam the ocean raves
Upon the shelving shore.

Yet, to their destined purpose true,
Codaunted toil'd her hardy crew,
Nor look'd where shelter lay,
Nor for Artornish Castle drew,
Nor steer'd for Aros-bay.

Around their prows the ocean roars,
And chafes beneath their thousand oars,
Yet bears them on their way:

So chafes the war-horse in his might,
That fieldward bears some valiant knight,
Champs till both bit and boss are white,
But, foaming, must obey.

On each gay deck they might behold
Lances of steel and crests of gold,
And hauberks with their burnish'd fold,
That shimmer'd fair and free;
And each proud galley, as she pass'd,
To the wild cadence of the blast

Gave wilder minstrelsy.
Full many a shrill triumphant note
Saline and Scallastle bade float

Their misty shores around;
And Morven's echoes answer'd well,
And Duart heard the distant swell
Come down the darksome Sound.

But hadst thou known who sail'd so nigh,
Far other glance were in thine eye!
Far other flush were on thy brow,
That, shaded by the bonnet, now
Assumes but ill the blithesome cheer
Of bridegroom when the bride is near!

XVII.

Yes, sweep they on!-We will not leave,
For them that triumph, those who grieve.
With that armada gay

Be laughter loud and jocund shout,
And bards to cheer the wassail rout,
With tale, romance, and lay;

And of wild mirth each clamorous art,
Which, if it cannot cheer the heart,
May stupify and stun its smart,

For one loud busy day.

Yes, sweep they on!-But with that skiff
Abides the minstrel tale,

Where there was dread of surge and cliff,
Labour that strain'd each sinew stiff,
And one sad maiden's wail.

XVIII.

All day with fruitless strife they toil'd, With eve the ebbing currents boil'd

More fierce from streight and lake; And mid-way through the channel met Conflicting tides that foam and fret, And high their mingled billows jet, As spears that, in the battle set,

Spring upward as they break. Then too the lights of eve were past, And louder sung the western blast

On rocks of Inninmore;

Rent was the sail, and strain'd the mast,
And many a leak was gaping fast,
And the pale steersman stood aghast,
And gave the conflict o'er.

XIX.

'T was then that one, whose lofty look
Nor labour dull'd nor terror shook,
Thus to the leader spoke:

« Brother, how hopest thou to abide
The fury of this wilder'd tide,
Or how avoid the rock's rude side,
Until the day has broke?

Didst thou not mark the vessel reel,
With quivering planks and groaning keel,
At the last billow's shock?

Yet how of better counsel tell,
Though here thou seest poor Isabel

Half dead with want and fear;
For look on sea, or look on land,
Or yon dark sky, on every hand

Despair and death are near. For her alone I grieve-on me Danger sits light by land and sea. I follow where thou wilt; Either to bide the tempest's lour, Or wend to yon unfriendly tower, Or rush amid their naval power, With war-cry wake their wassail-hour, And die with hand on hilt.»>