To thee, who bidst those mountains of brine

Softly sink in the fair moonshine,
And spreadst thy couch of silver-light,
To lure to thy bosom the queen of the night,
Who weavest the cloud of the ocean-dew,
And the mist that sleeps on her breast so
blue;

When the murmurs die at the base of the hill, And the shadows lie rocked and slumbering still,

And the Solan's young, and the lines of foam, Are scarcely heaved on thy peaceful home, We pour this oil and this wine to thee, God of the western wind, God of the sea!— "Greater yet must the offering be."

In holy dread they past away,
And they walked the ridge of that isle so
gray,

And saw the white waves toil and fret,
An hundred fathoms below their feet;
They looked to the countless isles that lie
From Barra to Mull, and from Jura to Skye;
They looked to heaven, they looked to the
main,

They looked at all with a silent pain,
As on places they were not to see again.
A little bay lies hid from sight,
O'erhung by cliffs of dreadful height;
When they drew nigh that airy steep,
They heard a voice rise from the deep;
And that voice was sweet as voice could be,
And they feared it came from the Maid of
the Sea.

M'Kinnon lay stretched on the verge of the hill, And peeped from the height on the bay so still;

And he saw her sit on a weedy stone, Laving her fair breast, and singing alone;

Alone may lie,

And list to the wind that whistha Sad may she be,

For deep in the sea, Deep, deep, deep in the sea. This night her lover shall sleep .. She may turn and hide From the spirits that glide. And the ghost that stands at her leBut never a kiss the vow shall Nor warm embrace her bosom feng For far, far down in the floors be Moist as this rock-weed, cold as With the eel, and the clam, and

of the de

On soft sea-flowers her lover sha And long and sound shall his sla In the coral-bowers of the deep, Vĩ

The trembling sun, far, far away Shall pour on his couch a softent And his mantle shall wave in the f

And the little fishes shall turn asie But the waves and the tides of the

cease,

Ere wakes her love from his bed No home!-no kiss!-No, never! His couch is spread for ever and

The Abbot arose in dumb dismay They turned and fled from the beigt For dark and portentous was the or When they came in view of their re They saw an old man who sat en His beard was long, and silver gr Like the rime that falls at the bre His locks like wool, and his colon And he scarcely looked like an ear They asked his errand, they asked his Whereunto bound, and whence be But a sullen thoughtful silence be And turned his face to the sea and Some gave him welcome, and

him scor But the Abbot stood pale, with terrő borne;

He tried to be jocund, but trembled the For he thought he had seen the fart

Away went the ship with her care, spread, So glad to escape from that island

1

間

of light,

ked his dim eyes on the ocean below; ey heard him saying: Oh, woe is me! eat as the sin must the sacrifice be. ld was his eye, and his manner sublime, | he looked unto heaven, and said: Now

is the time.

Noted contempt for tales of old;
Oft hast thou at the fancies smiled,
And marvelled at the legends wild:
Thy task is o'er: peace to thy heart!
For thou hast acted generous part.

That thirty names were registered,
'Tis said that thirty bards appeared,
With whom were titled chiefs combined,
But some are lost, and some declined.
Has been unfit to rescue more!
Woe's me, that all my mountain-lore
And that my guideless rustic skill

Has told those ancient tales so ill.

The prize-harp still hung on the wall ;

Till courtiers gave the judgment true,
To whom the splendid prize was due.
What curious wight will pass with me,
The anxious motley group to see;
List their remarks of right and wrong,
Of skilful hand and faulty song,
And drink one glass the bards among?

There sit the men-behold them there, Made maidens quake and courtiers stare, Whose names shall future ages tell ; What do they seem? behold them well: A simpler race you shall not see, Awkward and vain as men can be; Light as the fumes of fervid wine, Or foam-bells floating on the brine, The gossamers in air that sail, Or down that dances in the gale. Each spoke of other's fame and skill With high applause, but jealous will; Each song, each strain, he erst had known, And all had faults except his own: Plaudits were mixed with meaning jeers, For all had hopes, and all had fears.

A herald rose the court among, And named each bard and named his song; Rizzio was named from royal chair— Rizzio! re-echoed many a fair. Each song had some that song approved, And voices gave for bard beloved. The first division called and done, Gardyn stood highest just by one. No merits can the courtier sway, 'Twas then, it seems, as at this day.

Queen Mary reddened, wroth was she Her favourite thus outdone to see, Reproved her squire in high disdain, And caused him call the votes again. Strange though it seem, the truth I say, Feature of that unyielding day, Her favourite's voters counted o'er, Were found much fewer than before.

89

Glistened her eyes with pungent dew; She found with whom she had to do.

Again the royal gallery rung With names of those who second sung, When, spite of haughty Highland blood, The Bard of Ettrick upmost stood.

The rest were named who sung so late, And, after long and keen debate, The specious nobles of the south Carried the nameless stranger youth; Though Highland wrath was at the full, Contending for the Bard of Mull.

Then did the worst dispute begin, Which of the three the prize should win. "Twas party all-not minstrel-worth, But honour of the south and north; And nought was heard throughout the court, But taunt, and sneer, and keen retort. High ran the words, and fierce the fume, And from beneath each nodding plume Red look was cast that vengeance said, And palm on broad-sword's hilt was laid, While Lowland jeer, and Highland mood, Threatened to end the Wake in blood.

Rose from his seat the Lord of Mar, Serene in counsel as in war. For shame, said he, contendants all! This outrage done in royal hall Is to our country foul disgrace: What! mock our Sovereign to her face! Whose generous heart, and taste refined, Alike to bard and courtier kind, This high repast for all designed. For shame! your party-strife suspend, And list the counsel of a friend. Unmeet it is for you or me To lessen one of all the three, Each excellent in his degree; But taste, as sapient sages tell, Varies with climes in which we dwell. Fair emblem of the Border-dale, Is cadence soft and simple tale; While stern romantic Highland-clime, Still nourishes the rude sublime. If Border-ear may taste the worth Of the wild pathos of the north; Or that sublimed by Ossian's lay, By forest dark and mountain gray, By clouds which frowning cliffs deform, By roaring flood and raving storm, Enjoy the smooth, the fairy tale, Or evening-song of Teviot-dale; Then trow you may the tides adjourn, And nature from her pathway turn; The wild-duck drive to mountain-tree, The capperkayle to swim the sea, The heath-cock to the shelvy shore, The partridge to the mountain hoar, And bring the red eyed ptarmigan To dwell by the abodes of man.

en full two hundred years had fled, the northern bards were dead, ostly harp, of wondrous mould, 1 of all its gems and gold, hat which Gardyn erst did play, o Dunedin found its way.

Tary's hand the victor crowned, vined the wreath his temples round, were the shouts of Highland chiefowlanders were dumb with grief; he poor Bard of Ettrick stood tatue pale, in moveless mood; ghost, which oft his eyes had scen aming in his glens so green. Mary saw the minstrel's pain, ade from bootless grief refrain. aid a boon to him should fall h all the harps in royal hall; ottish song a countless store, ous remains of minstrel-lore, cottage, by a silver rill,

1d all reward his rustic skill: Esther gift his bosom claim, eeded but that gift to name.

my fair Queen, the minstrel said, faltering voice and hanging head, cottage keep, and minstrel-loret me a harp, I ask no more. a thy own hand a lyre I crave, tboon alone my heart can save.—

Well hast thou asked: and be it known, ‚ve a harp of old renown

h many an ardent wight beguiled;
as framed by wizard of the wild,
will not yield one measure bland
eath a skill-less stranger hand;
once her powers by progress found,
here is magic in the sound!

en worldly woes oppress thy heart—
I thou and all must share a part—
uld scorn be cast from maiden's eye,
uld friendship fail, or fortune fly,
al with thy harp to lonely brake,
r wild, her soothing numbers wake,
d soon corroding cares shall cease,
d passion's host be lulled to peace;
gels a gilded screen shall cast,

at cheers the future, veils the past. at harp will make the elves of eve eir dwelling in the moon-beam leave, id ope thine eyes by haunted tree eir glittering tiny forms to see. he flitting shades that woo the glen will shape to forms of living men, o forms on earth no more you see, ho once were loved, and aye will be; nd holiest converse you may prove f things below and things above."

That is, that is the harp for me; aid the rapt bard in ecstasy;

This soothing, this exhaustless store, Grant me, my Queen, I ask no more.

O, when the weeping minstrel laid The relic in his old gray plaid, When Holyrood he left behind To gain his hills of mist and wind, Never was hero of renown,

Or monarch prouder of his crown.
He tript the vale, he climbed the coomb,
The mountain-breeze began to boom;
Aye when the magic chords it rung,
He raised his voice and blithely sung :
"Hush, my wild harp! thy notes forbear;
No blooming maids nor elves are here:
Forbear a while that witching tone,
Thou must not, canst not sing alone.
When Summer flings her watchet screen
At eve o'er Ettrick woods so green,
Thy notes shall many a heart beguile;
Young Beauty's eye shall o'er thee smile,-
And fairies trip it merrily

Around my royal harp and me."

Long has that harp of magic tone To all the minstrel-world been known: Who has not heard her witching lays Of Ettrick banks and Yarrow braes? But that sweet bard, who sung and played Of many a feat and Border-raid, Of many a knight and lovely maid, When forced to leave his harp behind, Did all her tuneful chords unwind; And many ages passed and came Ere man so well could tune the same. Bangour the daring task essayed, Not half the chords his fingers played; Yet even then some thrilling lays Bespoke the harp of ancient days. Redoubted Ramsay's peasant skill Flung some strained notes along the hill; His was some lyre from lady's hall, And not the mountain-harp at all. Langhorn arrived from Southern dale, And chimed his notes on Yarrow vale, They would not, could not, touch the heart; His was the modish lyre of art. Sweet rung the harp to Logan's hand: Then Leyden came from Border-land, With dauntless heart and ardour high, And wild impatience in his eye. Though false his tones at times might be, Though wild notes marred the symphony Between, the glowing measure stole That spoke the bard's inspired soul. Sad were those strains, when hymned afar, On the green vales of Malabar: O'er seas beneath the golden morn, They travelled on the monsoon borne, Thrilling the heart of Indian maid, Beneath the wild banana's shade.— Leyden! a shepherd wails thy fate, And Scotland knows her loss too late.

The day arrived-blest be the day, Walter the Abbot came that way!—