<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=519706" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Lord of the Isles: Canto I.</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Autumn departs - but still his mantle's fold<br>Rests on the groves of noble Somerville,<br>Beneath a shroud of russet dropp'd with gold,<br>Tweed and his tributaries mingle still;<br>Hoarser the wind, and deeper sounds the rill,<br>Yet lingering notes of silvan music swell,<br>The deep-toned cushat, and the redbreast shrill:<br>And yet some tints of summer splendour tell<br>When the broad sun sinks down on Ettrick's western fell.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Autumn departs - from Gala's fields no more<br>Come rural sounds our kindred banks to cheer;<br>Blent with the stream, and gale that wafts it o'er,<br>No more the distant reaper's mirth we hear.<br>The last blithe shout hath died upon our ear,<br>And harvest-home hath hush'd the changing wain,<br>On the waste hill no forms of life appear,<br>Save where, sad laggard of the autumnal train,<br>Some age-struck wanderer gleans few ears of scatter'd grain.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Deem'st thou these sadden'd scenes have pleasure still,<br>Lovest thou through Autumn's fading realms to stray,<br>To see the heath-flower wither'd on the hill,<br>To listen to the wood's expiring lay,<br>To note the red leaf shivering on the spray,<br>To mark the last bright tints the mountain stain,<br>On the waste fields to trace the gleaner's way,<br>And moralise on mortal joy and pain? - <br>O! if such scenes thou lovest, scorn not the minstrel strain.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">No! do not scorn, although its hoarser note<br>Scarce with the cushat's homely song can vie,<br>Though faint its beauties as the tints remote<br>That gleam through mist in autumn's evening sky,<br>And few as leaves that tremble, sear and dry,<br>When wild November hath his bugle wound;<br>Nor mock my toil - a lonely gleaner I, <br>Through fields time-wasted, on and inquest bound,<br>Where happier bards of yore have richer harvest found.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">So shalt thou list, and haply not unmoved,<br>To a wild tale of Albyn's warrior day;<br>In distant lands, by the rough West reproved,<br>Still live some relics of the ancient lay.<br>For, when on Coolin's hills the lights decay,<br>With such the Seer of Skye the eve beguiles;<br>'Tis known amid the pathless wastes of Reay,<br>In Harries known, and in Iona's piles,<br>Where rest from mortal coil the Mighty of the Isles.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Canto I. <br>I. <br>'Wake, Maid of Lorn!' the Minstrels sung.-<br>Thy rugged halls, Artornish! rung,<br>And the dark seas, thy towers that lave,<br>Heaved on the beach a softer wave,<br>As 'mid the tuneful choir to keep<br>The diapason of the Deep.<br>Lull'd were the winds of Inninmore,<br>And green Loch-Alline's woodland shore,<br>As if wild woods and waves had pleasure<br>In listing to the lovely measure.<br>And ne'er to symphony more sweet<br>Gave mountain echoes answer meet,<br>Since, met from mainland and from isle,<br>Ross, Arran, Hay, and Argyle,<br>Each minstrel's tributary lay<br>Paid homage to the festal day.<br>Dull and dishonour'd were the bard,<br>Worthless of guerdon and regard,<br>Deaf to the hope of minstrel fame,<br>Or lady's smiles, his noblest aim,<br>Who on that morn's resistless call<br>Where silent in Artornish hall.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">II.<br>'Wake, Maid of Lorn!' - 'twas thus they sung,<br>And yet more proud the descant rung,<br>'Wake, Maid of Lorn! high right is ours,<br>To charm dull sleep from Beauty's bowers;<br>Earth, Ocean, Air, have nought so shy <br>But owns the power of minstrelsy.<br>In Lettermore the timid deer<br>Will pause, the harp's wild chime to hear;<br>Rude Heiskar's seal through surges dark<br>Will long pursue the minstrel's bark;<br>To list his notes, the eagle proud<br>Will poise him on Ben-Cailliach's cloud;<br>Then let not Maiden's ear disdain<br>The summons of the minstrel train,<br>But, while our harps wild music make, <br>Edith of Lorn, awake, awake!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">III.<br>'O wake, while Dawn, with dewy shine, <br>Wakes Nature's charms to vie with thine!<br>She bids the mottled thrush rejoice<br>To mate thy melody of voice;<br>The dew that on the violet lies<br>Mocks the dark lustre of thine eyes;<br>But, Edith, wake, and all we see<br>Of sweet and fair shall yield to thee!'-<br>'She comes not yet,' grey Ferrand cried;<br>'Brethren, let softer spell be tried,<br>Those notes prolong'd, that soothing theme,<br>Which best may mix with Beauty's dream,<br>And whisper, with their silvery tone,<br>The hope she loves, yet fears to own.'<br>He spoke, and on the harp-strings died<br>The strains of flattery and of pride;<br>More soft, more low, more tender fell<br>The lay of love he bade them tell.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">IV.<br>'Wake, Maid of Lorn! the moments fly,<br>Which yet that maiden-name allow;<br>Wake, Maiden, wake! the hour is nigh,<br>When love shall claim a plighted vow.<br>By Fear, thy bosom's fluttering guest,<br>By Hope, that soon shall fears remove,<br>We bid thee break the bonds of rest,<br>And wake thee at the call of Love!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Wake, Edith, wake! in yonder bay<br>Lies many a galley gaily mann'd, <br>We hear the merry pibrochs play,<br>We see the streamer's silken band.<br>What Chieftain's praise these pibrochs swell,<br>What crest is on these banners wove,<br>The harp, the minstrel, dare not tell -<br>The riddle must be read by Love.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">V.<br>Retired her maiden train among,<br>Edith of Lorn received the song,<br>But tamed the minstrel's pride had been<br>That had her cold demeanour seen;<br>For not upon her cheek awoke <br>The glow of pride when Flattery spoke,<br>Nor could their tenderest numbers bring<br>One sigh responsive to the string.<br>As vainly had her maidens vied<br>In skill to deck the princely bride.<br>Her locks, in dark-brown length array'd,<br>Cathleen of Ulne, 'twas thine to braid;<br>Young Eva with meet reverence drew<br>On the light foot with silken shoe,<br>While on the ankle's slender round<br>Those strings of pearl fair Bertha wound,<br>That, bleach'd Lochryan's depths within,<br>Seem'd dusky still on Edith's skin.<br>But Einion, of experience old,<br>Had weightiest task - the mantle's fold<br>In many an artful plait she tied,<br>To show the form it seem'd to hide,<br>Till on the floor descending roll'd<br>Its waves of crimson blent with gold.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">VI.<br>O! lives there now so cold a maid,<br>Who thus in beauty's pomp array'd,<br>In beauty's proudest pitch of power,<br>And conquest won - the bridal hour -<br>With every charm that wins the heart,<br>By Nature given, enhanced by Art,<br>Could yet the fair reflection view,<br>In the bright mirror pictured true,<br>And not one dimple on her cheek<br>A tell-tale consciousness bespeak?-<br>Lives still such a maid? - Fair damsels, say,<br>For further vouches not my lay,<br>Save that such lived in Britain's isle,<br>When Lorn's bright Edith scorn'd to smile.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">VII.<br>But Morag, to whose fostering care<br>Proud Lorn had given his daughter fair,<br>Morag, who saw a mother's aid<br>By all a daughter's love repaid,<br>(Strict was that bond - most kind of all - <br>Inviolate in Highland hall)-<br>Grey Morag sate a space apart,<br>In Edith's eyes to read her heart.<br>In vain the attendant's fond appeal<br>To Morag's skill, to Morag's zeal;<br>She mark'd her child receive their care,<br>Cold as the image sculptured fair,<br>(Form of some sainted patroness,)<br>Which cloister'd maids combine to dress;<br>She mark'd - and knew her nursling's heart<br>In the vain pomp took little part.<br>Wistful a while she gazed - then press'd<br>The maiden to her anxious breast<br>In finish'd loveliness - and led <br>To where a turret's airy head,<br>Slender and steep, and battled round,<br>O'erlook'd, dark Mull! thy mighty Sound,<br>Where thwarting tides, with mingled roar,<br>Part thy swarth hills from Morven's shore.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">VIII.<br>'Daughter,' she said, 'these seas behold,<br>Round twice a hundred islands roll'd,<br>From Hirt, that hears their northern roar,<br>Or mainland turn, where many a tower<br>Owns thy bold brother's feudal power,<br>Each on its own dark cape reclined,<br>And listening to its own wild wind,<br>From where Mingarry, sternly placed,<br>O'erawes the woodland and the waste,<br>To where Dunstaffnage hears the raging<br>Of Connal with his rocks engaging.<br>Think'st thou, amid this ample round,<br>A single brow but thine has frown'd,<br>To sadden this auspicious morn,<br>That bids the daughter of high Lorn<br>Impledge her spousal faith to wed <br>The heir of mighty Somerled?<br>Ronald, from many a hero sprung,<br>The fair, the valiant, and the young,<br>Lord of the Isles, whose lofty name<br>A thousand bards have given to fame,<br>The mate of monarchs, and allied<br>On equal terms with England's pride.-<br>From Chieftain's tower to bondsman's cot,<br>Who hears the tale, and triumphs not?<br>The damsel dons her best attire,<br>The shepherd lights his beltane fire,<br>Joy! joy! each warder's horn hath sung,<br>Joy! joy! each matin bell hath rung;<br>The holy priest says grateful mass, <br>Loud shouts each hardy galla-glass,<br>No mountain den holds outcast boor,<br>Of heart so dull, of soul so poor,<br>But he hath flung his task aside,<br>And claim'd this morn for holy-tide;<br>Yet, empress of this joyful day,<br>Edith is sad while all are gay.'-</div><div style="margin:10px 0">IX. <br>Proud Edith's soul came to her eye,<br>Resentment check'd the struggling sigh.<br>Her hurrying hand indignant dried <br>The burning tears of injured pride -<br>'Morag, forbear! or lend thy praise<br>To swell yon hireling harpers' lays;<br>Make to yon maids thy boast of power,<br>That they may waste a wondering hour, <br>Telling of banners proudly borne,<br>Of pealing bell and bugle horn,<br>Or, theme more dear, of robes of price,<br>Crownlets and gauds of rare device.<br>But thou, experienced as thou art,<br>Think'st thou with these to cheat the heart,<br>That, bound in strong affection's chain,<br>No! sum thine Edith's wretched lot<br>In these brief words - He loves her not!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">X. <br>'Debate it not - too long I strove <br>To call his cold observance love,<br>All blinded by the league that styled<br>Edith of Lorn, - while yet a child,<br>She tripp'd the heath by Morag's side, -<br>The brave Lord Ronald's destined bride.<br>Ere yet I saw him, while afar<br>His broadsword blazed in Scotland's war,<br>Train'd to believe our fates the same,<br>My bosom throbb'd when Ronald's name <br>Came gracing fame's heroic tale,<br>Like perfume on the summer gale.<br>What pilgrim sought our halls, nor told<br>Of Ronald's deeds in battle bold;<br>Who touch'd the harp to heroes' praise;<br>But his achievements swell'd the lays?<br>Even Morag - not a tale of fame<br>Was hers but closed with Ronald's name.<br>He came! and all that had been told<br>Of his high worth seem'd poor and cold,<br>Tame, lifeless, void of energy,<br>Unjust to Ronald and to me!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XI. <br>'Since then, what thought had Edith's heart,<br>And gave not plighted love its part! - <br>And what requital? cold delay - <br>Excuse that shunn'd the spousal day.-<br>It dawns, and Ronald is not here!-<br>Hunts he Bentella's nimble deer,<br>Or loiters he in secret dell<br>To bid some lighter love farewell,<br>And swear, that though he may not scorn<br>A daughter of the House of Lorn,<br>Yet, when these formal rites are o'er,<br>Again they meet, to part no more?'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XII.<br>-'Hush, daughter, hush! thy doubts remove<br>More nobly think of Ronald's love.<br>Look, where beneath the castle grey<br>His fleet unmoor from Aros bay!<br>See'st not each galley's topmast bend,<br>As on the yards the sails ascend?<br>Hiding the dark-blue land they rise,<br>Like the white clouds on April skies;<br>The shouting vassals man the oars,<br>Behind them sink Mull's mountain shores,<br>Onward their merry course they keep, <br>Through whistling breeze and foaming deep.<br>And mark the headmost, seaward cast,<br>Stoop to the freshening gale her mast,<br>As if she veil'd its banner'd pride,<br>To greet afar her Prince's bride!<br>Thy Ronald comes, and while in speed<br>His galley mates the flying steed,<br>He chides her sloth!' - Fair Edith sigh'd,<br>Blush'd, sadly smiled, and thus replied: - </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XIII.<br>'Sweet thought, but vain! - No, Morag! mark,<br>Type of his course, yon lonely bark, <br>That oft hath shifted helm and sail,<br>To win its way against the gale.<br>Since peep of morn, my vacant eyes<br>Have view'd by fits the course she tries;<br>Now, though the darkening scud comes on, <br>And dawn's fair promises be gone,<br>And though the weary crew may see<br>Our sheltering haven on their lea,<br>Still closer to the rising wind<br>They strive her shivering sail to bind,<br>Still nearer to the shelves' dread verge<br>At every tack her course they urge,<br>As if they fear'd Artornish more<br>Than adverse winds and breakers' roar.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XIV.<br>Sooth spoke the Maid. - Amid the tide<br>The skiff she mark'd lay tossing sore,<br>And shifted oft her stooping side,<br>In weary tack from shore to shore.<br>Yet on her destined course no more<br>She gain'd, or forward way,<br>Than what a minstrel may compare<br>To the poor meed which peasants share,<br>Who toil the livelong day;<br>And such the risk her pilot braves,<br>That oft, before she wore,<br>Her boltsprit kiss'd the broken waves,<br>Where in white foam the ocean raves<br>Upon the shelving shore.<br>Yet, to their destined purpose true,<br>Undaunted toil'd her hardy crew,<br>Nor look'd where shelter lay,<br>Nor for Artornish Castle drew,<br>Nor steer'd for Aros bay.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XV.<br>Thus while they strove with wind and seas,<br>Borne onward by the willing breeze,<br>Lord Ronald's fleet swept by,<br>Stream'd with silk, and trick'd with gold,<br>Mann'd with the noble and the bold<br>Of island chivalry.<br>Around their prows the ocean roars,<br>And chafes beneath their thousand oars,<br>Yet bears them on their way:<br>So chafes the war-horse in his might,<br>That fieldward bears some valiant knight,<br>Champs, till both bit and boss are white,<br>But, foaming, must obey.<br>On each gay deck they might behold<br>Lances of steel and crests of gold,<br>And hauberks with their burnish'd fold,<br>That shimmer'd fair and free;<br>And each proud galley, as she pass'd,<br>To the wild cadence of the blast<br>Gave wilder minstrelsy.<br>Full many a shrill triumphant note<br>Saline and Scallastle bade float<br>Their misty shores around;<br>And Morven's echoes answer'd well,<br>And Duart heard the distant swell<br>Come down the darksome Sound.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XVI.<br>So bore they on with mirth and pride,<br>And if that labouring bark they spied,<br>'Twas with such idle eye<br>As nobles cast on lowly boor,<br>When, toiling in his task obscure,<br>They pass him careless by.<br>Let them sweep on with heedless eyes!<br>But, had they known what mighty prize<br>In that frail vessel lay,<br>The famish'd wolf, that prowls the wold,<br>Had scatheless pass'd the unguarded fold,<br>Ere, drifting by these galleyes bold,<br>Unchallenged were her way!<br>And thou, Lord Ronald, sweep thou on,<br>With mirth, and pride, and minstrel tone!<br>But hadst thou known who sail'd so nigh,<br>Far other glance were in thine eye!<br>Far other flush were on thy brow,<br>That, shaded by the bonnet, now<br>Assumes but ill the blithesome cheer<br>Of bridegroom when the bride is near!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XVII.<br>Yes, sweep they on! - We will not leave,<br>For them that triumph, those who grieve,<br>With that armada gay<br>Be laughter loud and jocund shout,<br>And bards to cheer the wassail rout,<br>With tale, and romance, and lay;<br>And of wild mirth each clamorous art,<br>Which, if it cannot cheer the heart,<br>May stupefy and stun its smart,<br>For one loud busy day.<br>Yes, sweep they on! - But with that skiff<br>Abides the minstrel tale,<br>Where there was dread of surge and cliff,<br>Labour that strain'd each sinew stiff,<br>And one sad Maiden's wail.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XVIII.<br>All day with fruitless strife they toil'd,<br>With eve the ebbing currents boil'd<br>More fierce from straight and lake;<br>And midway through the channel met<br>Conflicting tides that foam and fret,<br>And high their mingled billows jet,<br>As spears, that, in the battle set,<br>Spring upward as they break.<br>Then, too, the lights of eve were past,<br>And louder sung the western blast<br>On rocks of Inninmore;<br>Rent was the sail, and strain'd the mast,<br>And many a leak was gaping fast,<br>And the pale steersman stood aghast,<br>And gave the conflict o'er.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XIX.<br>'Twas then that One, whose lofty look<br>Nor labour dull'd nor terror shook,<br>Thus to the Leader spoke:-<br>'Brother, how hopest thou to abide <br>The fury of this wilder'd tide,<br>Or how avoid the rock's rude side,<br>Until the day has broke?<br>Didst thou not mark the vessel reel,<br>With quivering planks, and groaning keel,<br>At the last billow's shock?<br>Yet how of better counsel tell,<br>Though here thou see'st poor Isabel<br>Half dead with want and fear;<br>For look on sea, or look on land,<br>Or yon dark sky, on every hand<br>Despair and death are near.<br>For her alone I grieve - on me<br>Danger sits light, by land and sea,<br>I follow where thou wilt;<br>Either to bide the tempest's lour,<br>Or went to yon unfriendly tower,<br>Or rush amid their naval power,<br>With war-cry wake their wassail-hour,<br>And die with hand on hilt.'-</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XX.<br>That elder Leader's calm reply<br>In steady voice was given,<br>'In man's most dark extremity<br>Oft succour dawns from Heaven.<br>Edward, trim thou the shatter'd sail,<br>The helm be mine, and down the gate<br>Let our free course be driven;<br>So shall we 'scape the western bay,<br>The hostile fleet, the unequal fray,<br>So safely hold our vessel's way<br>Beneath the Castle wall;<br>For if a hope of safety rest,<br>'Tis on the sacred name of guest,<br>Who seeks for shelter, storm-distress'd,<br>Within a chieftain's hall.<br>If not - it best beseems our worth,<br>Our name, our right, our lofty birth,<br>By noble hands to fall.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXI.<br>The helm, to his strong arm consign'd,<br>Gave the reef'd sail to meet the wind,<br>And on her alter'd way,<br>Fierce bonding, forward sprung the ship,<br>Like greyhound starting from the slip<br>To seize his flying prey.<br>Awaked before the rushing prow,<br>The mimic fires of ocean glow,<br>Those lightnings of the wave;<br>Wild sparkles crest the broken tides,<br>And, flashing round, the vessel's sides<br>With elvish lustre lave,<br>While, far behind, their livid light<br>To the dark billows of the night<br>A gloomy splendour gave,<br>It seems as if old Ocean shakes<br>From his dark brow the lucid flakes<br>In envious pageantry,<br>To match the meteor-light that streaks<br>Grim Hecla's midnight sky.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXII.<br>Nor lack'd they steadier light to keep<br>Their course upon the darken'd deep;-<br>Artornish, on her frowning steep<br>'Twixt cloud and ocean hung,<br>Glanced with a thousand lights of glee,<br>And landward far, and far to sea,<br>Her festal radiance flung.<br>By that blithe beacon-light they steer'd, <br>Whose lustre mingled well<br>With the pale beam that now appear'd, <br>As the cold moon her head uprear'd<br>Above the eastern fell.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXIII.<br>Thus guided, on their course they bore,<br>Until they near'd the mainland shore,<br>When frequent on the hollow blast<br>Wild shouts of merriment were cast,<br>And wind and wave and sea-birds' cry<br>With wassail sounds in concert vie,<br>Like funeral shrieks with revelry,<br>Or like the battle-shout<br>By peasants heard from cliffs on high,<br>When Triumph, Rage, and Agony,<br>Madden the fight and rout.<br>Now nearer yet, through mist and storm<br>Dimly arose the Castle's form, <br>And deepen'd shadow made,<br>Far lengthen'd on the main below,<br>Where, dancing in reflected glow,<br>A hundred torches play'd,<br>Spangling the wave with lights as vain<br>As pleasures in this vale of pain,<br>That dazzle as they fade. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXIV.<br>Beneath the Castle's sheltering lee,<br>They staid their course in quiet sea.<br>Hewn in the rock, a passage there<br>Sought the dark fortress by a stair,<br>So strait, so high, so steep,<br>With peasant's staff on valiant hand <br>Might well the dizzy path have mann'd,<br>'Gainst hundreds arm'd with spear and brand,<br>And plunged them in the deep. <br>His bugle then the helmsman wound;<br>Loud answered every echo round,<br>From turret, rock, and bay,<br>The postern's hinges crash and groan,<br>And soon the Warder's cresset shone<br>On those rude steps of slippery stone,<br>To light the upward way.<br>'Thrice welcome, holy Sire!' he said;<br>'Full long the spousal train have staid,<br>And, vex'd at thy delay,<br>Fear'd lest, amidst these wildering seas,<br>The darksome night and freshening breeze<br>Had driven thy bark astray.'-</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXV.<br>'Warder,' the younger stranger said,<br>'Thine erring guess some mirth had made<br>In mirthful hour; but nights like these,<br>When the rough winds wake western seas,<br>Brook not of glee. We crave some aid<br>And needful shelter for this maid <br>Until the break of day;<br>For, to ourselves, the deck's rude plank<br>That's breath'd upon by May.<br>And for our storm-toss'd skiff we seek<br>Short shelter in this leeward creek,<br>Prompt when the dawn the east shall streak<br>Again to bear away.'-<br>Answered the Warder, 'In what name<br>Assert ye hospitable claim?<br>Whence come, or whither bound?<br>Hath Erin seen your parting sails,<br>Or come ye on Norweyan gales?<br>And seek ye England's fertile vales,<br>Or Scotland's mountain ground?'-</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXVI.<br>'Warriors - for other title none<br>For some brief space we list to own,<br>Bound by a vow - warriors are we;<br>In strife by land and storm by sea,<br>We have been known to fame;<br>And these brief words have import dear,<br>When sounded in a noble ear,<br>To harbour safe, and friendly cheer,<br>That gives us rightful claim.<br>Grant us the trivial boon we seek,<br>And we in other realms will speak<br>Fair of your courtesy;<br>Deny - and be your niggard Hold<br>Scorn'd by the noble and the bold,<br>Shunn'd by the pilgrim on the wold,<br>And wanderer on the lea!'-</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXVII.<br>'Bold stranger, no - 'gainst claim like thine,<br>No bolt revolves by hand of mine,<br>Though urged in tone that more express'd<br>A monarch than a suppliant guest.<br>Be what ye will, Artornish Hall<br>On this glad eve is free to all.<br>Though ye had drawn a hostile sword<br>'Gainst our ally, great England's Lord,<br>Or mail upon your shoulders borne, <br>To battle with the Lord of Lorn,<br>Or, outlaw'd, dwelt by greenwood tree<br>With the fierce Knight of Ellerslie,<br>Or aided even the murderous strife,<br>When Comyn fell beneath the knife<br>Of that fell homicide The Bruce,<br>This night had been a term of truce.-<br>Ho, vassals! give these guests your care,<br>And show the narrow postern stair.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXVIII.<br>To land these two bold brethren leapt,<br>(The weary crew their vessel kept),<br>And, lighted by the torches' flare,<br>That seaward flung their smoky glare,<br>The younger knight that maiden bare<br>Half lifeless up the rock;<br>On his strong shoulder lean'd her head,<br>And down her long dark tresses shed,<br>As the wild vine in tendrils spread,<br>Droops from the mountain oak.<br>Him follow'd close that elder Lord,<br>And in his hand a sheathed sword,<br>Such as few arms could wield;<br>But when he boun'd him to such task,<br>Well could it cleave the strongest casque,<br>And rend the surest shield.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXIX.<br>The raised portcullis' arch they pass,<br>The wicket with its bars of brass,<br>The entrance long and low,<br>Flank'd at each turn by loop-holes strait,<br>Where bowmen might in ambush wait,<br>(If force or fraud should burst the gate), <br>To gall an entering foe.<br>But every jealous post of ward<br>Was now defenceless and unbarr'd,<br>And all the passage free<br>To one low-brow'd and vaulted room,<br>Where squire and yeoman, page and groom,<br>Plied their loud revelry.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXX.<br>And 'Rest ye here,' the Warder bade,<br>'Till to our Lord your suit is said.-<br>And, comrades, gaze not on the maid,<br>And on these men who ask our aid,<br>As if ye ne'er had seen <br>A damsel tired of midnight bark,<br>Or wanderers of a moulding stark, <br>And bearing martial mien.'<br>But not for Eachin's reproof<br>Would page or vassal stand aloof,<br>But crowded on to stare,<br>As men of courtesy untaught,<br>Till fiery Edward roughly caught,<br>From one, the foremost there,<br>His chequer'd plaid, and in its shroud,<br>Involved his sister fair.<br>His brother, as the clansman bent<br>His sullen brow in discontent,<br>Made brief and stern excuse;-<br>'Vassal, were thine the cloak of pall<br>That decks thy lord in bridal hall,<br>'Twere honour'd by her use.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXXI.<br>Proud was his tone, but calm; his eye<br>Had that compelling dignity,<br>His mien that bearing haught and high,<br>Which common spirits fear;<br>Need nor word nor signal more,<br>Nod, wink, and laughter, all were o'er;<br>Upon each other back they bore,<br>And gazed like startled deer.<br>But now appear'd the Seneschal,<br>Commission'd by his lord to call<br>The strangers to the Baron's hall,<br>Where feasted fair and free<br>That Island Prince is nuptial tide,<br>With Edith there his lovely bride,<br>And her bold brother by her side,<br>And many a chief, the flower and pride<br>Of Western land and sea.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Here pause we, gentles, for a space;<br>And, if our tale hath won your grace,<br>Grant us brief patience, and again<br>We will renew the minstrel strain.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Sir+Walter+Scott">Sir Walter Scott</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=519706" data-title="The Lord of the Isles: Canto I. de Sir Walter Scott" data-description="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 silvan..."></div> </div> </div>

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