I.

"WAKE, Maid of Lorn !" the Minstrels sung.

Thy rugged halls, Artornish! rung,

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 60

Gave mountain echoes answer meet,

Since, met from mainland and from isle,

Ross, Arran, Ilay, 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 morn's resistless call-

Were silent in Artornish hall.

II

"Wake, Maid of Lorn!" 'twas thus they sung, And yet more proud the descant rung,

"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;

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.

"O 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;

P

But, Edith, wake, and all we see bus

Of sweet and fair shall yield to thee!"

"She comes not yet," grey 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."

He 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.

IV.

"Wake, Maid of Lorn! the moments fly,
Which yet that maiden-name allow;
Wake, Maiden, wake! the hour is nigh,
When Love shall claim a plighted vow.

By Fear, thy bosom's fluttering guest,
By Hope, that soon shall fears remove,
We bid thee break the bonds of rest,

And wake thee at the call of Love!

"Wake, Edith, wake! in yonder bay
Lies many a galley gaily mann'd,
We hear the merry pibrochs play,
We see the streamers' silken band.

What Chieftain's praise these pibrochs swell,

What crest is on these banners wove,

The harp, the minstrel, dare not tell

The riddle must be read by Love.”

V.

Retired her maiden train among,

Edith of Lorn received the song, "

But tamed the minstrel's pride had been

That had her cold demeanour seen;

For not upon her cheek awoke

The glow of pride when Flattery spoke,
Nor could their tenderest numbers bring

One sigh responsive to the string.

As vainly had her maidens vied

In skill to deck the princely bride.

Her locks, in dark-brown length array'd, Cathleen of Ulne, 'twas thine to braid; 1 Young Eva with meet reverence drew

On the light foot the silken shoe, 19