"There was a time-but it is gone !When he that sat on Albyn's throne Over his kindred Scots alone

Upheld a father's sway;
Upmix'd and unalloy'd they stood
With plodding Pict of Cimbrian brood,
Or sullen Saxon's pamper'd blood,
Their bane on future day.
Nations arose, and nations fell,
But still his sacred citadel
Of Grampian cliff and trackless dell
The Caledonian held.

Grim as the wolf that guards his young,
Above the dark defile he hung,
With targe and claymore forward flung;
The stoutest heart, the proudest tongue,
Of foemen there was quell'd!
The plumed chief, the plaided clan,
Mock'd at the might of mortal man,—
Even those the world who overran

Were from that bourn expell'd.
Then stood the Scot unmoved and free,
Wall'd by his hills and sounding sea;
Child of the ocean and the wood,
The frith, the forest, gave him food;

His couch the heath on summer even,
His coverlet the cloud of heaven,
While from the winter wind and sleet
The bothy was a shelter meet.
His home was in the desert rude,
His range the mountain solitude;
The sward beneath the forest tree
His revel-hall, his sanctuary;
His court of equity and right,
His tabernacle, was the height;
The field of fame his death-bed stern,
His cemetery the lonely cairn.
Such was the age, and such the day,
When young Queen Hynde, with gentle
sway,

Ruled o'er a people bold and free,
From vale of Clyde to Orcady.
The tale is old, but the event
Confirm'd by dreadful monument.
Her sire had eastern vales laid waste,
The Pict subdued, the Saxon chased,
And dying old and loved, resign'd
The sceptre to his lovely Hynde."

"Come, view the barefoot group with
me,

Kneeling upon one bended knee,
In two long piles-a lane between,
Where pass the maidens and their queen,
Up to the sacred altar stone,
Where good Columba stands alone.

There was one maiden of the train
Known by the name of Wicked Wene;
A lovely thing, of slender make,
Who mischief wrought for mischief's
sake;

And never was her heart so pleased
As when a man she vex'd or teazed.
By few at court she was approved,
And yet by all too well beloved;
So dark, so powerful was her eye,
Her mien so witching and so sly,
That every youth, as she inclined,
Was mortified, reserved, or kind;
This day would curse her in disdain,
And next would sigh for Wicked Wene.

No sooner had this fairy eyed
The looks demure on either side,
Than all her spirits 'gan to play
With keen desire to work deray.

Whene'er a face she could espy
Of more than meet solemnity,

Then would she tramp his crumpled toes,

Or, with sharp fillip on the nose,
Make the poor brother start and stare,
With watery eyes and bristling hair.
And yet this wayward elf the while
Inflicted all with such a smile,
That every monk, for all his pain,
Look'd as he wish'd it done again.
Saint Oran scarce the coil could
brook;

With holy anger glow'd his look;
But, judging still the imp would cease,
He knit his brows, and held his peace.

At length the little demon strode
Up to a huge dark man of God;
Her soft hand on his temple laid,
To feel how fair his pulses play'd;
Then by the beard his face she raised,
And on the astonished bedesman gazed
With such enchantment, such address,
Such sly, insidious wickedness,

That, spite of insult and amaze,

Softer and softer wax'd his gaze,

Till all his stupid face was blent
With smile of awkward languishment.
Saint Oran saw-in trumpet tone,
He cried Satan, avoid!--begone!
Hence!-all away! for, by the rood,
Ye're fiends in form of flesh and blood!'
Columba beckon'd; all was still.
Hynde knew the mover of the ill,
And, instant turning, look'd for Wene:
'I told thee, girl, and tell again,
For once remember where thou art,
And be due reverence thy part.'-

Wonderfully spirited, really. tive parts of the Queen's Wake.

Low bow'd the imp with seemly grace, And humbly shew'd to acquiesce; But mischief on that lip did lie, And sly dissemblage in the eye. Scarce had her mistress ceased to speak, When form'd the dimple on her cheek, And her keen glance did well bewray Who next should fall the jackall's prey. Saint Oran, woe be to the time She mark'd thy purity sublime!"

At first he tried with look severe That silent eloquence to sear, But little ween'd the fairy's skill, He tried what was impossible! His flush of wrath, and glance unkind, Were anodynes unto her mind. Then she would look demure, and sigh, And sink in graceful courtesy ;

Press both her hands on her fair breast, And look what could not be exprest! When o'er his frame her glance would stray,

He wist not what to do or say!

No one perceived the elf's despight,
Nor good Saint Oran's awkward plight.
So quick the motion of her eye,
All things at once she seem'd to spy;
For Hynde, who loved her, wont to

say,

For all her freaks by night and day,
Though mischief was her hourly meed,
She ne'er could catch her in the deed.
So instantly she wrought the harm,
Then, as by momentary charm,
Stood all composed, with simplest grace,
With look demure and thoughtful face,
As if unconscious of offence,

The statue of meek innocence !
Of Oran's wrath none saw the root,
The queen went on, and all were mute.".

"Scarce had he said the word, Amen, When petulant and pesterous Wene Kneel'd on the sand and clasp'd his

knee,

And thus address'd her earnest plea :

'O, holy sire! be it my meed
With thee a heavenly life to lead;
Here do I crave to sojourn still,
A nun, or abbess, which you will;
For much I long to taste with thee
A life of peace and purity.

Nay, think not me to drive away,
For here I am, and here I'll stay,
To teach my sex the right to scan,
And point the path of truth to man.

The path of truth!' Saint Oran cried,
His mouth and eyes distended wide;
It was not said, it was not spoke,
'Twas like a groan from prison broke,
With such a burst of rushing breath,
As if the pure and holy faith

Had, by that maiden's fond intent,
Been wholly by the roots uprent.-

The path of truth!-O God of heaven !

Be my indignant oath forgiven!
For, by thy vales of light I swear,
And all the saints that sojourn there,
If ever again a female eye,
That pole-star of iniquity,

Shed its dire influence through our fane,
In it no longer I remain.

"Were God for trial here to throw Man's ruthless and eternal foe, And ask with which I would contend, I'd drive thee hence, and take the fiend! The devil, man may hold at bay, With book, and bead, and holy lay; But from the snare of woman's wile, Her breath, and sin-uplifted smileNo power of man may 'scape that gin, His foe is in the soul within.

O! if beside the walks of men,
In green-wood glade, and mountain-glen,
Rise weeds so fair to look upon,
Woe to the land of Caledon !

Its strength shall waste, its vitals burn,
And all its honours overturn.
Go, get thee from our coast away,
Thou floweret of a scorching day?
Thou art, if mien not thee belies,
A demon in an angel's guise.'-

'Angels indeed!' said Lachlan Dhu, As from the strand the boat withdrew. Lachlan was he whom Wene address'd, Whose temple her soft hand had press'd; Whose beard she caught with flippant grace,

And smiled upon his sluggish face.
A burning sigh his bosom drew!

Angels indeed!' said Lachlan Dhu.

6 Lachlan,' the Father cried with heat, 'Thou art a man of thoughts unmeet! For that same sigh, and utterance too, Thou shalt a grievous penance do. Angels, forsooth!-O God, I pray, Such blooming angels keep away!'. Lachlan turn'd round in seeming pain, Look'd up to heaven, and sigh'd again!

From that time forth, it doth appear,
Saint Oran's penance was severe;
He fasted, pray'd, and wept outright,
Slept on the cold stone all the night:
And then, as if for error gross,
He caused them bind him to the cross,
Unclothe his back, and, man by man,
To lash him till the red blood ran,
But then-or yet in after time,
No one could ever learn his crime;
Each keen inquiry proved in vain,
Though all supposed he dream'd of
Wene.

Alas, what woes her mischief drew
On Oran and on Lachlan Dhu!
Sweet maiden, I thy verdict claim;
Was not Saint Oran sore to blame
For so inflicting pains condign?
O think, if such a doom were thine!
Of thy day-thoughts I nothing know,
Nor of thy dreams-and were it so,
They would but speak thy guileless core,
And I should love thee still the more.
But ah! if I were scourged to be
For every time I dream of thee,
Full hardly would thy poet thrive!
Harsh is his song that's flay'd alive!
Then let us breathe the grateful vow,
That stern Saint Oran lives not now.
The sun went down, the bark went
slow,

The tide was high, the wind was low;

Heyho! the jug, the jug!

And ere they won the Sound of Mull,
The beauteous group grew mute and dull.
Silent they lean'd against the prow,
And heard the gurgling waves below,
Playing so near with chuckling freak,
They almost ween'd it wet the cheek;
One single inch 'twixt them and death,
They wonder'd at their cordial faith!

During the silent, eiry dream,
This tedious sailing with the stream,
Old Ila Glas his harp-strings rung,
With hand elate, and puled and sung
A direful tale of woe and weir,
Of bold unearthly mountaineer;
A lay full tiresome, stale, and bare,
As most of northern ditties are:
I learn'd it from a bard of Mull,
Who deem'd it high and wonderful;
'Tis poor and vacant as the man;
I scorn to say it though I can.

Maid of Dunedin, thou may'st see,
Though long I strove to pleasure thee,
That now I've changed my timid tone,
And sing to please myself alone;
And thou wilt read, when, well I wot,
I care not whether you do or not.
Yes, I'll be querulous or boon,
Flow with the tide, change with the

moon;

For what am I, or what art thou,
Or what the cloud and radiant bow,
Or what are waters, winds, and seas,
But elemental energies?

The sea must flow, the cloud descend,
The thunder burst, the rainbow bend,
Not when they would, but when they can,
Fit emblems of the soul of man!
Then let me frolic while I may,
The sportive vagrant of a day;
Yield to the impulse of the time,
Be it a toy, or theme sublime;
Wing the thin air or starry sheen,
Sport with the child upon the green;
Dive to the sea-maid's coral dome,
Or fairy's visionary home;

Sail on the whirlwind or the storm,
Or trifle with the maiden's form,
Or raise up spirits of the hill,
But only if, and when I will.

Say, may the meteor of the wild,
Nature's unstaid, erratic child,
That glimmers o'er the forest fen,
Or twinkles in the darksome glen-
Can that be bound? can that be rein'd?
By cold ungenial rules restrain'd?
No!-leave it o'er its ample home,
The boundless wilderness, to roam!
To gleam, to tremble, and to die,
'Tis Nature's error, so am I!"

66 · ἵνα σφισιν ἐμβασιλευῃ !”_hem !—

"Whoe'er in future time shall stray O'er these wild valleys west away, Where first, by many a trackless strand, The Caledonian held command; Where ancient Lorn, from northern shores

Of Clyde to where Glen-Connel roars,
Presents in frowning majesty
Her thousand headlands to the sea:
O, traveller! whomsoe'er thou art,
Turn not aside, with timid heart,
At Connal's tide, but journey on
To the old site of Beregon;

I pledge my word, whether thou lovest
The poet's tale, or disapprovest,
So short, so easy is the way,
The scene shall well thy pains repay;
There shalt thou view on rock sublime,
The ruins grey of early time,
Where, frowning o'er the foamy flood,
The mighty halls of Selma stood.
And mark a valley stretching wide,
Inwall'd by cliffs on either side,
By curving shore, where billows broke,
And triple wall, from rock to rock;
Low in that strait, from bay to bay,
The ancient Beregonium lay.

Old Beregon! what soul so tame
Of Scot that warms not at thy name?
Or where the bard, of northern clime,
That loves not songs of Selma's time?
Yes, while so many legends tell
Of deeds, and woes, that there befell,

These ruins shall be dear to fame,
And brook the loved, the sacred name.

Nay, look around, on green-sea wave,
On cliff, and shelve, which breakers lave;
On stately towers and ruins grey,
On moat, and island, glen, and bay;
On remnants of the forest pine,
Old tenants of that mountain reign;
On cataract and shaggy mound,
On mighty mountains far around
Jura's fair bosom, form'd and full;
The dark and shapeless groups of Mull;
Others far north, in haze that sink,
Proud Nevis, on Lochaber's brink,
And blue Cruachan, bold and riven,
In everlasting coil with heaven.
View all the scene, and view it well,
Consult thy memory, and tell
If on the earth exists the same,
Or one so well deserves the name."

Thou still may'st see, on looking round, That, saving from the northern bound, Where stretch'd the suburbs to the muir, The city stood from foes secure. North on Bornean height was placed King Eric's camp, o'er heathery waste; And on Barvulen's ridge behind, Rock'd his pavilion to the wind, Where royal banners, floating high Like meteors, stream'd along the sky."