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. Deem'st thou these sadden'd scenes have pleasure still, Lovest thou through Autumn's fading realms to stray, To note the red leaf shivering on the spray, To mark the last bright tints the mountain stain, O! if such scenes thou lovest, scorn not the minstrel strain. No! do not scorn, although its hoarser note Through fields time-wasted, on sad inquest bound, Where happier bards of yore have richer harvest found. So shalt thou list, and haply not unmoved, For, when on Coolin's hills the lights decay, With such the Seer of Skye the eve beguiles; 'Tis known amid the pathless wastes of Reay, In Harries known, and in Iona's piles, Where rest from mortal coil the Mighty of the Isles. I. "WAKE, Maid of Lorn!" the Minstrels sung. Thy rugged halls, Artornish! rung,' And the dark seas, thy towers that lave, The diapason of the Deep. Lull'd were the winds on Inninmore, And ne'er to symphony more sweet 1[See Appendix, Note A.] 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; 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; But, Edith, wake, and all we see Of sweet and fair shall yield to thee!"— 'The seal displays a taste for music, which could scarcely be expected from his habits and local predilections. They will long follow a boat in which any musical instrument is played, and even a tune simply whistled has attractions for them. The Dean of the Isles says of Heiskar, a small uninhabited rock, about twelve (Scottish) miles from the isle of Uist, that an infinite slaughter of seals takes place there. "She comes not yet," grey Ferrand cried; "Brethren, let softer spell be tried, Those notes prolong'd, that soothing theme, 66 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! 66 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. The harp, the minstrel, dare not tell- V. Retired her maiden train among, But tamed the minstrel's pride had been The glow of pride when Flattery spoke, Had weightiest task-the mantle's fold VI. O! lives there now so cold a maid, |