While on the ancle's slender round

Those strings of pearl fair Bertha wound, That, bleach'd Lochryan's depths within,

Seem'd dusky still on Edith's skin.

But Einion, of experience old,

Had weightiest task-the mantle's fold
In many an artful plait she tied,

To shew the form it seem'd to hide,

Till on the floor descending roll'd

Its waves of crimson blent with gold.

VI.

O! lives there now so cold a maid,
Who thus in beauty's pomp array'd,
In beauty's proudest pitch of power,
And conquest won-the bridal hour-
With every charm that wins the heart,
By Nature given, enhanced by Art,
Could yet the fair reflection view,
In the bright mirror pictured true,

And not one dimple on her cheek

A tell-tale consciousness bespeak ?—

Lives still such maid?-Fair damsels, say,

For further vouches not my lay,

Save that such lived in Britain's isle,

When Lorn's bright Edith scorn'd to smile.

VII.

But Morag, to whose fostering care

Proud Lorn had given his daughter fair,

Morag, who saw a mother's aid

By all a daughter's love repaid,

(Strict was that bond-most kind of all-
Inviolate in Highland hall—)
Grey Morag sate a space apart,
In Edith's eyes to read her heart.
In vain the attendants' fond appeal
To Morag's skill, to Morag's zeal';
She mark'd her child receive their care,

Cold as the image sculptured fair,

(Form of some sainted patroness)

Which cloister'd maids combine to dress;

She mark'd-and knew her nursling's heart

In the vain pomp took little part.

Wistful a while she gazed-then press'd

The maiden to her anxious breast

In finish'd loveliness-and led

To where a turret's airy head,

Slender and steep, and battled round, O'erlook'd, dark Mull! thy mighty Sound, Where thwarting tides, with mingled roar, Part thy swarth hills from Morven's shore.

VIII.

"Daughter," she said, "these seas behold,

Round twice an hundred islands roll'd,

From Hirt, that hears their northern roar,

To the green Ilay's fertile shore;

Or mainland turn, where many a tower
Owns thy bold brother's feudal power,

14

Each on its own dark cape reclined,
And listening to its own wild wind,
From where Mingarry, sternly placed,
O'erawes the woodland and the waste,
To where Dunstaffinage hears the raging
Of Connal with his rocks engaging.
Think'st thou, amid this ample round,
A single brow but thine has frown'd,
To sadden this auspicious morn,
That bids the daughter of high Lorn

Impledge her spousal faith to wed
The heir of mighty Somerled;
Ronald, from many a hero sprung,
The fair, the valiant, and the young,
LORD OF THE ISLES, whose lofty name
A thousand bards have given to fame,

The mate of monarchs, and allied

On equal terms with England's pride.

From chieftain's tower to bondsman's cot,

Who hears the tale, and triumphs not ?

sung,

The damsel dons her best attire,
The shepherd lights his beltane fire,
Joy, Joy! each warder's horn hath
Joy, Joy! each matin bell hath rung;
The holy priest says grateful mass,
Loud shouts each hardy galla-glass,

No mountain den holds outcast boor,
Of heart so dull, of soul so poor,
But he hath flung his task aside,
And claim'd this morn for holy-tide;

Yet, empress of this joyful day,

Edith is sad while all are gay."

IX.

Proud Edith's soul came to her eye,

Resentment check'd the struggling sigh,
Her hurrying hand indignant dried
The burning tears of injured pride-
"Morag, forbear! or lend thy praise.
To swell yon hireling harpers' lays;