When ceased the shepherd's simple lay, With careless mien he lounged away..

No bow he deigned, nor anxious looked How the gay throng their minstrel brooked. No doubt within his bosom grew,

That to his skill the prize was due.

Well might he hope, for while he sung,
Louder and louder plaudits rung;

And when he ceased his numbers wild,
Fair Royalty approved and smiled.
Long had the bard, with hopes elate,
Sung to the low, the gay, the great;
And once had dared, at flatterer's call,
To tune his harp in Branxholm hall;
But nor his notes of soothing sound,

Nor zealous word of bard renowned,

Might those persuade, that worth could be

Inherent in such mean degree.

But when the smile of Sovereign fair

Attested genuine nature there,

Throbbed high with rapture every breast,

And all his merit stood confest.

Different the next the herald named ;
Warrior he was, in battle maimed,

When Lennox, on the downs of Kyle,
O'erthrew Maconnel and Argyle.
Unable more the sword to wield
With dark Clan-Alpine in the field,
Or rouse the dun deer from her den
With fierce Macfarlane and his men;
He strove to earn a minstrel name,

And fondly nursed the sacred flame.
Warm was his heart, and bold his strain;
Wild fancies in his moody brain
Gambolled, unbridled, and unbound,
Lured by a shade, decoyed by sound.

In tender age, when mind was free,

As standing by his nurse's knee,
He heard a tale, so passing strange,

Of injured spirit's cool revenge,

It chilled his heart with blasting dread,
Which never more that bosom fled.

And

When passion's flush had fled his eye,
gray hairs told that youth was bye,
Still quaked his heart at bush or stone,
As wandering in the gloom alone.

Where foxes roam, and eagles rave,

And dark woods round Ben-Lomond wave, Once on a night, a night of dread!

He held convention with the dead;

Brought warnings to the house of death,
And tidings from a world beneath.

Loud blew the blast-the evening came, The way was long, the minstrel lame; The mountain's side was dern with oak, Darkened with pine, and ribbed with rock ; Blue billows round its base were driven, Its top was steeped in waves of heaven.

The wood, the wind, the billow's moan,

All spoke in language of their own,

But too well to our minstrel known.
Wearied, bewildered, in amaze,

Hymning in heart the Virgin's praise,
A cross he framed, of birchen bough,
And 'neath that cross he laid him low;
Hid by the heath, and Highland plaid,
His old harp in his bosom laid.

O! when the winds that wandered by,
Sung on her breast their lullaby,

How thrilled the tones his bosom through,

And deeper, holier, poured his vow!

No sleep was his he raised his eye, To note if dangerous place was nigh. There columned rocks, abrupt and rude,

Hung o'er his gateless solitude:

The muffled sloe, and tangling brier,

Precluded freak or entrance here;

But yonder oped a little path,
O'ershadowed, deep, and dark as death.
Trembling, he groped around his lair
For mountain ash, but none was there.
Teeming with forms, his terror grew;
Heedful he watched, for well he knew,
That in that dark and devious dell,
Some lingering ghost or sprite must dwell :
So as he trowed, so it befel.

The stars were wrapt in curtain gray,

The blast of midnight died away;
"Twas just the hour of solemn dread,
When walk the spirits of the dead.
Rustled the leaves with gentle motion,
Groaned his chilled soul in deep devotion.
The lake-fowl's wake was heard no more;
The wave forgot to brush the shore;
Hushed was the bleat, on moor and hill;
The wandering clouds of heaven stood still.