No chieftain there rode half so free,

Or half so light and gracefully.

How sweet to see her ringlets pale

Wide waving in the southland gale,

Which through the broom-wood blossoms flew, To fan her cheeks of rosy hue!

Whene'er it heaved her bosom's screen,

What beauties in her form were seen!

And when her courser's mane it swung,

A thousand silver bells were rung.

A sight so fair, on Scottish plain,

A Scot shall never see again.

When Mary turned her wondering eyes
On rocks that seemed to prop the skies;
On palace, park, and battled pile;

On lake, on river, sea, and isle;
O'er woods and meadows bathed in dew,

To distant mountains wild and blue;

She thought the isle that gave her birth,

The sweetest, wildest land on earth.

Slowly she ambled on her way

Amid her lords and ladies gay.

Priest, abbot, layman, all were there,
And Presbyter with look severe.

There rode the lords of France and Spain,

Of England, Flanders, and Lorraine,

While serried thousands round them stood, From shore of Leith to Holyrood.

Though Mary's heart was light as air

To find a home so wild and fair ;

To see a gathered nation by,

And rays of joy from every eye;

Though frequent shouts the welkin broke,
Though courtiers bowed and ladies spoke,
An absent look they oft could trace
Deep settled on her comely face.

Was it the thought, that all alone

She must support a rocking throne?

That Caledonia's rugged land

Might scorn a Lady's weak command,

And the Red Lion's haughty eye
Scowl at a maiden's feet to lie?

No; 'twas the notes of Scottish song,
Soft pealing from the countless throng.
So mellowed came the distant swell,
That on her ravished ear it fell
Like dew of heaven, at evening close,

On forest flower or woodland rose.
For Mary's heart, to nature true,
The powers of song and music knew:
But all the choral measures bland,
Of anthems sung in southern land,
Appeared an useless pile of art,
Unfit to sway or melt the heart,

Compared with that which floated by,

Her simple native melody.

As she drew nigh the Abbey stile,

She halted, reined, and bent the while:

She heard the Caledonian lyre

Pour forth its notes of runic fire;

But scarcely caught the ravished Queen,

The minstrel's song that flowed between;
Entranced upon the strain she hung,

"Twas thus the gray-haired minstrel sung.

The Song.

"O! Lady dear, fair is thy noon,

But man is like the inconstant moon:

Last night she smiled o'er lawn and lea;

That moon will change, and so will he.

66

Thy time, dear Lady, 's a passing shower; Thy beauty is but a fading flower;

Watch thy young bosom, and maiden eye,

For the shower must fall, and the flow'ret die."

What ails my Queen? said good Argyle, Why fades upon her cheek the smile?

Say, rears your steed too fierce and high? Or sits your golden seat awry?

Ah! no, my Lord! this noble steed,
Of Rouen's calm and generous breed,
Has borne me over hill and plain,
Swift as the dun-deer of the Seine.
But such a wild and simple lay,
Poured from the harp of minstrel gray,
My every sense away it stole,

And swayed a while my raptured soul.
O! say, my Lord (for you must know
What strains along your vallies flow,
And all the hoards of Highland lore),
Was ever song so sweet before?-

Replied the Earl, as round he flung,Feeble the strain that minstrel sung! My royal Dame, if once you heard The Scottish lay from Highland bard,