Short was the pause; the stranger youth, The gaudy minstrel of the south, Whose glossy eye and lady form Had never braved the northern storm, Stepped lightly forth,-kneeled three times low, And then, with many a smile and bow, Mounted the form amid the ring, And rung his harp's responsive string. Long, long he twisted, long he coned; Valet with Parma's knight he came, With pain by night, and care by day, Malcolm of Lorn. THE FIRST BARD'S SONG. I. Came ye by Ora's verdant steep, That smiles the restless ocean over? Heard ye a suffering maiden weep? As the mists that o'er her flew : Her joy is fled like the flower of the vale, Her hope like the morning dew! That matron was lately as proud of her stay, As the mightiest monarch of sceptre or sway: O list to the tale! 'tis a tale of soft sorrow, Of Malcolm of Lorn, and young Ann of Glen-Ora. II. The sun is sweet at early morn, Just blushing from the ocean's bosom ; Than red sun resting on the billow; Sweeter than aught to mortals given The heart and soul to prove; Sweeter than aught beneath the heaven, The joys of early love! Never did maiden, and manly youth, Love with such fervor, and love with such truth ; Or pleasures and virtues alternately borrow, As Malcolm of Lorn, and fair Aun of Glen-Ora. III. The day is come, the dreaded day, Must part two loving hearts for ever; The ship lies rocking in the bay, The boat comes rippling up the river : O happy has the gloaming's eye In green Glen-Ora's bosom seen them! But soon shall lands and nations lie, And angry oceans roll between them. Yes, they must part, for ever part; Chill falls the truth on either heart; For honour, titles, wealth, and state, In distant lands her sire await. The maid must with her sire away, She cannot stay behind; Strait to the south the pennons play, And steady is the wind. Shall Malcolm relinquish the home of his youth, Ah, no! for his father is gone to the tomb : No child but her Malcolm to cheer her lone way: Break not her fond heart, gentle Malcolm, O, stay! IV. The boat impatient leans ashore, Her prow sleeps on a sandy pillow; The rower leans upon his oar, Already bent to brush the billow. O! Malcolm, view yon melting eyes, O! Malcolm, list thy mother's sighs; She's leaning o'er her staff and weeping! Thy Anna's heart is bound to thine, And must that gentle heart repine! From Anna canst thou sever? Think of the vows thou often hast made, To love the dear maiden for ever. |