To sing how, safe from hostile Powers,
Our Chieftain rests in Dochart's towers?
Come, seize thy harp! we know full well,
In field of fight, or feast of shell,
What kindling music thou can'st pour
The scene of strife or pleasure o'er ;
Then let us note, this joyous night,
Thy cheeriest strain, thy loftiest flight!"

XX.

Bowing, in silence Ronald rose,
And to the settle slowly goes;
Where, seated with his harp in hand,
His dark locks from his forehead bland
He backward shook, then raised his eye,
Full, soft, and blue as summer sky,—
Waiting the gush of harmony,
That on the minstrel's soul must come,
Ere he can wake his harp-strings dumb.
The spirit on him rushed!—a smile

Parted his lips, his hand, the while,

With light essay swept o'er the strings;
Then thus, with sudden burst, he sings:-

XXI.

MINSTREL OF DOCHART'S SONG.

The Eagle's flown from his eyrie high,
And left, with his mate, his young one sleeping;

While careful watch by that young one keeping, The tender mate oft strains her eye,

To see if through heaven's depths she may spy Her lord return, whose loss she's weeping!

But long, O long, serene and blue

The sky remains, with naught appearing! Now stormy clouds their heads are rearing; And, hark! their threatening masses through, Issue these sounds,-"Thy lord so true, Death's icy chains afar is wearing!"

What stay now for the mourner's heart?
The eyrie's high,-the storm appalling,
That seems all round on point of falling,
To play the fierce destroyer's part!
O, save her from the deadly smart,
Ye Powers supreme, on whom she's calling!

But, see! the eaglet young and bold,
From the steep eyrie's brink, is eyeing
The forms of danger round him flying!-
No more that eyrie shall him hold,
Till he return more strong and old ;—
He from it springs, his pinions trying!

And here, in Dochart's lofty Keep,
At one far rapid stretch alighting,

Laughs at the foes behind him fighting, Who yet for this base work shall weep: Hail, eaglet, hail !-from scabbards leap, Ye blades, shall soon his cause be righting!

XXII.

This rapid gush of stirring song,
Electric streamed the guests among!
The young Chief felt a starting tear;
Stern Dochart eyed his weapons near,
And grasped his dirk: his followers all,
Like movement made throughout the hall,
And in a wild, blent, murmuring sound,
The thrilling harp's last cadence drowned.

XXIII.

Thereafter, silence briefly ruled;

Till, looking round composed and cooled,
Each seemed to wish, yet want the power,
To pass the present moment o'er,
By movement opportunely made,
Or theme for new discourse essayed;
When, such restraint no longer brooking,
And thoughtfully to Allan looking,
Glen-Orchay thus his Bard addressed :—
"Allan! now has thy harp the rest
Fully enjoyed, the-the- did claim,
When by Strath-Fillan's Pool we came.

Then, up beside thy brother take it,

And to the mystic task awake it,

With which 'tis charged,-whate'er may flow
From its rapt strings, of joy or woe."

XXIV.

All hail these words; and yet their sense,
Obscure and strange, creates suspense
Of current judgment what they mean;
Till Allan lifts, with look serene,
His face to heaven, his brother by,-
While back his auburn tresses fly

From thought-marked cheek, and forehead high,

And thus, with hand prelusive passed

Over the strings, that answer fast,

Pours forth his wished-for strain at last :

XXV.

ALLAN'S SONG.

There is gloom in Glen-Dochart; but light on Ben-More,

Where to-night are the Spirits that watched there of yore, 13

O'er the fate of the Heroes, in Dochart that

dwelt,

When by the lone Cromlech our Ancestors knelt!

There is gloom in Strath-Fillan; but light on Ben-Loy,

Where the dread Arm is raised, that shall smite, to destroy

The slave-making cravens, like serpents that стеер,

Where prayed our old Druids, 'mid mystery deep!

There is gloom in Glen-Orchay, and far as LochTay;

But a Voice from Ben-Doran now warns it away; And the warning is echoed from Cruachan's steep, Till it rouses Kilchurn's drowsy warders from sleep!

For the darkness that's round us, and light that's above,

Into conflict eventful are hasting to move;

And from each chief Mountain, its Dweller on

high,

Gives note, as of old, that the tempest is nigh!

O, close, Spirits! close the dread scene that is

breaking

But now on my sight!-change the form it is taking;

Or bid, on the instant, the accents be still,

In which I must paint it, despite of my will!