Volume Iii Part 35 (1/2)

The heart-struck minstrel heard the word; and though his flame, uncured, Still fired his soul, in haste the sh.o.r.es of danger he abjured: But aye he rung his harp, though now it knew another strain, And loud arose its warblings as the sounding of the main.

Yes! 'twas an organ peal that soar'd the vocal lift along, As chorus'd to the high-strung harp his words of mightier song, Lest, hapless chance! should rise, above the swelling of the tide, A remnant of the ambitious love that sought a n.o.ble bride.

But I, alas! no language find, of Sa.s.senach or Gael, Nor note of music in the land, my cureless woe to quail.

And art thou gone, without a word, without a kindly look Of smiling comfort, on the bard whose life thy beauty shook?

Not so it fared with Cormac; for thus the tale is told, That never, to the last, he brook'd desertion's bitter cold.

His comrades sorrow'd round him; his dear vouchsafed a kiss-- He almost thought he heard her sigh, ”_Come back again to bliss!_”

THE LAST LAY OF LOVE.

This was composed when Ross was dying, and probably when he was aware of his approaching end. He died of consumption, precipitated by the espousals of his mistress to another lover.

Reft the charm of the social sh.e.l.l By the touch of the sorrowful mood; And already the worm, in her cell, Is preparing the birth of her brood.

She blanches the hue of my cheek, And exposes my desperate love; Nor needs it that death should bespeak The hurt no remeid can remove.

The step, 'twas a pleasure to trace, Even that has withdrawn from the scene; And, now, not a breeze can displace A leaf from its summit of green

So prostrate and fallen to lie, So far from the branch where it hung, As, in dust and in helplessness, I, From the hope to which pa.s.sion had clung.

Yet, benison bide! where thy choice Deems its bliss and its treasure secure, May the months in thy blessings rejoice, While their rise and their wane shall endure!

For me, a poor warrior, in blood By thy arrow-shot steep'd, I am p.r.o.ne, The glow of ambition subdued, The weapons of rivalry gone.

Yet, cruel to mock me, the base Who scoff at the name of the bard, To scorn the degree of my race, Their toil and their travail, is hard.

Since one, a bold yeoman ne'er drew A furrow unstraight or unpaid; And the other, to righteousness true, Hung even the scales of his trade.

And I--ah! they should not compel To waken the theme of my praise; I can boast over hundreds, to tell Of a chief in the conflict of lays.

And now it is over--the heart That bounded, the hearing that thrill'd, In the song-fight shall never take part, And weakness gives warning to yield.

As the discord that raves 'neath the cloud That is raised by the dash of the spray When waters are battling aloud, Bewilderment bears me away.

And to measure the song in its charm, Or to handle the viol with skill, Or beauty with carols to warm, Gone for ever, the power and the will.

No never, no never, ascend To the mountain-pa.s.s glories, shall I, In the cheer of the chase to unbend; Enough, it is left but to die.

And yet, shall I go to my rest, Where the dead of my brothers repair-- To the hall of the bards, not unblest, That their worthies before me are there?

LACHLAN MACVURICH.

This bard, known by his territorial designation of ”Strathma.s.sie,” lived during nearly eighty years of the last century, and died towards its close. His proper patronymic was Macpherson. He was a favourite tenant of the chief of Cluny, and continued to enjoy the benefit of his lease of a large farm in Badenoch, after the misfortunes of the family, and forfeiture of their estate. He was very intimate with his clansman, James Macpherson, who has identified his own fame so immortally with that of Ossian. Lachlan had the reputation of being his Gaelic tutor, and was certainly his fellow-traveller during the preparation of his work. In the specimens of his poetical talents which are preserved, ”Strathma.s.sie” evinces the command of good Gaelic, though there is nothing to indicate his power of being at all serviceable to his namesake in that fabrication of imagery, legends, and sentiments, which, in the opinion of many, const.i.tutes all that we have in the name of Ossian.