VOL. IV.

LAKE CORISKIN.

[From The Lord of the Isles, Canto III.]

A while their route they silent made,

As men who stalk for mountain-deer,
Till the good Bruce to Ronald said,—

'Saint Mary! what a scene is here!
I've traversed many a mountain-strand,
Abroad and in my native land,
And it has been my lot to tread
Where safety more than pleasure led;
Thus, many a waste I've wandered o'er,
Clombe many a crag, cross'd many a moor,
But, by my halidome,

A scene so rude, so wild as this,
Yet so sublime in barrenness,

Ne'er did my wandering footsteps press,
Where'er I happ'd to roam.'

No marvel thus the Monarch spake ;
For rarely human eye has known
A scene so stern as that dread lake,

With its dark ledge of barren stone.
Seems that primeval earthquake's sway
Hath rent a strange and shatter'd way

Through the rude bosom of the hill,
And that each naked precipice,
Sable ravine, and dark abyss,

Tells of the outrage still.

The wildest glen, but this, can show
Some touch of Nature's genial glow;
On high Benmore green mosses grow,
And heath-bells bud in deep Glencroe,
And copse on Cruchan-Ben;
But here,-above, around, below,
On mountain or in glen,

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Nor tree, nor shrub, nor plant, nor flower,
Nor aught of vegetative power,

The weary eye may ken.

For all is rocks at random thrown,

Black waves, bare crags, and banks of stone,
As if were here denied

The summer sun, the spring's sweet dew,
That clothe with many a varied hue

The bleakest mountain-side.

And wilder, forward as they wound,
Were the proud cliffs and lake profound.
Huge terraces of granite black
Afforded rude and cumber'd track;

For from the mountain hoar,
Hurl'd headlong in some night of fear,
When yell'd the wolf, and fled the deer,
Loose crags had toppled o'er ;

And some, chance-poised and balanced, lay
So that a stripling arm might sway
A mass no host could raise,
In Nature's rage at random thrown,
Yet trembling like the Druid's stone
On its precarious base.

The evening mists, with ceaseless change,
Now clothed the mountains' lofty range,
Now left their foreheads bare,

And round the skirts their mantle furl'd,
Or on the sable waters curl'd,

Or on the eddying breezes whirl'd,

Dispersed in middle air.

And oft, condensed, at once they lower,
When, brief and fierce, the mountain shower
Pours like a torrent down,

And when return the sun's glad beams,
Whiten'd with foam a thousand streams

Leap from the mountain's crown.

'This lake,' said Bruce, 'whose barriers drear Are precipices sharp and sheer,

Yielding no track for goat or deer,

Save the black shelves we tread,

How term you its dark waves? and how
Yon northern mountain's pathless brow,
And yonder peak of dread,

That to the evening sun uplifts
The griesly gulfs and slaty rifts,

Which seam its shiver'd head?'-
'Coriskin call the dark lake's name,
Coolin the ridge, as bards proclaim,
From old Cuchullin, chief of fame.
But bards, familiar in our isles
Rather with Nature's frowns than smiles,
Full oft their careless humours please
By sportive names from scenes like these.
I would old Torquil were to show
His maidens with their breasts of snow,
Or that my noble Liege were nigh
To hear his Nurse sing lullaby!

(The Maids-tall cliffs with breakers white,
The Nurse-a torrent's roaring might,)
Or that your eye could see the mood

Of Corryvrekin's whirlpool rude,

When dons the Hag her whiten'd hood-
"Tis thus our islesmen's fancy frames,
For scenes so stern, fantastic names.'

THE EVE OF ST. JOHN.

The Baron of Smaylho'me rose with day,
He spurred his courser on,

Without stop or stay, down the rocky way,

That leads to Brotherstone.

He went not with the bold Buccleuch,

His banner broad to rear ;

He went not 'gainst the English yew,
To lift the Scottish spear.

Yet his plate-jack1 was braced, and his helmet was laced,
And his vaunt-brace of proof he wore;

At his saddle-gerthe was a good steel sperthe,
Full ten pound weight and more.

The Baron returned in three days' space,

And his looks were sad and sour;

And weary was his courser's pace,
As he reached his rocky tower.

He came not from where Ancram Moor
Ran red with English blood;

Where the Douglas true, and the bold Buccleuch,
'Gainst keen Lord Evers stood.

Yet was his helmet hacked and hewed,

His acton pierced and tore,

His axe and his dagger with blood imbrued,—

But it was not English gore.

He lighted at the Chapellage,

He held him close and still;

And he whistled thrice for his little foot-page,

His name was English Will.

'Come thou hither, my little foot-page,

Come hither to my knee;

Though thou art young, and tender of age,

I think thou art true to me.

'Come, tell me all that thou hast seen,

And look thou tell me true!

Since I from Smaylho'me tower have been,
What did my lady do?'—

'My lady, each night, sought the lonely light
That burns on the wild Watchfold;

For, from height to height, the beacons bright
Of the English foemen told.

1 The plate-jack is coat armour; the vaunt-brace, or wam-brace, armour for the body; the sperthe, a battle-axe.

'The bittern clamoured from the moss,
The wind blew loud and shrill;
Yet the craggy pathway she did cross,
To the eiry Beacon Hill.

'I watched her steps, and silent came
Where she sat her on a stone;

No watchman stood by the dreary flame;
It burned all alone.

'The second night I kept her in sight,
Till to the fire she came,

And, by Mary's might! an armèd Knight
Stood by the lonely flame.

'And many a word that warlike lord

Did speak to my lady there ;

But the rain fell fast, and loud blew the blast, And I heard not what they were.

'The third night there the sky was fair,

And the mountain-blast was still,

As again I watched the secret pair,

On the lonesome Beacon Hill.

'And I heard her name the midnight hour,

And name this holy eve;

And say, "Come this night to thy lady's bower; Ask no bold Baron's leave.

"He lifts his spear with the bold Buccleuch ;

His lady is all alone;

The door she'll undo to her knight so true,
On the eve of good St. John.”—

""I cannot come; I must not come;

I dare not come to thee;

On the eve of St. John I must wander alone; In thy bower I may not be.”—

"Now, out on thee, faint-hearted knight!
Thou shouldst not say me nay;

For the eve is sweet, and when lovers meet,
Is worth the whole summer's day.