soft sigh of the evening breeze in the rustling leaves of an aspen which overhung the seat of the fair harpress. The following verses convey but little idea of the feelings with which, so sung and accompanied, they were heard by Waverley: There is mist on the mountain, and night on the vale, The dirk and the target lie sordid with dust, The deeds of our sires, if our bards should rehearse, But the dark hours of night and of slumber are past, And the streams of Glenfinnan1 leap bright in the blaze. Oh, high-minded Moray,2 the exiled, the dear! 1 The young and daring adventurer, Charles Edward, landed at Glenaladale, in Moidart, and displayed his standard in the valley of Glenfinnan, mustering around it the Mac-Donalds, the Camerons, and other less numerous clans, whom he had prevailed on to join him. There is a monument erected on the spot, with a Latin inscription by the late Dr. Gregory. 2 The Marquis of Tullibardine's elder brother, who, long exiled, returned to Scotland with Charles Edward in 1745. Ye sons of the strong, when that dawning shall break, Oh, sprung from the kings who in Islay kept state, True son of Sir Evan, undaunted Lochiel, Place thy targe on thy shoulder and burnish thy steel! Stern son of Lord Kenneth, high chief of Kintail, Let the clan of gray Fingon, whose offspring has given To launch the long galley and stretch to the oar. How Mac-Shimei will joy when their chief shall display Ye sons of brown Dermid who slew the wild boar, Here a large greyhound, bounding up the glen, jumped upon Flora, and interrupted her music by his importunate caresses. At a distant whistle he turned, and shot down the path again with the rapidity of an arrow. "That is Fergus's faithful attendant, Captain Waverley, and that was his signal. He likes no poetry but what is humorous, and comes in good time to interrupt my long catalogue of the tribes, whom one of your saucy English poets calls "Our bootless host of high-born beggars, Mac-Leans, Mac-Kenzies, and Mac-Gregors.'' Waverley expressed his regret at the interrup tion. "Oh, you cannot guess how much you have lost! The bard, as in duty bound, has addressed three long stanzas to Vich Ian Vohr of the Banners, enumerating all his great properties, and not forgetting his being a cheerer of the harper and bard, -'a giver of bounteous gifts.' Besides, you should have heard a practical admonition to the fairhaired son of the stranger, who lives in the land where the grass is always green,— the rider on the shining, pampered steed, whose hue is like the raven, and whose neigh is like the scream of the eagle for battle. This valiant horseman is affectionately conjured to remember that his ancestors were distinguished by their loyalty as well as by their courage. All this you have lost; but since your curiosity is not satisfied, I judge, from the distant sound of my brother's whistle, I may have time to sing the concluding stanzas before he comes to laugh at my translation. "Awake on your hills, on your islands awake, Brave sons of the mountain, the frith, and the lake! 'Tis the bugle, but not for the chase is the call! "T is the pibroch's shrill summons, but not to the hall. |