And then her fair and dainty foot
From out the golden stirrup fell,
And none but Athol might her near,
But yet no look her doubts dispel.
The live-long day nor sign of love,
Nor censure did his looks express;
O his was distant kindness all,
Attention and obsequiousness.
When they came in by fair Montieth,
She asked a henchman carelesslye,
"Whose land is this?-Has Athol here
A castle or a bastailye?"
"No, lady fair, these lands are held
By Comyn Glas of Barnygill,
Lord Athol has no tower nor land
Besouth the brow of Birnam hill.”
She turned her face back to the north,
That face grew blenched and pale as clay;
And aye the clear and burning tear
Hung on the cheek of lovely Hay.
Lord Athol turned him round about, "Why does the tear stand in your eye? Say, are you weary of the way,
Or does your steed bear you o'er high?
"Or does the west wind blirt your cheek, Or the sun fa' on your bonny bree?" She hid her face within her vail,
"Canst thou such question ask at me?"
"Beshrew my heart, if I can guess, When honours thus thy path belay ;— Minstrels, play up the music meet,
And make our royal bride look gay.”
"Why does Lord Erol stay behind?
Why comes he not to give me joy?"
"My royal liege," Lord Athol said,
"It fits him not thy face to see;
I showed your order and your seal,
But he would not yield the maid to me.
"I broke his bolts and bars of steel,
I beat his yeomen on the lea,
I won his towers by dint of weir,
And here I've brought her safe to thee."
The king looked east, the king looked west,
And asked the maid the truth to tell;
"Sooth, my good lord, the tale is just,
I nothing wot how it befel."
King Gregory drew a long, long breath,
He pressed his brow and stroked his beard:
"Now, by the rood," King Gregory said,
"So strange a tale I never heard."
What ails our fair and comely bride,
That thus she breathes the broken sigh,
That ever and anon she looks
As if to meet some pitying eye?
No pitying eye, alas! is there;
Lord Athol jests and looks away;
True love is blighted in the bloom,
And hope takes leave of bonny Hay.
The holy abbot oped the book,
The twain arose from royal seat, The prayer was said, the question put, Her tongue refused the answer meet;
aye she wept and sobbed aloud,
To cheer or comfort her was none,
And aye she glanced to Athol's lord
With looks would pierce a heart of stone.
His heart was pierced-he deemed her wronged;
But now regret could nought avail;
O when her silken glove was drawn,
He trembled like the aspin pale;
The king put her fair hand in his !
"Now, abbot, here thy question try."
The abbot stared and straight obeyed,
Ah, it was answered readily!
Then join them, sire, and bless the bond, I joy such lovers blest to see, The one respected sovereign's will, The other, parent's high decree.”
Lord Athol kneeled and clasped his king,
And shed the tears upon his knee ;
But the fair bride hung round his neck,
And kissed his lips in extacye.
"Go with thy lover, bonny Hay,
Thou well befitt'st his manly side,
And thou shalt have the fairest dower
That ever went with highland bride.
"I ne'er saw such a lovely face,
I never looked on form so fair,
But a foolish thought rose in my breast,
-That Athol's child might be my heir!
"Go, my brave Douglas of the dale,
And bring your Madeline to me ;
I oft have marked her eagle eye—
The Queen of Scotland she shall be.”
Old Douglas bowed and left the hall,
How proudly waved his locks of gray!
A sound was issuing from his breast,
Laughing or crying none could say.
O such a double bridal and feast,
And such a time of joyful glee, And such a wise and worthy king, Dumbarton town shall never see.
WHEN first our convent settled there,
Green Ulster was but savage ground;
They barred the doors at eve with care,
And heard the forests whistle round.
Barnard, a monk of stedfast look,
One night our abbey's hearth forsook,
And, stung with grief, unwitting came
Down some wild glen without a name,
It was a strange and savage place;
The grey stones scattered o'er its face
With hoary glimmer shone :
The night was wild; the moon o'ercast
With clouds careering thick and fast;
But still her light, in streaks of white,
Burst out, as rapidly she passed
Through her dark path alone.
A wilder'd panic urged him back,
And searching for his former track,
A ring of stones he found;
'Twas piled of yore, by Druids grim,
And 'mong its lights and shadows dim
An aged man of boney limb
Lay gasping on the ground.
"The hand of death is o'er my head,-
My soul is full of doubt and dread,—
Surely my groans have brought thee nigh!
Then stop, and watch me till I die "
"I will-but wherefore art thou here,
Why thus alone, when death's so near?"
"Alone! alone! The human race
May well avoid this bloody place.
But troops of spectres come again,
And infants whom my sires have slain.
Round those dark stones they used to play,
And tell me of my dying day."
"Old man, thou ravest, clear thy brow;
What were thy sires, and who art thou ?”
"Behold around those scattered heaps,
In each of these a Druid sleeps;
These were my sires; but I have none,
To do my rites, as their's were done.
This glen has been my sires' abode,
Since first a stranger sought our strand,
And called the people of the land,
And taught them of another God.
At his command, the people bore
A captive, from the altar stone,
Whose blood was vowed. The Druids swore
To pay their Beal* with his own.
Their wrath was high; command they gave,
To bind this prophet of the wave,
And drag him to the altar side;
But when the people, scornful smiling,
Gave back an answer of reviling,
And cast their bonds aside,
They started fierce and rage and pride,
And inexpressible surprise,
Chained up their tongues-They left the place
That held the sacrilegious race,
And cursed them with their eyes.
This lonely glen was their retreat;
With huge rocks tumbled down the dell
They barred it from intruding feet,
And vowed for ever here to dwell;
And train an unrelenting race,
To expiate their sires' disgrace;
To bring each year, at midnight hour,
A victim of the stranger's creed
To hear their curse, and gasp and bleed
Upon the stone of power.
Long, long that fatal stone has stood,
And oft has seen the night of blood;
Till now, stern Beal's rites decline
On me the last of all the line!
No victim for his wrath have I, *
He smites my heart; and I must die.
When last the stated night came round,
I walked the circle in despair;
And when I prayed, an angry sound
Made bristle up my hair.
Two weary nights I walked alone;
But on the third a spirit came ;
With lovely light afar he shone,
And called me mildly by my name ;
And sat beside me on the sod,
And taught me of the stranger's God;
But still a dismal voice was near,
That came and murmured in my ear ;—
* A Deity of the Druids.
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