In Lettermore the timid deer

Will pause, the harp's wild chime to hear;
Rude Heiskar's seal through surges dark
Will long pursue the minstrel's bark;
To list his notes, the eagle proud
Will poise him on Ben-Cailliach's cloud;
Then let not Maiden's ear disdain
The summons of the minstrel train,
But, while our harps wild music make,
Edith of Lorn, awake, awake!

"O wake, while Dawn, with dewy shine,
Wakes Nature's charms to vie with thine!
She bids the mottled thrush rejoice
To mate thy melody of voice;
The dew that on the violet lies
Mocks the dark lustre of thine eyes;
But, Edith, wake, and all we see

Of sweet and fair shall yield to thee!"—
"She comes not yet," grey Ferrand cried ;
"Brethren, let softer spell be tried,

Those notes prolong'd, that soothing theme,
Which best may mix with Beauty's dream,
And whisper, with their silvery tone,
The hope she loves, yet fears to own."-
He spoke, and on the harp-strings died
The strains of flattery and of pride;
More soft, more low, more tender fell
The lay of love he bade them tell.

A SCENE IN THE ISLE OF SKYE;

From the Same.

WITH Bruce and Ronald bides the tale.
To favouring winds they gave the sail,
Till Mull's dark headland scarce they knew,
And Ardnamurchan's hills were blue.
But then the squalls blew close and hard,
And, fain to strike the galley's yard,
And take them to the oar,

With these rude seas, in weary plight,
They strove the livelong day and night,
Nor till the dawning had a sight
Of Skye's romantic shore.

Where Coolin stoops him to the west,
They saw upon his shiver'd crest
The sun's arising gleam;

But such the labour and delay,
Ere they were moor'd in Scavigh bay,
(For calmer heaven compell'd to stay)
He shot a western beam.

Then Roland said, "If true mine eye,
These are the savage wilds that lie
North of Strathnardill and Dunskye;
No human foot comes here,
And, since these adverse breezes blow,
If my good Liege love hunter's bow,
What hinders that on land we go,

And strike a mountain deer?
Allan, my Page, shall with us wend;
A bow full deftly can he bend,
And if we meet an herd, may send

A shaft shall mend our cheer.".

Then each took bow and bolts in hand,
Their row-boat launched and leapt to land,
And left their skiff and train,

Where a wild stream, with headlong shock,
Came brawling down its bed of rock,
To mingle with the main.

A while their route they silent made,
As men who stalk for mountain-deer,
Till the good Bruce to Ronald said,

"St. 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 wander'd 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,

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 strippling 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 mountain's 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 the 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 gulphs 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 for 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 whirpool rude,

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

REYNOLDS, AS AN ARTIST.

From Mr. Shee's Commemoration of Reynolds.

THO' Reynolds, 'long superior and alone,
Possessed in Art an undisputed throne,
Yet hardly conscious what his powers achieved,
A cold, reluctant homage he received.
By some few minds of sounder judgment awed,
The mob of taste affected to applaud.

But far beyond his age his heart aspired,

And few cou'd tell his worth, though all admired:
Mistaken praise still mortified his aim-
Th' applause of Ignorance polluting fame;
With humbled hope he bowed to Fashion's reign,
And saw with sorrow he excelled in vain.
For e'en of those who felt his merits most,-
On whom his labours were not wholly lost,
How few cou'd judge the skill his works impart,
Or take his towering altitude of art!
But now with purer eye prepared to gaze,
By Taste as well as Fashion taught to praise,
We do him tardy justice, and explore
With pride those beauties unobserved before;
Collect the wonders of his hand with care,
And estimate as jewels rich and rare;
As brilliant gems of art as ever graced
The Muse of painting from the mine of taste.

No longer echoing envy's idle cry,

Let fools exclaim, "How Reynolds' colours fly!"
Behold in hues that rival Nature's glow,
Bright as the sunbeam or celestial bow;
By Time untarnished, and by Genius crowned,
Our British Titian sheds his glory round.
While minor stars their weaker rays combine,
And former lights with feeble radiance shine;
His single beam illumes the graphic skies,
And pours a summer's lustre on our eyes.

In all his works astonished Nature views
Her silvery splendors and her golden hues;
Sublime in motion, or at rest serene,

Her charms of air and action, all are seen.
There Grace appears in ever-varied forms,
There Vigor animates and Beauty warms;