POETRY. 619 
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. 
“ Wake, maid of Lorn! the moments fly 
Which yet that maiden-name allow ; 
Wake, Maiden, wake! the hour is nigh 
When Love shall claim a plighted vow. 
By Fear, thy bosom’s fluttering guest, 
By Hope, that soon shall fears remove, 
We bid thee break the bonds of rest, 
And wake thee at the call of Love! 
“ Wake, Edith, wake! in yonder bay 
Lies many a galley gaily mann’d, 
We hear the merry pibrochs play, 
We see the streamers’ silken band. 
What Chieftain’s praise these pibrochs swell, 
What crest is on these banners wove, 
The harp, the minstrel, dare not tell— 
The riddle must be read by Love.” 
