And towers a time-worn pile-although
The winds wail through its chambers wide,
It looks upon the flood below,

With something yet of feudal pride.

When night resumes her dusky sway,
The shepherd shuns yon beech ward way;
The hunter, lated and alone,

May well with quickened pace move on
Whenever meets his watchful eye
That pile unhallow'd frowning nigh.
For there between him and the tide,
A maiden form doth often glide,
Now with a low beseeching wail,
Now silent as a cloudlet frail
Dissolving in the moonlight pale,
Till sudden passing from his sight,
She startles with her shrieks the night!
"It is the Nighean ruadh," he says-
"Protect me, Heaven good!

And while he yet doth wilder'd gaze,
She sinks into the flood.

But listen, stranger, while I tell
A legend old of Dovan-dell,

So may thy doubting mood give way
To a wise wish that Heaven may

Be from all ill thy shield and stay.

Glendovan's Chief-a chief far-famed
For daring deeds unblest,-untamed
And fierce as wild boar of the wood,
Lived in Glendovan's solitude.
Where, in a wild, barbaric way,

Five hundred clansmen owned his sway.
Alas for them, or friends or foes,
Who would stout Ardan's will oppose !
A chief was he who never long

From strife his hand could stay:

The leader of a reiving throng

Who ne'er distinguished right from wrong

His creed was that unto the strong

The weak were lawful prey.

But now at length grown grey in strife,

With foemen thirsting for his life,

And deeming insecure, I ween,
His home ancestral in the Glen,
He plans that on yon isle ere long,
Shall tower a castle stout and strong,
Where, if in war no longer famed,
He'll pass life's winter still untamed.
When Art can wield his father's brand,
And chiefs contend for Runa's hand,
(Fair Runa, his sole daughter mild—
The Sunbeam of Glendovan styled)—
Stern Ardan on his castled rock,

His stoutest foe right well may mock.

What speck is that upon the wave?

Where fleetly glides yon biorlinn brave?
It hastens off to Erin's shores

In search of Patrick of the Towers.

No castle then on Albin's coast

Could match with those by Patrick plann'd, And Erin of no towers might boast

Like those which own'd his master hand.

Famed Patrick found,-himself and son-
(A youth he fondly doated on,

Though loving harp and song much more
Than all his sire's masonic lore-)
Together with the strangers sail ;
Straight steers their bark for Erraghael,
And by propitious breezes borne,

Safe reaches now the coast of Lorne.
On haste her crew o'er waste and wild
To where, 'mid hills o'er hills high-piled,
Lochavich fair in sunshine gleams-
Lochavich that forever seems
Calm-listening to the voice of streams.

Glendovan's chief was glad to see
Wise Patrick, and they soon agree
As to the site the plan—the fee;
Nor did sage Patrick lose a day
His skill masonic to display ;
Grim Ardan ill can brook delay.

"Why, Fergus, is that frequent sigh?
That dreamy, unobservant eye?
Thy duty fitly to fulfil,

Needs all thy wonted zeal and skill.
My cares are doubled since the day
Thou'st taken to this moody way.

It seems, my son, as thou wouldst have
Us never more to cross the wave,-
As if the day our task is done,
You'd have it only just begun!"

Ah, Patrick, thou art old as wise,

'Tis long since love could wake thy sighs;
But yet experience might thee shew
What woman's witching smile may do,
And how in vain would youth defy
Th' omnipotence of Beauty's eye.

But to my tale and Fergus:-Fain
Would I describe in fitting strain
How thrilled beneath his minstrel art
Each fibre of the Highland heart;
How-oftener than his father knew-
His evening walk he would pursue
To where, begirt by rock and brake,
An airidh overlooked the lake,—
A scene whose features wildly fair
Young Runa loves, and oft is there
With maids who milk her father's flocks,
The while they vocal make the rocks,

With songs whose melody so sweet
Alone might thither tempt his feet.
Nor did their lilting charm for nought,
The youth who thus their presence sought;
For often, when encouraged by

A word or glance from Runa nigh,

He'd touch his harp, and sing, the while, Some thrilling lay of Erin's Isle.

The wondering shepherds praise his skill,
Confessing Torran's fairy hill

Could boast no minstrel to compare
One moment with that harper rare!
Their fair companions though they praise
Less loud, list with as glad amaze ;
Or rude or gentle-one and all
His music held in willing thrall.
Another and another strain

Succeed, so charms he heart and brain,
The briefest silence seems a pain!

But why, like wavelet in the light
Of sunbeams on the lake,
Heaves Runa's gentle bosom bright?

Can song such tumult wake?
Ah Runa be upon thy guard!

Thou lov'st the music well,

Yet frequent sighs may well be spared,
And blushes more than tell the bard

How much he doth excel;

Then tempt him not 'gainst fate to cope:
Alas, what will not minstrel hope!