THE

LORD OF THE ISLES.

CANTO FIFTH.

I.

ON fair Loch-Ranza stream'd the early day,

Thin wreaths of cottage-smoke are upward curl'd

From the lone hamlet, which her inland bay
And circling mountains sever from the world.

And there the fisherman his sail unfurl'd,

The goat-herd drove his kids to steep Ben-Ghoil, Before the hut the dame her spindle twirl'd,

Courting the sun-beam as she plied her toil,—

For, wake where'er he may, Man wakes to care and toil.

2

But other duties call'd each convent maid,

Roused by the summons of the moss-grown bell;

Sung were the matins and the mass was said,

And every sister sought her separate cell, Such was the rule, her rosary to tell.

And Isabel has knelt in lonely prayer;

The sun-beam, through the narrow lattice, fell
Upon the snowy neck and long dark hair,
As stoop'd her gentle head in meek devotion there.

II.

She raised her eyes, that duty done,
When glanced upon the pavement stone,
Gemm'd and enchased, a golden ring,

Bound to a scroll with silken string,

With few brief words inscribed to tell,

"This for the Lady Isabel."

Within, the writing farther bore,—

"'Twas with this ring his plight he swore,

With this his promise I restore ;

To her who can the heart command, Well may I yield the plighted hand. And O! for better fortune born, Grudge not a passing sigh to mourn Her who was Edith once of Lorn !"One single flash of glad surprise Just glanced from Isabel's dark eyes, But vanish'd in the blush of shame, That, as its penance, instant came. "O thought unworthy of my race! Selfish, ungenerous, mean, and base, A moment's throb of joy to own, .That rose upon her hopes o'erthrown! Thou pledge of vows too well believed, Of man ingrate and maid deceived, Think not thy lustre here shall gain Another heart to hope in vain !

For thou shalt rest, thou tempting gaud, Where worldly thoughts are overawed,

And worldly splendours sink debased."

Then by the cross the ring she placed.

III.

Next rose the thought,-its owner far,

How came it here through bolt and bar?-
But the dim lattice is a-jar-

She looks abroad-the morning dew
A light short step had brush'd anew,
And there were foot-prints seen
On the carved buttress rising still,
Till on the mossy window-sill

Their track effaced the green.

The ivy twigs were torn and fray'd,
As if some climber's steps to aid.—
But who the hardy messenger,

Whose venturous path these signs infer?

"Strange doubts are mine!-Mona, draw nigh;

-Nought 'scapes old Mona's curious eye—