History of the Clan MacLean from its first settlement at Duard Castle, in the Isle of Mull, to the present period

Poetry on or About the MacLeans.
421
" Be calm, craven spirit! On me be tlie guilt.
Nil pois<in sball rack her, no blood shall be spilt.
Till my hair has turn'd gray, and my blood has
grown thin,
I have dwelt on Bon Mor with the spirits of sin;
And have learn'd by their aid without weapons to
kill.
And can blast by a look, and destroy by ray will.
" Were the good ship, the Florida, far on the seas,
I'd whirl her and toss her, like chaff on the breeze,
And far on some cliff, where the storms ever roar,
And aid could not reach them, I'd drive them
ashore;
And the wanton I'd seize by her long raven locks,
And drag her to death at the foot of the rocks.
" But safe from all danger of winds and of tides,
In calm Tobermory at anchor she rides:
But peril may come 'mid security deep,
And vengeance may wake when the world Ms
asleep;
And strong though her timbers— her haven secure,
The hand of revenge, though unseen, shall be
sure."
Serene was the night, and unruffled the bay.
Not a breath stirred the deep where the Florida lay;
Her broad azure pennant hung breczeless on high.
And her thin taper masts pointed clear to the sky;
And the moonlight that fell on the breast of the
deep
Appear'd like the charm that had luU'd it to sleep.
The cabin-boy dream'd of the vineyards of Spain,
Or roam'd with a maiden at sunset again;
The sailor, in fancy, was dancing afar,
In his own native land, to his graceful guitar;
Or bless'd with a household, in sleep, was restored
To the children he loved, and the wife he adored.
The fair Spanish lady in visions was blest:
She dream'd that, escaped from the i.sles of the
West,
Her young Highland chief had consented to roam
To her far Andalusia in search of a home;
That together they dwelt in her own sunny clime,
Where life was no effort, and love was not crime.
None dream'd of the danger that round them might
lurk;
But in darkness and silence a spell was at work.
Conceal'd in the waters, at poop and at prow.
The agents of evil were busy below;
And noiseless their labor, but certain their stroke.
Through her sirong copper'd hull, and her timbers
of oak.
And long ere the morning, a loud sudden shriek
Was heard o'er the bay, "Sprung a leak! sprung a
leak!"
Oh! then there was gathering in tumult and fear.
And a blan(?hing of cheeks, as the peril grew near;
A screaming of women— a shouting of men,
And a rushing and trampling, again and again!
No time for leave-taking— no leisure to weep!
In roU'd the fierce waters, and down to the deep,
Down, down fifty fathoms, with captain and crew.
The Florida sank, with the haven in view —
Down, down to the bottom, escaping but one.
To tell the sad tale of the deed that was done.
And he, as he battled for life with the tide.
Beheld the fair lady of Spain by his side.
And a lank, skinny hand, that came up through
the spray,
And twined in her tresses, as floating she lay.
And heard the loud laughter of fiends in the air.
As she sank 'mid the waves with a shriek of de-
spair.
No. 14. — ^BuRiAL OF Sir Lachlan M6r MacLean.
By Thomas Pattisox.
[Thomas Pattison's mother was a INIacLcan, and in consequence he was much interested in tlie history
of the clau. He studied for the Church of Scotland, but died young, a few years ago. By his own request
his remains were brought back to Islay and buried in Ivilarrow church-yard. The poem is taken from his
Gaelic Sards.]
Slowly, from the field of slaughter,
Do thej' bring Sir Laehlan Mor;
Slowly, o'er the weary moorland.
Prom the damp and deadly shore.
Shall his step be laid majestic;
Shall his stately form be seen ;
Shall his voice inspire the council,
Or the light his manly mien.
Slowly, and in bitter sorrow,
Through a rough and rugged way.
With the yellow beams upon it
Of the sickly setting day.
Never shall his clan behind him
Gather in the joy of fight;
Never draw their cold blue weapons-
Hard and dead!}' — glancing bright.
Ah I how lowly lies the leader;
See how pale his face is now;
Never in the hall or highway —
Never on the mountain brow-
27
Poorly now's the chief attended,
Rudelj' now the hero's led ;
Yet be wakes not from the slumber
Of yon red and mossy bed.