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PoETiiY ON OR About the MacLeans.
429
IV.
There was a time, a long, long time ago,
When Duard's halls resounded to the flow
Of minstrel harmony, of dance, and song.
Of mirth, and glee, from clansmen old and
young;
When Duard's chief could muster at his word
A thousand doughty champions of the sword,
A thousand plaided men whose only faith
Was — Love the chief, and fear no foe or
■ death.
No other aspirations filled them then,
Save to be reckoned as heroic men ;
Their hearts were fraught with burning war-
like zeal,
Their frames were iron and their sinews steel.
On simple fare as hardy men they grew.
Nor luxury's efl'eminacy knew;
Their cots and fields were theirs, rude comfort
reigned,
They felt not want, and healthful years
maintained.
They loved their chief for honor and for name.
And freely shed their blood to guard his fame.
The chief loved them with patriarchal care.
Knew all their sorrows, heard each plaint or
prayer.
And, as a father 'mid his children dear.
He lived beloved, and honored without fear.
Untainted thus, with no ambition's pride.
In Nature's happiness they lived and died.
See Duard now! its shapeless ruins gloom
In the sad grandeur of a shivered tomb.
Time's silent chisels have fell havoc spread,
A wreck is here, cold, desolate, and dead.
The moaning sea around the headland sweeps.
And o'er the rocks in fretful surges leaps.
Or wanders mournfully around the bay.
Where oft the black-pro wed oaken galleys lay ;
The eerie wind within the ruin raves.
And shrilly whistles o'er the warriors' graves;
The grasses bend 'neath the uncei'tain blast,
As Nature's mourners for a glorious past.
No sound is heard, no wandering footstep
seen.
Decay's weird silence lords it o'er the scene;
The night bats dart from out the chinky walls.
And ghostly owlets own the roofless halls ;
The gloomy spirits of a valiant race
Seem stalking ever round the lonely place,
Or 'neath the full moon's wan, unearthly light.
Seem mustering as of yore for raid or fight,
Unto the mournful pibroch of the wind.
That dies, and leaves a deeper hush behind.
'Twas here the Hector of my tale
Drew his first breath, and poured his infant
wail ;
Here his young lips drew with a lover's zest
His future valor from his mother's breast;
Here his young eyes beheld with fond delight
The shining, steely panoply of fight.
His chubby hands oft vigorously essayed
To lift, with shouts, the old paternal blade.
A dirk and shield were his infantile toys.
Their rattling din the source of childish joys.
The ancient dame, endowed with second-sight.
Foretold his future as a chief of might;
The hoary bards would on him wondering
gaze.
And croon to him their stirring battle lays;
The smiling clansmen would, with loving scan,
Applaud the antics that bespoke the man.
And gathering round their fair-haired future
lord,
They taught him early how to wield a sword.
And bend a bow with steady hand and eye.
Until the shafts would all unerring fly;
To scale the rugged heights devoid of fear.
And track with wary steps the watchful deer ;
To pull an oar, or tend a shortened sail,
When burst the fury of a sudden gale.
Beneath tuition such as this he grew,
Skilled in the various arts the clansmen knew.
Till daring Hector stood unmatched at length,
For feats of arms, agility, and strength.
The wolf that roamed the shores of Golla Dhu,
He tracked unto his lair and singlj' slew.
He fought the eagle on the giddy crest.
And conquering, bore the eaglets from their
nest;
The prowling foe, on sudden, nightly raid.
Was vanquished oft beneath his foremost
blade;
In skirmishes upon the mainland shore.
His skillful prowess oft the victory bore;
His doughty deeds were whispered far and
wide.
And bards and maidens sang of them with
pride.
Till 'mid the Isles his warlike name was
spread.
And foemen feared the men by Hector led.
Proud was the father of his chief-like boy.
The gentle mother's only hope and joy;
His well-knit frame of perfect, manly mold,
At once the leader and the warrior told.
A calm determination lit his face,
And gave his mien an awe-commanding grace;

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