WHEN that dire year had come and gone,
That laid the pride of Caledon,
At one infuriate venture, low,
Beneath the foot of cruel foe-
That cursed year, whose memory brands
With burning flame her northern lands,
And deep on mountain, fell, and flood,
Is graved in characters of blood-

It was, when last was heard the jar,
The tempest and the clang of war
Within our isle; when April's sun
Saw red Culloden lost and won,
And the bold lineage of the Gael
Trodden like dust o'er moor and dale;
When the bright star of Stuart's race
Was dashed from its resplendent place,
That ruddy star which through the spheres
Had shone sublime a thousand years,
That rose through blood in times of yore,
A light ensanguined always bore,
Then set in blood for evermore ;-
'Twas then and there, where England's
bands

Lay mid Lochaber's ruined lands,
And held loud revels of delight,
Feasting and dancing day and night,
With every freak, and whim, and game,
That conquerors in despite could frame.
The chiefs of Diarmid all were there,
Noted for heroes tall and fair,
Of manly mete and noble mien,
All blazing in their tartans sheen;
A name of majesty and power,
Whose might, in Scotia's darkest hour,
Had oft been roused and starkly tried,
But always on the strongest side;
For why, they say, with power avail ?
'Tis they who always turn the scale;
For where they join their potent name,
The side of power must be with them.

Howe'er that be, or false or true,
A tale of love hath nought to do;
Suffice it, that the Campbells were
The chief great name of Scotland there;
And hence, their dames and maidens fair
Came to the camp their joys to share,
And sooth such dancing and deray,
Such galliardise and gambols gay,
Ne'er sounded over shore and vale
On dark Lochaber's dusky gale.

Among the rest, there came a maid From green Glen-Lyon's mountain glade, Hight Mora Campbell, one whose mien Excell'd all beauty ever seen

In Scotia's stern and stormy reign,
Where beauty strove to bloom in vain.
But though the maidens of Argyle,
Gathered from continent and isle,
VOL. XXXV. NO. CCXXIII.

From Mull of Morven to Loch-Orn,
From gray Glen-Orchy and from Lorn,
Breadalbane's maidens, bronzed and tall,
-And the blue eyes of Fortingall;
Yet Mora of Glen-Lyon shone
O'er all, unequalı'd, and alone,
Like the young moon on summer even,
Walking amid the stars of heaven.

Great was the friendly strife among
The courtly warriors of the throng,
To gain this peerless maiden's hand
At serenade or saraband;

For where a maiden shews her face,
Whate'er her nation or her race,
Man still will love, and still will woo,
The best-of thousands-or of two,
Be she a savage, serf, or slave,
Or maiden of the emerald wave;
Nay, be she sable, brown, or fair,
She's loved, if better be not there.

So was it here; the southern host
Were feasted at their foemen's cost,
And there, in reckless riot, lay,

Watching the north, for many a day; But, O, what stir, and joy, and ramp, When these young maidens sought the camp!

Then all was compliment and cooing, With toying, teasing, love, and wooing.

But short their stay. A visit sped More to the living than the dead, Though some had sighs and tears to feign

Above the graves of kinsmen slain;
And now warm vows of love were cast
On ladies' ears, as thick and fast
As leaves fall from Lochaber trees,
Or snow-flakes from her northern breeze.
Among the rest, an English knight,
Sir Hugh de Vane of Barnard hight,
Made love to Mora in such way,
That her young mind was moved to stay,
And take her lot, for ill or good,
With a young knight of noble blood.
Her brother, too, seemed to approve,
Vouching Sir Hugh's unblemished love,
But urged her not to stay or go,
Or answer him with yes or no.

The sequel scarcely need I tell-
They had no heart to say farewell;
The maid was won, you may foresee,
As all maids are, or wish to be;
For what fair maiden can refuse,
When gallant youthful warrior sues?
Their hands in holy bond were tied,
Sir Hugh was happy with his bride,
As youth could with such beauty be,
And drank of pleasure to the lee;

But when affection all and whole
The very pillars of the soul,
Are placed on one sole being here,
For whom alone this life is dear,
To find that one our trust betray,
And all our hopes in ruin lay-
Then 'reaved, astonish'd, and forsaken,
The structure of the soul is shaken,
Without one prop whereon to rest,
That will not pierce the stooping breast,
Or thought of one beloved so well,
Unshaded by a tinge of hell;
This is a grief without remede-
This, this is wretchedness indeed!

In this dire state of dumb dismay
And hopeless grief, for many a day,
Of every cheering ray bereft,
Was Mora of Glen- Lyon left.

She never waked one morn to cumber,
On which she wish'd not still to slumber;
She never sunk that night to rest,
On which she wish'd not to be blest
With dreamless sleep that break should

never,

Unknown, unknowing ought for ever. In that fond heart where love had reigned,

A vacancy alone remain'd,

A dreary void, which to supply
Nothing remain'd beneath the sky;
For with the husband of her youth,
His sacred honour and his truth,
Vanish'd her hope, her fear, her all.
But yet, at pity's gentle call,
Some kind emotions woke anew;
She to her suffering brother flew,
Yielded to nature's kindred sway,
And nursed and soothed him night and
day;

Nor once produced unwelcome theme,
By mention of her husband's name.

Home to Glen-Lyon's lonely glade,
The wounded warrior was convey'd,
And after tedious illness borne,
Dejected, wearied, and outworn,
He yielded up his spirit brave,
And sunk to an untimely grave.
And just before his life's last close,
Glen-Lyon's flower, her faded rose,
Wept o'er a young and helpless guest,
And nursed him on her youthful breast-
A lovely babe; he throve and grew,
Prattled, and smiled, and nothing knew
Of all his mother's yearnings strong,
And all her deep and deadly wrong.

Sir Hugh, with feelings rack'd and torn, And spirit wounded and forlorn, At all the ills his hand had wrought, And conduct with dishonour fraught, Was hurried by his General far, To combat in a foreign war, And hold command in that campaign That ravaged Alsace and the Rhine. But from that day he first denied His youthful wife in warrior pride,

And left her guardian and her shield
A-bleeding on Boleskine field,
From thence, in fortune ill or good,
He was a man of alter'd mood-
A man who only seem'd to take
A thought of life for sorrow's sake,
Fought but to mitigate his wo,
And gloried not in friend or foe.

Three years of fierce and bloody feud
Produced a transient quietude,
And brave Sir Hugh's diminish'd corps
Returned to England's welcome shore.
Meanwhile his son on Highland brae,
By one more relative's decay,
Succeeded had, by birth allied,
To fair Glen-Lyon far and wide,
To castle, peel, and barbican,
The greatest laird of all his clan.

Why does fair Mora of the wild
Thus deck herself and comely child,
Not in Clan-Campbell's tartans sheen,
The red, the yellow, and the green,
But in new robes of southern hue,
Pale garments of cerulean blue;
And daily take a stand sublime,
Like meteors of a foreign clime?

Ask not again-thou know'st full
well,

Nought of this world in which we dwell,
No fault nor failing, time nor space,
Can woman's maiden love efface.
It blossoms, still a virgin gem,

And offspring strengthens still the stem.
Sooner may maiden fresh and fair
Forget her locks of flowing hair,
That, heaving with her balmy breath,
To lover's heart throws shaft of death;
Sooner neglect its crescent bow
And shed oblique above the brow,
And all her charms aright to set,
Than once an early love forget;
Nay, sooner may maternal love
A truant to her nature prove,
And her betrothed affections flee
The infant smiling on her knee,
Than she can from her heart dethrone
The father of that lovely one.
Even when poor Mora's heart was reft
Of all-still sovereign love was left.

And now she thought-what could she
do

But ween her husband still was true; And, when in freedom, would not fail To seek Glen-Lyon's Highland dale, Where counts would soon have been made even,

And all forgotten and forgiven.

He sent not-came not once that way; Though many a weary hour and day, She and the boy of her delight Stood robed in southern garments bright, With anxious eyes straining intent South from the highest battlement. Then every night she dreamed anew, Of meeting with her own Sir Hugh;

And every day she took her stand,
And look'd unto the southern land;
While every time she kissed her boy,
A mother's pride, a mother's joy,
Waked ardent longings to attain
Sight of his father once again.

Her heart could brook no more delay,
And southward on a dubious way,
She with her boy disguised is gone-
By land, by sea, they journey'd on,
And soon arrived with purpose shrewd,
Mid London's mingled multitude,
Where straight she went in courtly style,
To Lady Ella of Argyle,*
And there did secretly impart
Each wish and purpose of her heart.
That lady welcomed her the more
As all her wrongs she knew before,
And oft had wish'd most fervently,
A mediatrix there to be,

Though, certes, little did she ween Her friend was beauty's peerless queen.

What scope for matron's subtle aid!
Their potent measures soon were laid
And forth came Mora of the glen,
Amid a wilderness of men

All gazing-all entranced outright,
At her resplendent beauty bright;
For no such loveliness or worth,
As this fair vision of the North,
Had e'er been seen by mortal man,
Or heard of since the world began.
The lady took her friend so fair,
To balls, assemblies, everywhere;
And sooth she was a comely sight,
In silken tartans blazing bright,
A comet of bedazzling ray,
A rainbow in a winter day-
A meteor of the frozen zone,

As bright in course as quickly gone.
For purpose justified and plain,
The lady surnamed her M'Vane,
Her husband's name, though unperceived,
Through Scottish breviat interweaved.
Then every day the clamour spread,
Of this unrivall'd Highland maid,
And every day brought wooers store,
In splendour to Duke Archibald's door;
But all advances soon were check'd
By distant coldness and respect,
And lords and courtiers sued in vain
To the unparagon'd M'Vane.
Sir Hugh, so dull and saturnine,
Chanced to behold, without design,
In all her elegance unfurl'd,
This streamer of the northern world;
For there were many movements sly,
To bring her to his languid eye,
Which no inducement could invite
To look on lady with delight.

The effect was instant, powerful,

strong,

Without the force of right or wrong

To rectify or countervail;

Once more was heaved the loaded scale,

And all the world unto a shred,
Love-sovereign love-preponderated.
O there was something in her air,
So comely, so divinely fair,
So fraught with beauty's genial glow,
Like angel dream'd of long ago,
That all his energies of mind
To this dear object were confined!
He durst not think of former spouse,
Nor dream of former broken vows,
Because, without this lady, he
Found life was utter misery.
Unto Argyle all was unknown;
The lady Ella knew alone.
But he, good man, was to his end,
A Campbell's best and firmest friend:
And judging this a proffer fit,

He urged the beauty to submit.
No-she had reasons indirect
A southron always to suspect;
And unto one should never yield,

Till bonds and contracts, sign'd and seal'd,

Were all made firm in liege and land, And lodged in good Duke Archibald's hand;

Then lothly did she yield consent
To vows of love so vehement,
And they were wed in princely style,
Within the palace of Argyle.

If brave Sir Hugh loved well before,
This time was added ten times more;
'Twas as if love had raised its head
In resurrection from the dead,
And fix'd on being all supreme,
Like something in a long-lost dream,
And with an energy intense,
As far surpassing mortal sense,
He loved, as blessed spirits prove,
When meeting in the realms above.

The joy that lighten'd in her eye,
Was watched by his with ecstasy;
On every accent of her tongue
His ravished ear enraptured bung;
And sometimes as its Highland twang
Out through his vitals thrilling rang,
It seem'd to bring a pang of woe,
And tears would all unbidden flow,
As linked, in some mysterious way,
With visions of a former day.

But faithless lover never pass'd
Without due chastening at the last;
And grievous penalties in store
Were lurking now Sir Hugh before.