Interlude before The Abbot M'Kinnon

When ceased the bard's protracted song,
Circled a smile the fair among ;
The song was free, and soft its fall,
So soothing, yet so bold withal,
They loved it well, yet, sooth to say,
Too long, too varied was the lay.

'Twas now the witching time of night.
When reason strays, and forms that fright
Are shadowed on the palsied sight ;
When fancy moulds upon the mind
Light visions on the passing wind,
And wooes, with faltering tongue and sigh,
The shades o'er memory's wilds that fly ;
And much the circle longed to hear
Of gliding ghost, or gifted seer,
That in that still and solemn hour
Might stretch imagination's power,
And restless fancy revel free
In painful, pleasing luxury.
Just as the battle-tale was done
The watchman called the hour of one.

Lucky the hour for him who came,
Lucky the wish of every dame,
The bard who rose at heralds call
Was wont to sing in Highland hall,
Where the wild chieftain of M'Lean
Upheld his dark Hebridian reign ;
Where floated crane and clamorous gull
Above the misty shores of Mull ;
And evermore the billows rave
Round many a saint and sovereign's grave
There round Columba's ruins gray,
The shades of monks are wont to stray,
And slender forms of nuns, that weep
In moonlight by the murmuring deep,
O'er early loves and passions crost,
And being's end for ever lost.
No earthly form their names to save,
No stem to flourish o'er their grave,
No blood of theirs beyond the shrine
To nurse the human soul divine,
Still cherish youth by time unworn,
And flow in ages yet unborn ;
While mind, surviving evermore,
Unbodied seeks that lonely shore.

In that wild land our minstrel bred,
From youth a life of song had led.
Wandering each shore and upland dull
With Allan Bawn, the bard of Mull,
To sing the deeds of old Fingal
In every cot and Highland hall.

Well knew he, every ghost that came
To visit fair Hebridian dame,
Was that of Monk or Abbot gone,
Who once, in cell of pictured stone,
Of woman thought, and her alone.

Well knew he, every female shade
To westland chief that visit paid
In morning pale, or evening dun,
Was that of fair lamenting nun,
Who once, in cloistered home forlorn,
Languished for joys in youth forsworn ;
And oft himself had seen them glide
At dawning from his own bed-side.

Forth stepped he with uncourtly bow,
The heron plume waved o'er his brow,
His garb was blent with varied shade,
And round him flowed his Highland plaid ;
But woe to Southland dame and knight
In minstrel's tale who took delight ;
Though known the air, the song he sung
Was in the barbarous Highland tongue :
But tartaned chiefs in raptures hear
The strains, the words, to them so dear.

Thus ran the bold portentous lay,
As near as Southern tongue can say.