Lines suggested by a perusal of the Lay of the Last Minstrel

In yon ungentle clime whose steepsStill frown with unrelenting snows,Whose rugged breast the north wind sweeps,How warm the minstrel spirit glows!

Amid her whirlwinds rude and hoarse,What sweetly-solemn strains arise!Wild, as her torrents' rapid course,And awful as her stormy skies!

And soft! along the heathy wasteWhat strange mysterious warblings pour!—All silent sinks the mountain blast,The deafening linn suspends its roar.—

Hark! 'tis a deep, a potent strain!?No vulgar minstrel strikes the lyre,But on his heart and on his brain,Flashes the Muse's lambent fire!

Aloft his mystic wand he rears—When lo! the vapoury clouds of timeLeave all unveil'd the dark brown years,Obedient to the wizard rhyme—

Hark Caledonia! from the tomb,From the rude cairn's unsculptur'd heap,From the pale cloister's twilight gloomIt breaks the warrior's grizly sleep!

On the dim legends gothic pageWhat lofty deeds obscurely slept,While o'er them still, from age to age,Oblivion's mouldering mildew crept!

Mark Scotland, mark! the wondrous songRouses from dust each slumbering name,Oh mark its echoes loud and long!It gives your vanish'd sires to fame!

Once more the chieftain's eye severe,Gleams with the lightning's vivid flash,And half appall'd, we seem to hearHis glittering claymore's mortal clash!

Oh Scotland! if within thee restOne spark, to fame, to honour dear,How must he warm thy rugged breast,Who tells thee what thy fathers were!

And do we doubt, if still remainsIn Scottish hearts the patriot glow?Go ask, 'mid Egypt's distant plains,How Caledonians meet the foe!

While to the whistling northern blastThe thistle rears her purple head,So long shall Scotland's glory last,And wide her song of fame be spread,

For still, amid her whirlwinds hoarse,Her minstrel's patriot strain shall rise,Wild, as her torrents' rapid course,And awful as her stormy skies!

"The tapers are quench'd and the mass is said,Lady, Lady! cease to weep!Why clingest thou thus round the silent dead,He goes to his grave so deep?"

On the sable bier the Lady she gaz'd,Her woe it is wild despair,Her lip it is pale and her eye is glaz'd,"Lady, Lady! hence to pray'r!"