The family were three-a father hoar,

Whose age you'd guess at seventy years or niore,
His son look'd fifty-cheerful like her lord,
His comely wife presided at the board;
All three had that peculiar courteous grace
Which marks the meanest of the Highland race;
Warm hearts that burn alike in weal and wo,
As if the north-wind fann'd their bosoms' glow!
But wide unlike their souls: old Norman's eye
Was proudly savage ev'n in courtesy.

His sinewy shoulders-each, though aged and lean,
Broad as the curl'd Herculean head between,-
His scornful lip, his eyes of yellow fire,
And nostrils that dilated quick with ire,
With ever downward-slanting shaggy brows,
Mark'd the old lion you would dread to rouse.

Norman, in truth, had led his earlier life
In raids of red revenge and feudal strife;
Religious duty in revenge he saw,

Proud Honor's right and Nature's honest law.
First in the charge and foremost in pursuit,
Long-breath'd, deep-chested, and in speed of foot
A match for stags-still fleeter when the prey
in persecution's evil day;

Was man,

Cheer'd to that chase by brutal bold Dundee,
No Highland hound had lapp'd more blood than he.
Oft had he changed the covenanter's breath

From howls of psalmody to howls of death;
And though long bound to peace, it irk'd him still
His dirk had ne'er one hated foe to kill.

Yet Norman had fierce virtues, that would mock
Cold-blooded tories of the modern stock

Who starve the breadless poor with fraud and cant ;-
He slew and saved them from the pangs of want.
Nor was his solitary lawless charm

Mere dauntlessness of soul and strength of arm;

He had his moods of kindness now and then,
And feasted ev'n well-manner'd lowland men
Who blew not up his Jacobitish flame,
Nor prefaced with "pretender" Charles's name.
Fierce, but by sense and kindness not unwon,
He loved, respected ev'n, his wiser son;
And brook'd from him expostulations sage,
When all advisers else were spurn'd with rage.

Far happier times had moulded Ronald's mind,
By nature too of more sagacious kind.

His breadth of brow, and Roman shape of chin,
Squared well with the firm man that reign'd within
Contemning strife as childishness, he stood
With neighbors on kind terms of neighborhood,
And whilst his father's anger naught avail'd,
His rational remonstrance never fail'd.
Full skilfully he managed farm and fold,
Wrote, cipher'd, profitably bought and sold;
And, bless'd with pastoral leisure, deeply took
Delight to be inform'd, by speech or book,
Of that wide world beyond his mountain home,
Where oft his curious fancy loved to roam.
Oft while his faithful dog ran round his flock,
He read long hours when summer warm'd the rock:
Guests who could tell him aught were welcomed

warm,

Ev'n pedlers' news had to his mind a charm ;

That like an intellectual magnet-stone

Drew truth from judgments simpler than his own.

His soul's proud instinct sought not to enjoy
Romantic fictions, like a minstrel boy;
Truth, standing on her solid square, from youth
He worshipp'd-stern uncompromising truth.
His goddess kindlier smiled on him, to find
A votary of her light in land so blind;
She bade majestic History unroll

Broad views of public welfare to his soul,
Until he look'd on clannish feuds and foes
With scorn, as on the wars of kites and crows;
Whilst doubts assail'd him, o'er and o'er again,
If men were made for kings or kings for men.
At last, to Norman's horror and dismay,
He flat denied the Stuarts' right to sway.

No blow-pipe ever whiten'd furnace fire,
Quick as these words lit up his father's ire;
Who envied even old Abraham for his faith,
Ordain'd to put his only son to death.

He started up-in such a mood of soul

The white bear bites his showman's stirring pole;
He danced too, and brought out, with snarl and he wl,
"O Dia! Dia! and Dioul! Dioul !"*

But sense foils fury-as the blowing whale
Spouts, bleeds, and dyes the waves without avail-
Wears out the cable's length that makes him fast,
But, worn himself, comes up harpoon'd at last-
E'en so, devoid of sense, succumbs at length
Mere strength of zeal to intellectual strength.
His son's close logic so perplex'd his pate,
Th' old hero rather shunn'd than sought debate;
Exhausting his vocabulary's store

Of oaths and nick-names, he could say no more,
'But tapp'd his mull,† roll'd mutely in his chair,
Or only whistled Killicranky's air.

Witch legends Ronald scorn'd—ghost, kelpie, wraith, And all the trumpery of vulgar faith;

Grave matrons ev'n were shock'd to hear him slight Authenticated facts of second-sight—

Yet never flinch'd his mockery to confound

The brutal superstition reigning round.

* God and the devil-a favorite ejaculation of Highland saints, † Snuff-horn.

Reserved himself, still Ronald loved to scan
Men's natures-and he liked the old hearty man;
So did the partner of his heart and life-
Who pleased her Ronald, ne'er displeased his wife.
His seme, 'tis true, compared with Norman's son,
Was common-place-his tales too long outspun:
Yet Allan Campbell's sympathizing mind

Had held large intercourse with human kind;
Seen much, and gayly graphically drew
The men of every country, clime, and hue;
Nor ever stoop'd, though soldier-like his strain,
To ribaldry of mirth or oath profane.
All went harmonious till the guest began
To talk about his kindred, chief and clan,
And, with his own biography engross❜d,
Mark'd not the changed demeanor of each host
Nor how old choleric Norman's cheek became
Flush'd at the Campbell and Breadalbane name
Assigning, heedless of impending harm,

Their steadfast silence to his story's charm,

He touch'd a subject perilous to touch

;

Saying, "Midst this well-known vale I wonder'd much

To lose my way. In boyhood, long ago,

I roam'd, and loved each pathway of Glencoe ;
Trapp'd leverets, pluck'd wild berries on its braes,
And fish'd along its banks long summer days.
But times grew stormy-bitter feuds arose,
Our clan was merciless to prostrate foes.

I never palliated my chieftain's blame,

But mourn'd the sin, and redden'd for the shame
Of that foul morn (Heaven blot it from the year!)
Whose shapes and shrieks still haunt my dreaming

ear.

What could I do? a serf-Glenlyon's page,

A soldier sworn at nineteen years of age;

T'have breathed one grieved remonstrance to our chief,