There are five poems of Sir Walter which I deem worthy of association with the Waverley Novels, viz: “The Lord of the Isles,” “The Lay of the Last Minstrel,” “The Lady of the Lake,” “Marmion,” and “Rokeby,” which I propose to consider, each in its place. “The Lord of the Isles” is associated with the same stirring events as “Castle Dangerous,” and presents a faithful portrayal of the adventures and history of Robert Bruce. It opens at Ardtornish Castle whose ruins still rise bold and towering on the coast of Morven. I saw it once in the gray gloamin’ of an August evening, on my return from Staffa and Iona; and the opening canto of the poem was impressed upon my mind at that time, in lines never to be effaced. As I sat upon the deck of the steamer I heard the minstrel song again echoing among the crags—“Wake Maid of Lorn”—prelude to the wedding festivities already arranged but destined to be long delayed. I saw Lord Ronald’s fleet again sweep by “Streamered with silk and tricked with gold, Manned with the noble and the bold Of Island chivalry.” I saw the solitary skiff, bearing the hope and pride of Scotland, making slow and toilsome progress, with rent sail and gaping planks, and heard above the roar of the tempest the calm reply of King Robert to his impatient brother: “In man’s most dark extremity Oft succor dawns from heaven.” I saw the lights of the castle again gleam over the dark billows as the door opened to the regal wanderer asking shelter. I saw the haughty look of the proud Lorn, his lifelong enemy. I saw the bridal feast changed into warlike debate, and Scott’s lines came to my mind with pictured force: “Wild was the scene; each sword was bare, Back streamed each chieftain’s shaggy hair In gloomy opposition set, Eyes, hands, and brandished weapons met; Blue gleaming o’er the social board, Flashed to the torches many a sword; And soon those bridal lights may shine On purple blood for rosy wine.” I saw the Abbott, with hoodless head and withered cheek stop upon the threshold, while “Threat and murmur died away, Till on the crowded hall there lay Such silence as the deadly still, Ere bursts the thunder on the hill; With blade advanced, each chieftain bold Showed like the sworder’s form of old, As wanting still the torch of life To wake the marble into strife.” I heard the haughty words of Argentine demanding Bruce, as England’s prisoner, and the loud turmoil of fiercer chiefs demanding his life, while the brave Ronald cries: “Forbear! Not in my sight while brand I wear, O’ermatched by odds, shall warrior fall, Or blood of stranger stain my hall! This ancient fortress of my race Shall be misfortune’s resting-place, Shelter and shield of the distressed, No slaughterhouse for shipwrecked guest.”