To
speak in the poetical language of my country, the seat of the Celtic Muse
is in the mist of the secret and solitary hill, and her voice in the
murmur of the mountain stream. He who woos her must love the barren rock
more than the fertile valley, and the solitude of the desert better than
the festivity of the hall.'
Few could have heard this lovely woman make this declaration, with a
voice where harmony was exalted by pathos, without exclaiming that the
muse whom she invoked could never find a more appropriate representative.
But Waverley, though the thought rushed on his mind, found no courage to
utter it. Indeed, the wild feeling of romantic delight with which he
heard the few first notes she drew from her instrument amounted almost to
a sense of pain. He would not for worlds have quitted his place by her
side; yet he almost longed for solitude, that he might decipher and
examine at leisure the complication of emotions which now agitated his
bosom.
Flora had exchanged the measured and monotonous recitative of the bard
for a lofty and uncommon Highland air, which had been a battle-song in
former ages. A few irregular strains introduced a prelude of a wild and
peculiar tone, which harmonised well with the distant waterfall, and the
soft sigh of the evening breeze in the rustling leaves of an aspen, which
overhung the seat of the fair harpress.
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