Her father, after some rubbing of his brow, and other mechanical efforts to assist his memory, at length recovered verse sufficient to put the following query, though in less gallant strains than those of Halcro:—
Magnus Troil.
“Mother, speak, and do not tarry,
Here’s a maiden fain would marry.
Shall she marry, ay or not?
If she marry, what’s her lot?”
A deep sigh was uttered within the tabernacle of the soothsayer, as if she compassionated the subject of the doom which she was obliged to pronounce. She then, as usual, returned her response:—
Norna.
“Untouch’d by love, the maiden’s breast
Is like the snow on Rona’s crest;
So pure, so free from earthly dye,
It seems, whilst leaning on the sky,
Part of the heaven to which ’tis nigh;
But passion, like the wild March rain,
May so
