110 115 120 125 130 power, As marching 'gainst the Lord of Downe "Thou only saw'st their tartans1 wave, "I heard the groans, I mark'd the tears, He pour'd his clans's resist less roar. "And thou who bidst me think of bliss, And bidst my heart awake to glee, And court like thee the wanton kissThat heart, O Ronald, bleeds for thee! "I see the death-damps chill thy brow; I hear thy Warning Spirit cry; The corpse-lights dance! they're gone! and now His blood shall bound at rapture's glow, 175 Our father's towers o'erhang her side, Though doom'd to stain the Saxon spear. The castle of the bold Glengyle. "To chase the dun Glenfin las deer Our woodland course this morn we bore, And haply met, while wandering here, The son of great Macgillianore. "O, aid me, then, to seek the pair, Whom, loitering in the woods, I lost; Yes, many a shrieking ghost walks there; Then, first, my own sad vow to keep, Here will I pour my midnight prayer, Which still must rise when mortals sleep." "O, first, for pity's gentle sake, Guide a lone wanderer on her way! "First, three times tell each Ave-bead,1 200 So shall we safely wend our way." "O shame to knighthood, strange and foul! "Not so, by high Dunlathmon's fire, Thy heart was froze to love and joy, When gaily rung thy raptured lyre To wanton Morna's melting eye." 205 Wild stared the minstrel's eyes of flame, 210 "And who art thou? and who are they?" "Where wild Loch Katrine pours her tide, The startled red-deer scuds the plain, For the hoarse bugle's warrior-sound Has roused their mountain haunts again. Through the huge oaks of Evandale, "O change accursed! past are those days; False Murray's ruthless spoilers came, Whose limbs a thousand years have 95 And, for the hearth's domestic blaze, worn, Ascends destruction's volumed flame. "What sheeted phantom wanders wild, Her arms enfold a shadowy child- "The wilder'd traveller sees her glide, Struggling in blood the savage lies; 'Tis noon against the knotted oak The hunters rest the idle spear; cheer. Burst mingling from the kindred band, And half arose the kindling Chief, And half unsheathed his Arran brand. But who, o'er bush, o'er stream and rock, Whose cheek is pale, whose eyeballs glare, From gory selle,1 and reeling steed, And, reeking from the recent deed, He dash'd his carbine on the ground. Sternly he spoke: ""Tis sweet to hear To drink a tyrant's dying groan. 1 saddle |