Cheer'd by the strength of Ronald's shell, O ne'er to see Lord Ronald more! From distant isles a Chieftain came, 'Twas Moy; whom in Columba's isle Was never meant for mortal ear. For there, 'tis said, in mystic mood, High converse with the dead they hold, And oft espy the fated shroud That shall the future corpse enfold. O so it fell, that on a day, To rouse the red deer from their den, The Chiefs had ta'en their distant way, And scour'd the deep Glenfinlas' glen. No vassals wait their sports to aid, To watch their safety, deck their board; Their simple dress, the Highland plaid, Their trusty guard, the Highland sword. Three summer days, through brake and dell, Their whistling shafts successful flew ; And still, when dewy evening fell, The quarry to their hut they drew. In grey Glenfinlas' deepest nook, Fast by Moneira's sullen brook, Which murmurs through that lonely wood. Soft fell the night, the sky was calm, And summer mist in dewy balm Steep'd heathy bank, and mossy stone. Their silvan fare the Chiefs enjoy; "What lack we here to crown our bliss, While thus the pulse of joy beats high? What, but fair woman's yielding kiss, Her panting breath and melting eye? "To chase the deer of yonder shades, This morning left their father's pile The fairest of our mountain maids, The daughters of the proud Glengyle. "Long have I sought sweet Mary's heart, And dropp'd the tear, and heaved the sigh: But vain the lover's wily art, Beneath a sister's watchful eye. "But thou may'st teach that guardian fair, And find it hard to guard her own. "Touch but thy harp, thou soon shalt see The lovely Flora of Glengyle, Unmindful of her charge and me, Hang on thy notes, 'twixt tear and smile. "Or, if she choose a melting tale, All underneath the greenwood bough, Will good Saint Oran's rule prevail, Stern huntsman of the rigid brow?" "Since Enrick's fight, since Morna's death, No more on me shall rapture rise, Responsive to the panting breath, Or yielding kiss, or melting eyes. "E'en then, when o'er the heath of woe, "The last dread curse of angry heaven, "The bark thou saw'st yon summer morn, My eye beheld her dash'd and torn, "Thy Fergus too-thy sister's son, Thou saw'st, with pride, the gallant's power, As marching 'gainst the Lord of Downe, "Thou only saw'st their tartans wave, "I heard the groans, I mark'd the tears, I saw the wound his bosom bore.. As, bending o'er the dying gleam, She wrung the moisture from her hair. |