""Tis well," replied the stranger stern, And fiercely flashed his rolling eye; "Thy Oscar's fate I fain would learn; Perhaps the hero did not die. "Perchance, if those whom he most loved, "Fill high the bowl the table round, "With all my soul," old Angus said, "Bravely, old man, this health has sped; The crimson glow of Allan's face Was turned at once to ghastly hue; The drops of death each other chase Adown in agonizing dew. Thrice did he raise the goblet high, And thrice his lips refused to taste; For thrice he caught the stranger's eye On his with deadly fury placed. "And is it thus a brother hails A brother's fond remembrance here? If thus affection's strength prevails, What might we not expect from fear?" Roused by the sneer, he raised the bowl, He said, and dashed the cup to earth. ""Tis he! I hear my murderer's voice!" Loud shrieks a darkly-gleaming form; "A murderer's voice!" the roof replies, And deeply swells the bursting storm. The tapers wink, the chieftain's shrink, A form was seen in tartan green, And tall the shade terrific grew. His waist was bound with a broad belt round, But his breast was bare, with the red wounds there, And thrice he smiled, with his eye so wild, And thrice he frowned on a chief on the ground, The bolts loud roll, from pole to pole, The thunders through the welkin ring, And the gleaming form, through the mist of the storm, Was borne on high by the whirlwind's wing. Cold was the feast, the revel ceased: "Away, away! let the leech essay But Oscar's breast is cold as clay, With him in dark Glentanar's vale. And whence the dreadful stranger came, Ambition nerved young Allan's hand, Swift is the shaft of Allan's bow: Whose streaming life-blood stains his side? Dark Oscar's sable crest is low, The dart has drank his vital tide. And Mora's eye could Allan move, She bade his wounded pride rebel; Alas! that eyes which beamed with love Should urge the soul to deeds of hell! Lo! seest thou not a lonely tomb Far, distant far, the noble grave Which held his clan's great ashes stood; And o'er his corse no banners wave, For they were stained with kindred blood. What minstrel gray, what hoary bard, Shall Allan's deeds on harp-strings raise? The song is glory's chief reward, But who can strike a murderer's praise? Unstrung, untouched, the harp must stand, No lyre of fame, no hallowed verse, A dying father's bitter curse, A brother's death-groan echoes there. TO THE DUKE OF DORSET. DORSET! whose early steps with mine have strayed, Whom still affection taught me to defend, Though the harsh custom of our youthful band Thee on whose head a few short years will shower When youthful parasites, who bend the knee That books were only meant for drudging fools, And seek to blast the honors of thy name. |