62.

Roused by the sneer, he rais'd the bowl,

"Would Oscar now could share our mirth!"

Internal fear appall'd his soul;

He said, and dash'd the cup to earth.

63.

""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.

64.

The tapers wink, the chieftains shrink,

The stranger's gone,-amidst the crew,

A Form was seen, in tartan green,

And tall the shade terrific grew.

65.

His waist was bound with a broad belt round,
His plume of sable stream'd on high;

But his breast was bare, with the red wounds there,
And fix'd was the glare of his glassy eye.

66.

And thrice he smil'd, with his eye so wild
On Angus bending low the knee;

And thrice he frown'd, on a Chief on the ground,
Whom shivering crowds with horror see.

i. Internal fears --Hours of Idleness.]

67.

The bolts loud roll from pole to pole,

And thunders through the welkin ring,

And the gleaming form, through the mist of the storm, Was borne on high by the whirlwind's wing.

68.

Cold was the feast, the revel ceas'd.

Who lies upon the stony floor? Oblivion press'd old Angus' breast,'

At length his life-pulse throbs once more.

69.

"Away, away! let the leech essay

To pour the light on Allan's eyes: " His sand is done,—his race is run;

Oh! never more shall Allan rise!

70.

But Oscar's breast is cold as clay,

His locks are lifted by the gale;

And Allan's barbèd arrow lay

With him in dark Glentanar's vale.

71.

And whence the dreadful stranger came,

Or who, no mortal wight can tell ; But no one doubts the form of flame,

For Alva's sons knew Oscar well.

i. Old Angus prest, the earth with his breast.—[Hours of Idleness.]

VOL. I.

L

72.

Ambition nerv'd young Allan's hand,
Exulting demons wing'd his dart;
While Envy wav'd her burning brand,

And pour'd her venom round his heart.

73.

Swift is the shaft from Allan's bow;

Whose streaming life-blood stains his side?

Dark Oscar's sable crest is low,

The dart has drunk his vital tide.

74.

And Mora's eye could Allan move,
She bade his wounded pride rebel :
Alas! that eyes, which beam'd with love,
Should urge the soul to deeds of Hell.

75.

Lo! see'st thou not a lonely tomb,

Which rises o'er a warrior dead?

It glimmers through the twilight gloom;
Oh! that is Allan's nuptial bed.

76.

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 stain'd with kindred blood.

77.

What minstrel grey, what hoary bard,

Shall Allan's deeds on harp-strings raise?
The song is glory's chief reward,

But who can strike a murd'rer's praise?

78.

Unstrung, untouch'd, the harp must stand,
No minstrel dare the theme awake;
Guilt would benumb his palsied hand,

His harp in shuddering chords would break.

79.

No lyre of fame, no hallow'd verse,

Shall sound his glories high in air:

A dying father's bitter curse,

A brother's death-groan echoes there.

TRANSLATION FROM ANACREON.
Θέλω λέγειν 'Ατρείδας, κ.τ.λ.

1. [The motto does not appear in Hours of Idleness or Poems O. and T.]

To echo, from its rising swell,
How heroes fought and nations fell,
When Atreus' sons advanc'd to war,
Or Tyrian Cadmus rov'd afar;
But still, to martial strains unknown,
My lyre recurs to Love alone.
Fir'd with the hope of future fame,"
I seek some nobler Hero's name;
The dying chords are strung anew,
To war, to war, my harp is due :
With glowing strings, the Epic strain
To Jove's great son I raise again;
Alcides and his glorious deeds,
Beneath whose arm the Hydra bleeds;
All, all in vain; my wayward lyre
Wakes silver notes of soft Desire.
Adieu, ye Chiefs renown'd in arms!
Adieu the clang of War's alarms !".
To other deeds my soul is strung,
And sweeter notes shall now be sung;
My harp shall all its powers reveal,
To tell the tale my heart must feel;
Love, Love alone, my lyre shall claim,
In songs of bliss and sighs of flame.
i. The chords resumed a second strain,
To Jove's great son I strike again.
Alcides and his glorious deeds,

Beneath whose arm the Hydra bleeds.-[MS. Newstead.] ii. The Trumpet's blast with these accords

To sound the clash of hostile swords

Be mine the softer, sweeter care

To soothe the young and virgin Fair.-[MS. Newstead.]