44. Hark to the pibroch's pleasing note! 45. Again the clan, in festive crowd, 46. But who is he, whose darken'd brow The blue flames curdle o'er the hearth. 47. Dark is the robe which wraps his form, And tall his plume of gory red; His voice is like the rising storm, But light and trackless is his tread. 48. 'Tis noon of night, the pledge goes round, 49. Sudden the stranger-chief arose, And all the clamorous crowd are hush'd; And Angus' cheek with wonder glows, And Mora's tender bosom blush'd. 50. "Old man!" he cried, "this pledge is done; Thou saw'st 'twas duly drank by me; It hail'd the nuptials of thy son: Now will I claim a pledge from thee. 51. "While all around is mirth and joy, 52. "Alas!" the hapless sire replied, The big tear starting as he spoke, "When Oscar left my hall, or died, This aged heart was almost broke. 53. "Thrice has the earth revolved her course Since Oscar's form has bless'd my sight; And Allan is my last resource, Since martial Oscar's death or flight.” 54. "Tis well," replied the stranger stern, 55. Perchance, if those whom most he loved 56. "Fill high the bowl the table round, 57. "With all my soul," old Angus said, 58. ‘Bravely, old man, this health has sped; * Beltane Tree, a Highland festival on the first of May, held near fires lighted for the occasion. 59. The crimson glow of Allan's face 60. Thrice did he raise the goblet high, 61. "And is it thus a brother hails A brother's fond remembrance here? 62. Roused by the sneer, he raised the bowl, "C 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, But his breast was bare, with the red wounds there, 66. And thrice he smiled, with his eye so wild, And thrice he frown'd on a chief on the ground, 67. 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. 68. Cold was the feast, the revel ceased. At length his life-pulse throbs once more. * Old Angus press'd the earth with his breast. First edition.-ED. |