IX.
Oh! light was the step of the blooming girl,
And glossy the hue of the raven curl,
And joyous the glance of the dark eye's play,
When the pride of the village was Morna Grey.
But ruthless war to her dwelling came,
Her brothers slept on the field of fame,
Her father's blood on his hearth was shed;
And the desolate orphan in anguish fled
To the cottage of one who her childhood nursed,
And who soothed the spirit that grief had cursed;
And now in the depths of that speaking eye
There slumbered a sadness still and high,
But veiled with a clear and mellow light,
Like the softened glow of a moonlit night;
And the rose on her cheek that came and went,
Like the hues of the West when day is spent,
Told how the chords of the heart below,
Quivered and shrunk at the breath of wo.
But why did a presage of coming ill,
With a fiercer pang her bosom thrill,
And pale her cheek to a deadlier hue,
As she sought the spring where the jessamine grew?
She had come to meet for a moment there,
Ere he sought the field in the strife to share,
One who her father had blessed in death,
As she pledged her faith with faltering breath;
And Huon with joyous smile and gay,
Welcomed the presence of Morna Grey.