XXII.
LAMENT.
“And art them cold and lowly laid,
Thy foeman’s dread, thy people’s aid,
Breadalbane’s[355] boast, Clan-Alpine’s shade!
For thee shall none a requiem say?—
For thee,—who loved the Minstrel’s lay,
For thee, of Bothwell’s house the stay,
The shelter of her exiled line?
E’en in this prison house of thine,
I’ll wail for Alpine’s honor’d Pine!
“What groans shall yonder valleys fill!
What shrieks of grief shall rend yon hill!
What tears of burning rage shall thrill,
When mourns thy tribe thy battles done,
Thy fall before the race was won,
Thy sword ungirt ere set of sun!
There breathes not clansman of thy line,
But would have given his life for thine.—
Oh, woe for Alpine’s honor’d Pine!
“Sad was thy lot on mortal stage!—
The captive thrush may brook the cage,
The prison’d eagle dies for rage.
Brave spirit, do not scorn my strain!
And, when its notes awake again,
Even she, so long beloved in vain,
Shall with my harp her voice combine,
And mix her woe and tears with mine,
To wail Clan-Alpine’s honor’d Pine.”—