"My woes are great, my wife lies dead,
But yester week these hands
Closed her sweet eyes, and now I bring
Her body to your lands."
Then was the arras drawn aside
And girt with wake lights drear,
Beneath the archway's carven vault,
Was borne a white-crossed bier.
And Duart rose; his shifting eye
Moved like a marsh-fire pale,
But circling back, still restless scanned
The lady of the veil.
Then through the silence broke a voice,
"Know you that lady, chief?
She too, a guest with us, like you,
Well knows the pangs of grief.
"You come from far, bring wine." To each
The ruddy goblet passed.
The lady raised her hand, and back
The heavy veil she cast.
Strong Duart reeled as from a stroke;
He stared as at the dead:
How could her glance o'er that dark face
Such deathly palor spread?
"Your play is out, ah cursed fiend!"
Ahaladah cried loud;
"Your death shall be no phantom false,
No empty mask your shroud:
If hospitality's high law
Here shields your life awhile,
By all the saints you yet shall feel
The vengeance of Argyll."
* * * * *
In Edinburgh Duart's Lord
Strides down the shadowed town;
The white moon glints on roofs o'erhead,
And on St Giles's crown.
Another step is on the street,
The watchmen hear no cry;
But drenched in blood lies Duart, where
Ahaladah passed by.
THE POOL OF THE IRON SHIRT.
Colin, Chief of Diarmid's kin,
Strode alone to Ederlinn.
Night, and heath, and deep morass
Hear the chain-mailed warrior pass.
Ambushed lay the treacherous foe,
Ear to earth, and dart on bow.
Vain their arrows' ringing hail
Fell on pointed helm and mail.