By whom relieved at last,
Heart-young, though time-worn, I was free
To hail my country's blast—
That on a sentry, absent found,
The doom of death was pass'd.
"POOR RONALD BLAIR! a fleeter foot
Ne'er track'd through Morvern moss
The wind-hoof'd deer; nor swimmer's arm
More wide the surge could toss
Than his, for whom dishonour's hand