"I heard the groans, I mark'd the tears,
"I saw the wound his bosom bore,
"When on the serried Saxon spears
"He pour'd his clan's resistless roar.
"And thou, who bidst me think of bliss,
"And bidst my heart awake to glee,
"And court, like thee, the wanton kiss—
"That heart, O Ronald, bleeds for thee!
"I see the death damps chill thy brow;
"I hear thy Warning Spirit cry;
"The corpse-lights dance—they're gone, and now....
"No more is given to gifted eye!"——
----"Alone enjoy thy dreary dreams,
"Sad prophet of the evil hour!
"Say, should we scorn joy's transient beams,
"Because to-morrow's storm may lour?
"Or false, or sooth, thy words of woe,
"Clangillian's chieftain ne'er shall fear;
"His blood shall bound at rapture's glow,
"Though doom'd to stain the Saxon spear.
"E'en now, to meet me in yon dell,
"My Mary's buskins brush the dew;"
He spoke, nor bade the chief farewell,
But call'd his dogs, and gay withdrew.
Within an hour return'd each hound;
In rush'd the rouzers of the deer;
They howl'd in melancholy sound,
Then closely couch beside the seer.
No Ronald yet; though midnight came,
And sad were Moy's prophetic dreams,
As, bending o'er the dying flame,
He fed the watch-fire's quivering gleams.
Sudden the hounds erect their ears,
And sudden cease their moaning howl;
Close press'd to Moy, they mark their fears
By shivering limbs, and stifled growl.
Untouch'd, the harp began to ring,
As softly, slowly, oped the door;
And shook responsive every string,
As light a footstep press'd the floor.