Twice through the hall the Chieftain strode;
The waving of his tartans broad,
And darken’d brow, where wounded pride
With ire and disappointment vied,
Seem’d, by the torch’s gloomy light,
Like the ill Demon of the night,
Stooping his pinions’ shadowy sway
Upon the nighted pilgrim’s way:
But, unrequited Love! thy dart
Plunged deepest its envenom’d smart,