He vanish’d, and o’er moor and moss
Sped forward with the Fiery Cross.
Suspended was the widow’s tear,
While yet his footsteps she could hear;
And when she mark’d the henchman’s eye
Wet with unwonted sympathy,
“Kinsman,” she said, “his race is run,
That should have sped thine errand on;
The oak has fall’n,—the sapling bough
Is all Duncraggan’s shelter now.