And must the day, so blithe that rose,
And promised rapture in the close,
Before its setting hour, divide
The bridegroom from the plighted bride?
O fatal doom!—it must! it must!
Clan-Alpine’s cause, her Chieftain’s trust,
Her summons dread, brook no delay;
Stretch to the race—away! away!
XXII.
Yet slow he laid his plaid aside,