And, lingering, eyed his lovely bride,
Until he saw the starting tear
Speak woe he might not stop to cheer;
Then, trusting not a second look,
In haste he sped him up the brook,
Nor backward glanced, till on the heath
Where Lubnaig’s lake supplies the Teith.
—What in the racer’s bosom stirr’d?
The sickening pang of hope deferr’d,
And memory, with a torturing train