Mark’d the fell havoc of the day.”
XX.
“Viewing the mountain’s ridge askance,
The Saxon stood in sullen trance,
Till Moray pointed with his lance,
And cried—‘Behold yon isle!—
See! none are left to guard its strand,
But women weak, that wring the hand:
’Tis there of yore the robber band
Their booty wont to pile;—