Poems, &c. (1790) Part 9

It was but the voice of the winds from the deep narrow glens of Glanarven.

ALLEN.

The heath is unruffled around, and the oak o'er thy head is at rest: Calm swells the moon on the lake, and nothing is heard in the reeds.

Sad was the sound, O my father! but it was not the voice of the wind.

LATHMOR.

What dark tow'ring rock do I see 'midst the grey spreading mist of the hills?

This is not the vale of Clanarven: my son, we have err'd from the way,

ALLEN.

It is not a dark tow'ring rock, 'midst the grey settled mist of the hills.

'Tis a dark tow'r of strength which thou seest, and the ocean spreads dimly behind it.

LATHMOR.

Then here will we stop for the night, for the tow'r of Arthula is near.

Proceed not, my son, on the way, for it was not the voice of the wind.

The ghost of the valliant is forth; and it mourns round the place of its woe.

The tray'ller oft' hears it at midnight, and turns him aside from its haunt.

The sharp moon is spent in her course, and the way of the desert is doubtful.

This oak with his wide leavy branches will shelter our heads from the night; And I'll tell thee a story of old, since the tow'r of Arthula is near.

From the walls of his strength came Lochallen, with his broad chested sons of the hills.

He was strong as a bull of the forest, and keen as a bird of the rock.

His friends of the chace were around him, the sons of the heroes of Mora.

They were clad in the strength of their youth; and the sound of their arms rung afar.

For Uthal had led his dark host from the blue misty isle of his power; And o'erspread like a cloud of the desert, the land of the white-headed Lorma.

Of Lorma who sat in the hall, and lamented the sons of his youth; For Orvina remained alone to support the frail steps of his age.

He sent to the king of Ithona: he remembered the love of his father: And Lochallen soon join'd him on Loarn with the high minded chieftains of Mora.

Loud was the sound of the battle, and many the slain of the field.

Red was the sword of Lochallen: it was red with the blood of the brave.

For his eye sought the combat of heroes, and the mighty withstood not his arm.

He rag'd like a flame on the heath; and the enemy fled from his face.

But short was the triumph of Lorma; the hour of his fading was near.

Whilst a bard rais'd the song of the battle, his dim eyes were closed in death.

He fell like a ruined tow'r; like a fragment of times that are past: Like a rock whose foundation is worn with the lashes of many a wave.

Four grey head warriors of Lorma remain'd from the days of his youth: They mourn'd o'er the fall of their lord; and they bore him to his dark narrow house.

His memorial was rais'd on the hill; and the lovely Orvina wept over it.

She bent her fair form o'er the heap; and her sorrow was silent, and gentle.

It flow'd like the pure twinkling dream beneath the green shade of the fern.

The hunters oft bless it at noon, tho' the strangers perceive not its course.

The wind of the hill rais'd her locks, and Lochallen beheld her in grief.

The soul of the hero was knit to the tear-eyed daughter of Lorma.

She was graceful and tall as the willow, that bends o'er the deep shady stream.

Her eye like a sun-beam on water, that gleams thro' the dark skirting reeds.

Her hair like the light wreathing cloud, that floats on the brow of the hill, When the beam of the morning is there, and it scatters its skirts to the wind.

Lovely and soft were her smiles, like a glimpse from the white riven cloud, When the sun hastens over the lake, and a summer show'r ruffles its bosom.

Her voice was the sweet sound of midnight, that visits the ear of the bard, When he darts from the place of his slumber, and calls on some far distant friend.

She was fair 'mongst the maids of her time; and she soften'd the wrath of the mighty.

Their eyes lighten'd up in her presence; they dropt their dark spears as she spoke.

Lochallen was firm in his strength, and unmov'd in the battle of heroes; Like a rock-fenced isle of the ocean, that shews its dark head thro' the storm.

His brow was like a cliff on the sh.o.r.e, that fore-warneth the hunters of Ithona; For there gleams the first ray of morning, and there broods the mist ere the storm: It shone, and it darken'd by turns, as the strength of his pa.s.sions arose.

He was terrible as a gathering storm, when his soul learnt the wrongs of the feeble.

His eye was the lightning of s.h.i.+elds; he was swift as a blast in its course.

When the warriours return'd from the field, and the sons of the mighty a.s.sembled, He was graceful as the light tow'ring cloud that rises from the blue bounded main.

Gentle and fair was his form in the tow'rs of the hilly Ithona.

His voice cheer'd the soul of the sad; he would sport with a child in the hall.

Matchless in the days of their love were Lochallen and the daughter of Lorma.

But their beauty has ceas'd on Arthula; and the place of their rest is unknown.

The family of Lorma has fail'd, and strangers rejoice in his hall: But voices of sorrow are heard when the stillness of midnight is there; The stranger is wak'd with the sound, and enquires of the race that is gone.

But wherefore thus doleful and sad, do ye wander alone on Arthula?

Why look ye thus lonely and sad, ye children of the dark narrow house?

Your names shall be known in the song, when the fame of the mighty is low.

ALLEN.

From what cloud of the hills do they look? for I see not their forms, O my father!

LATHMOR.

Why do'st thou tremble my son? thou hast fought in the battle of s.h.i.+elds.

They look'd from no cloud of the hills; but the soul of thy father beheld them.

Lochallen return'd from the field, to the sea-beaten tower of Arthula.

Five days he abode in the hall, and they pa.s.s'd like a glimpse of the sun, When the clouds of the tempest are rent, and the green island smiles 'midst the storm.

On the sixth a cloud hung on his brow, and his eye shun'd the looks of his friends.

He spoke to the maid of his soul, and the trouble of his bosom was great.

Pleasant is the hall of my love; but the storm gathers round us, Orvina.

I must go to the island of Uthal, and scatter his gathering force.

But like a cleft oak of the forest, I'll quickly return to my love: When the hard wedge is drawn from its side, it returns to itself again.

The daughter of Lorma was silent: she turn'd her fair face from his sight.

Go to the war, son of Mora; and the strength of thy fathers go with thee.

I will sit on the high rocky sh.o.r.e, and look o'er the wide foaming sea.

I will watch ev'ry blue rising cloud, till I see thy dark vessels return.

He gather'd his warriours around him; they darken'd the brown rugged sh.o.r.e.

The rocks echo'd wide to their cries, and loud was the das.h.i.+ng of oars.

Orvina stood high on a rock, that hung o'er the deep las.h.i.+ng main; Big swell'd the tear in her eye, and high heav'd the sighs of her bosom; As she saw the white billows encreasing between his dark s.h.i.+p and the sh.o.r.e.

Her fixed eye follow'd its course o'er many a far distant wave, Till its broad sails, and high tow'ring mast but appear'd like a speck on the waters; Yet still she beheld in her fancy the form of her love on its side; And she stretched her white arms to the ocean, and wav'd her loose girdle on high.

Soon reach'd the sons of Ithona the blue misty isle of their foe.

Like the pent up dogs of the hunter when let loose from their prison of night; Who snuff up the air of the morning, and rejoice at the voice of the chace; They leapt from the sides of their vessels, and spread o'er the wide sounding sh.o.r.e.

Thick on the brown heathy plain, were spread the dark thousands of Uthal.

The warriours of Lochallen were few, but their fathers were known in the song.

Like a small rapid stream of the hills when it falls on the broad settled lake, And troubles its dark muddy bosom, and dashes its waters aloft, So rush'd the keen sons of Ithona on the thick gather'd host of the foe.

Red gleam'd the arms of the brave thro' the brown rising dust of the field.

Fierce glar'd the eyes of Lochallen; he fought the dark face of his enemy.

He found the grim king of the isle; but the strength of his chieftains was round him.

Come forth in thy might, said Lochallen; come forth to the combat of kings.

Great is the might of thy warriours; but where is the strength of thine arms?