Poems, &c. (1790) Part 10

Youth of Ithona, said Uthal, thy fathers were mighty in battle, Return to thy brown woody hills, till the hair is grown dark on thy cheek; Then come from the tow'rs of thy safety, a foe less unworthy of Uthal.

But thou lovest a weakly enemy, foe of the white haired chief.

Thou lovest a foe that is weak, said the red swelling pride of Lochallen.

Seest thou this sword of my youth? it is red with the blood of thy heroes.

Come forth in the strength of thine years, and hand its dark blade in thy hall.

He lifted a spear in his wrath o'er the head of his high worded foe; But the strength of his chieftains was there, and it rung on their broad spreading shields.

He turned himself scornful away, to look for some n.o.bler enemy; He met thee fair son of Hidallo, as chaffing he strode in his wrath; But thou never did'st turn from the valiant, youth of the far distant land.

Fierce fought the heroes, and wonder'd each chief at the might of his foe.

They found themselves matched in strength, and they fought in the pride of their souls.

b.l.o.o.d.y and long was the fight, but the arm of Lochallen prevail'd.

Ah, why did you combat, ye heroes! ah, why did ye meet in the field!

Your souls had been brothers of love, had ye met in the dwellings of peace.

He was like to thyself, son of Mora, where his voice cheer'd the heart of the stranger In the far distant hall of his father, who never shall hear it again; He was like to thyself whom thou slewest; and he fell in his youth like thee.

The maid of thy bosom is lovely, thou fair fallen son of the stranger.

She sits on her high hanging bower, and looks to the way of thy promise.

She combs down her long yellow hair; and prepares a fine robe for thy coming.

She starts at the voice of the breeze, and runs to the door of her bow'r.

But thou art a dim misty form on the clouds of far distant hills.

Fierce was the rage of the battle, and terrible the clanging of arms.

Loud were the shouts of the mighty, like the wide scatter'd thunder of Lora, When its voice is return'd from the rocks, and it strengthens in its broad spreading course.

Heavy were the groans of the dying; the voice of the fallen was sad, Like the deep 'prison'd winds of the cavern, when the roar of the tempest is laid.

The sons of Ithona were terrible: the enemy fled from before them, Like the dark gather'd fowls of the ocean, that flock to the sh.o.r.e ere a storm.

They fled from the might of their foes, and the darkness of night clos'd around them.

Cold rose the wind of the desert, and blew o'er the dark b.l.o.o.d.y field.

Sad was its voice on the heath, where it lifted the locks of the dead.

Hollow roar'd the sea at a distance: the ghosts of the slain shriek'd aloud.

Pale shady forms stalk'd around, and their airy swords gleam'd thro' the night; For the spirits of warriours departed came born on the deep rushing blast; There hail'd they their new fallen sons, and the sound of their meeting was terrible.

At a distance was gather'd Ithona round many a bright flaming oak; Till morning rose red o'er the main, like a new b.l.o.o.d.y field of battle.

Lochallen a.s.sembled his heroes; they rang'd o'er the land of their enemy.

But they found not the king in the field; and the walls of his strength were deserted.

Then spoke the friend of his bosom, the dark haired chief of Trevallen; Why seek you the king in his tow'rs? he is fled to the caves of his fear.

Let us fly, said the chief of Ithona, let us fly to the daughter of Lorma!

Let us fight with man in the field, but pull not a deer from his den.

Two days they buried their dead, and rais'd their memorial on high.

On the third day they loosen'd their vessels, and left the blue isle of their fame.

The darkness of night was around when the bay of Arthula receiv'd them.

Thick beat the joy of his bosom, as he drew near the place of his love; But the strength of his limbs was unloos'd, as he trode on the dark sounding sh.o.r.e.

Thou did'st promise, O maid of my soul! thou did'st promise to watch for thy love!

But no kindly messenger waits to hail my return from the war.

The tow'r of Arthula is dark; and I hear not the sound of its hall.

The watch dog howls to the night, nor heeds the approach of our feet.

He seized a bright flaming brand, and he hasten'd his steps to the tow'r.

Wide stood the black low'ring gate; and deep was the silence within.

Hollow and loud rung his steps, as he trode thro' the dark empty hall.

He flew to the bow'r of his love; it was still as the chamber of death.

His eyes search'd wildly around him; he call'd on the name of his love; But his own voice returned alone from the deep-sounding walls of the tow'r.

He leant with his back to the wall, and cross'd his arms over his breast.

Heavy sunk his head on his shoulder: the blue flame burnt double before him.

A voice, like the evening breeze when it steals down the bed of the river, Came softly and sad to his ear, and he raised his drooping head.

The form of his love stood before him: yet it was not the form of his love; For fixed and dim was her eye, and the beams of her beauty were fled.

She was pale as the white frozen lake, when it gleams to the light of the moon.

Her garments were heavy and drench'd, and the streams trickled fast from her hair.

She was like a snow-crusted tree in winter, when it drops to the mid-day sun.

O seek not for me, son of Moro, in the light cheerful dwellings of men!

For low is my bed in the deep, and cold is the place of my rest.

The sea monster sports by my side, and the water-snake twines round my neck.

But do not forget me, Lochallen: O think on the days of our love!

I sat on the high rocky sh.o.r.e, mine eyes look'd afar o'er the ocean.

I saw two dark ships on the waves, and quick beat the joy of my breast.

One vessel drew near to the sh.o.r.e, and six warriours leapt from its side.

I hasten'd to meet thee, my love; but mine ear met the stern voice of Uthal.

I thought that my hero was slain, and I felt me alone in my weakness.

I felt me deserted and lonely: I flew to the steep hanging rock: I threw my robe over my head; and I hid me in the dark closing deep.

Yet O do not leave me, Lochallen, to waste in my watery bed!

But raise me a tomb on the hill, where the daughter of Lorma should lie.

The voice of her sorrow did cease; and her form pa.s.sed quickly away.

It pa.s.s'd like the pale shiv'ring light, that is lost in the dark closing cloud.

But, lo! the first light of the morning is red on the skirts of the heavens.

Let us go on my journey, my son, for the length of the heath is before us.

ALLEN.

It is not the light of the morn which thou see'st on the skirts of the heavens; It is but a clear shiv'ring brightness, that changes its hue to the night.

I have seen it like a b.l.o.o.d.y-spread robe when it hung o'er the waves of the North.

Sad was the fate of his love, but how fell the king of Ithona?

I have heard of the strength of his arm; did he fall in the battle of heroes?

LATHMOR.

He fell in the strength of his youth, but he fell not in battle, my son.

He knew not the sword of a foe, yet he died not the death of the peaceful.

They carried them both to the hill, but the place of their rest is unknown.

ALLEN.

But feeble and spent is thy voice, thou grey haired bard of the hill.

LATHMOR.

Long is this song of the night, and I feel not the strength of my youth.

ALLEN.

Then let us go on our way: let us go by the way of the heath.

For it is the fair light of the morning which thou see'st on the far bounding waves.

Slowly it grows in its beauty, and promises good to the traveller.

Red are the small broken clouds that hang on the skirts of the heavens.

Deep glows the clear open sky with the light of the yet hidden sun, Save where the dark narrow cloud hath stretched its vast length o'er the heavens; And the clear ruddy brightness behind it looks fair thro' its blue streaming lines.

A bloom like the far distant heath is dark on the wide roving clouds.

The broad wavy breast of the ocean is grand in the beauty of morning.