Ambition nerv'd young Allan's hand, Exulting demons wing'd his dart; While Envy wav'd her burning brand, And pour'd her venom round his heart.
Swift is the shaft from Allan's bow; Whose streaming life-blood stains his side? Dark Oscar's sable crest is low, The dart has drunk his vital tide.
And Mora's eye could Allan move, She bade his wounded pride rebel: Alas! that eyes, which beam'd with love, Should urge the soul to deeds of Hell.
Lo! see'st thou not a lonely tomb, Which rises o'er a warrior dead? It glimmers through the twilight gloom; Oh! that is Allan's nuptial bed.
Far, distant far, the noble grave Which held his clan's great ashes stood; And o'er his corse no banners wave, For they were stain'd with kindred blood.
What minstrel grey, what hoary bard, Shall Allan's deeds on harp-strings raise? The song is glory's chief reward, But who can strike a murd'rer's praise?
Unstrung, untouch'd, the harp must stand, No minstrel dare the theme awake; Guilt would benumb his palsied hand, His harp in shuddering chords would break.
No lyre of fame, no hallow'd verse, Shall sound his glories high in air: A dying father's bitter curse, A brother's death-groan echoes there.
[Footnote 1: The catastrophe of this tale was suggested by the story of "Jeronymo and Lorenzo," in the first volume of Schiller's 'Armenian, or the Ghost-Seer'. It also bears some resemblance to a scene in the third act of 'Macbeth'.--['Der Geisterseher', Schiller's 'Werke' (1819), x. 97, 'sq'.]
[Footnote 2: It is evident that Byron here confused the 'pibroch', the air, with the 'bagpipe', the instrument.]
[Footnote 3: Beltane Tree, a Highland festival on the first of May, held near fires lighted for the occasion.]
'When many an eye which ne'er again Could view'----.
'Old Angus prest, the earth with his breast'.
[Greek: Thel_o legein Atpeidas, k.t.l.] [1]
I wish to tune my quivering lyre, [i] To deeds of fame, and notes of fire; To echo, from its rising swell, How heroes fought and nations fell, When Atreus' sons advanc'd to war, Or Tyrian Cadmus rov'd afar; But still, to martial strains unknown, My lyre recurs to Love alone. Fir'd with the hope of future fame, [ii] I seek some nobler Hero's name; The dying chords are strung anew, To war, to war, my harp is due: With glowing strings, the Epic strain To Jove's great son I raise again; Alcides and his glorious deeds, Beneath whose arm the Hydra bleeds; All, all in vain; my wayward lyre Wakes silver notes of soft Desire. Adieu, ye Chiefs renown'd in arms! Adieu the clang of War's alarms! [iii] To other deeds my soul is strung, And sweeter notes shall now be sung; My harp shall all its powers reveal, To tell the tale my heart must feel; Love, Love alone, my lyre shall claim, In songs of bliss and sighs of flame.