What sounds are on the mountain blast? Like bullet from the arbalast, Was it the hunted quarry past Right up Ben-ledi's side?-- So near, so rapidly he dash'd, Yon lichen'd bough has scarcely plash'd Into the torrent's tide. Ay!--The good hound may bay beneath, The hunter wind his horn; He dared ye through the flooded Teith As a warrior in his scorn! Dash the red rowel in the steed, Spur, laggards, while ye may! St. Hubert's shaft to a stripling reed, He dies no death to-day!
'Forward!'--Nay, waste not idle breath, Gallants, ye win no green-wood wreath; His antlers dance above the heath, Like chieftain's plumed helm; Right onward for the western peak, Where breaks the sky in one white streak, See, Isabel, in bold relief, To Fancy's eye, Glenartney's chief, Guarding his ancient realm. So motionless, so noiseless there, His foot on rock, his head in air, Like sculptor's breathing stone! Then, snorting from the rapid race, Snuffs the free air a moment's space, Glares grimly on the baffled chase, And seeks the covert loan."
By the silent foot of the shadowy hill We slept in our green retreats, And the April showers were wont to fill Our hearts with sweets; And though we lay in a lowly bower, Yet all things loved us well, And the waking bee left its fairest flower With us to dwell. But the warm May came in his pride to woo The wealth of our virgin store, And our hearts just felt his breath, and knew Their sweets no more! And the summer reigns on the quiet spot Where we dwell--and its suns and showers Bring balm to our sisters' hearts, but not-- Oh! not to _ours_! We live--we bloom--but for ever o'er Is the charm of the earth and sky: To our life, ye heavens, that balm restore, Or bid us die!"
Why startest thou back from that fount of sweet water? The roses are drooping while waiting for thee; 'Ladye, 'tis dark with the red hue of slaughter, There is blood on that fountain--oh! whose may it be?' Uprose the ladye at once from her dreaming, Dreams born of sighs from the violets round, The jasmine bough caught in her bright tresses, seeming In pity to keep the fair prisoner it bound. Tear-like the white leaves fell round her, as, breaking The branch in her haste, to the fountain she flew, The wave and the flowers o'er its mirror were reeking, Pale as the marble around it she grew. She followed its track to the grove of the willow, To the bower of the twilight it led her at last, There lay the bosom so often her pillow, But the dagger was in it, its beating was past. Round the neck of the youth a light chain was entwining, The dagger had cleft it, she joined it again. One dark curl of his, one of her's like gold shining, 'They hoped this would part us, they hoped it in vain. Race of dark hatred, the stern unforgiving. Whose hearts are as cold as the steel which they wear. By the blood of the dead, the despair of the living, Oh, house of my kinsman, my curse be your share!' She bowed her fair face on the sleeper before her, Night came and shed its cold tears on her brow; Crimson the blush of the morning past o'er her, But the cheek of the maiden returned not its glow. Pale on the earth are the wild flowers weeping, The cypress their column, the night-wind their hymn, These mark the grave where those lovers are sleeping Lovely--the lovely are mourning for them."