POETRY. 709 



Before its setting hour, divide 



The bridegroom from the plighted bride ? 



O fatal doom I — it must ! it must ! 



Clan-Alpine's cause, her Chieftain's trust, 



Her summons dread, brooks no delay ; 



Stretch to the race — away ! away ! 



Yet slow he laid his plaid aside, 



And, lingering, eyed his lovely bride, 



Until he saw the starting tear 



Speak woe he might not stop to cheer; 



Then, trusting not a second look. 



In haste he sped him up the brook, 



Nor backward glanced till on the heath 



Where Lubnaig's lake supplies the Teith. 



—What in the racer's bosom stirred ? 



The sickening pang of hope deferred, 



And memory, with a torturing train 



Of all his morning visions vain. 



Mingled vtdth love's impatience, came 



The manly thirst of martial fame ; 



The stormy joy of mountaineers, 



Ere yet they rush upon the spears ; 



And zeal for clan and chieftain burning. 



And hope, from well-fought field returning, 



With war's red honours on his crest. 



To clasp his Mary to his breast. 



Stung by such thoughts, o'er bank and brae, 



Like fire from flint he glanced away. 



While high resolve, and feeling strong, 



Burst into voluntary song: 



SONG. 



The heath this night must be ray bed. 

 The bracken curtain for my head, 

 My lullaby the warder's tread, 



Far, far, from love and thee, Mary ! 

 To-morrow eve, more stilly laid. 

 My couch may be my bloody plaid. 

 My vesper song, thy wail, sweet maid ! 



It will not waken me, Mary ! 



I may not, dare not, fancy now 

 The grief that clouds thy lovely brow, 

 I dare not think upon thy vow. 

 And all it promised me, Mary. 



