Made David's blood to's bosom rush,

And his gray hair his helmet brush.

He squared, and made his faulchion wheel
Around his back from head to heel;
Then, rising tiptoe, struck amain,
Down fell the sleeper's head in twain;
And springing blood, in veil of smoke,
Whizzed high against the bending oak.

"By heaven!" said George, with jocund air,

"Father, if all the fairies there

Are of the same materials made,

Let them beware the Rippon blade !”

A ghastly smile was seen to play

O'er David's visage, stern and gray;

He hoped, and feared; but ne'er till then Knew whether he fought with sprites or men.

The massy door they next unlock,

That oped to hall beneath the rock,

In which new wonders met the eye:
The room was ample, rude, and high,
The arches caverned, dark, and torn,
On Nature's rifted columns borne;
Of moulding rude the embrazure,
And all the wild entablature;
And far o'er roof and architrave,
The ivy's ringlets bend and wave.
In each abrupt recess was seen
A couch of heath and rushes green;
While every alcove's sombre hue,

Was gemm'd with drops of midnight dew.

Why stand our heroes still as death,
Nor muscle move, nor heave a breath?
See how the sire his torch has lowered,
And bends recumbent o'er his sword!
The arcubalister has thrown

His threatening, thirsty arrows down!
Struck in one moment, all the band
Entranced like moveless statues stand!

spear,

Enchantment sure arrests the
And stints the warrior's bold career!

List, list, what mellow angel-sound
Distils from yonder gloom profound!
"Tis not the note of gathering shell,
Of fairy horn, nor silver bell!

No, 'tis the lute's mellifluous swell,
Mixed with a maiden's voice so clear,
The flitting bats flock round to hear!

So wildly o'er the vault it rung, That song, if in the green-wood sung, Would draw the fays of wood and plain To kiss the lips that poured the strain. The lofty pine would listening lean; The wild birch wave her tresses green;

And larks, that rose the dawn to greet,

Drop lifeless at the singer's feet.

The air was old, the measure slow,

The words were plain, but words of woe.

K

Soft died the strain; the warriors stand,

Nor rested lance, nor lifted brand,

But listening bend, in hopes again

To hear that sweetly plaintive strain.

"Tis gone! and each uplifts his eye, As waked from dream of ecstacy.

Why stoops young Owen's gilded crest? Why heave those groans from Owen's breast? While kinsmen's eyes in raptures speak,

Why steals the tear o'er Owen's cheek?

That melting song, that song of pain,

Was sung to Owen's favourite strain;
The words were new, but that sweet lay
Had Owen heard in happier day.

Fast press they on; in close-set row,
Winded the lab'rinth far and low,
Till, in the cave's extremest bound,
Arrayed in sea-green silk, they found

Five beauteous dames, all fair and

And she, who late so sweetly sung,

Sat leaning o'er a silver lute,

Pale with despair, with terror mute.

young;

When back her auburn locks she threw,

And raised her eyes so lovely blue,

"Twas like the woodland rose in dew!

That look was soft as morning flower,
And mild as sun-beam through the shower.
Old David gazed, and weened the while,
He saw a suffering angel smile;
Weened he had heard a seraph sing,
And sounds of a celestial string.

But when young Owen met her view,
She shrieked, and to his bosom flew :
For, oft before, in Moodlaw bowers,
They two had passed the evening hours.
She was the loveliest mountain maid,
That e'er by grove or riv❜let strayed;