Last night, in my chamber, all thoughtful and lone, I called to remembrance some deeds I had done, When entered a lady, with visage so wan,

And looks, such as never were fastened on man.

I knew her, O brother! I knew her too well!

Of that once fair dame such a tale I could tell,

As would thrill thy bold heart; but how long she remained, So racked was my spirit, my bosom so pained,

I knew not-but ages seemed short to the while.

Though proffer the Highlands, nay, all the green isle,

With length of existence no man can enjoy,

The same to endure, the dread proffer I'd fly!
The thrice-threatened pangs of last night to forego,
Macgregor would dive to the mansions below.
Despairing and mad, to futurity blind,

The present to shun, and some respite to find,
I swore, ere the shadow fell east from the pile,

To meet her alone by the brook of Glen-Gyle.

She told me, and turned my chilled heart to a stone,

The glory and name of Macgregor was gone:

That the pine, which for ages had shed a bright halo,

Afar on the mountains of Highland Glen-Falo,

Should wither and fall ere the turn of

yon moon,

Smit through by the canker of hated Colquhoun:

That a feast on Macgregors each day should be common,

For years, to the eagles of Lennox and Lomond.

A parting embrace, in one moment, she gave:
Her breath was a furnace, her bosom the grave!
Then flitting elusive, she said, with a frown,
"The mighty Macgregor shall yet be my own!"

"Macgregor, thy fancies are wild as the wind;
The dreams of the night have disordered thy mind.
Come, buckle thy panoply-march to the field-
See, brother, how hacked are thy helmet and shield!
Ay, that was M'Nab, in the height of his pride,
When the lions of Dochart stood firm by his side.
This night the proud chief his presumption shall rue;
Rise, brother, these chinks in his heart-blood will glue :

Thy fantasies frightful shall flit on the wing,

When loud with thy bugle Glen-Lyon shall ring."

Like glimpse of the moon through the storm of the night, Macgregor's red eye shed one sparkle of light:

It faded-it darkened-he shuddered-he sighed"No! not for the universe!" low he replied.

Away went Macgregor, but went not alone;
To watch the dread rendezvous, Malcolm has gone.
They oared the broad Lomond, so still and serene,
And deep in her bosom, how awful the scene!
O'er mountains inverted the blue waters curled,
And rocked them on skies of a far nether world.

All silent they went, for the time was approaching; The moon the blue zenith already was touching;

No foot was abroad on the forest or hill,

No sound but the lullaby sung by the rill;

Young Malcolm at distance, couched, trembling the while

Macgregor stood lone by the brook of Glen-Gyle.

Few minutes had passed, ere they spied on the stream, A skiff sailing light, where a lady did seem;

Her sail was the web of the gossamer's loom,

The glow-worm her wakelight, the rainbow her boom;
A dim rayless beam was her prow and her mast,
Like wold-fire, at midnight, that glares on the waste.
Though rough was the river with rock and cascade,
No torrent, no rock, her velocity staid;

She wimpled the water to weather and lee,

And heaved as if borne on the waves of the sea.

Mute Nature was roused in the bounds of the glen;

The wild deer of Gairtney abandoned his den,

Fled panting away, over river and isle,

Nor once turned his eye to the brook of Glen-Gyle.

The fox fled in terror; the eagle awoke,

As slumbering he dozed on the shelve of the rock;
Astonished, to hide in the moon-beam he flew,
And screwed the night-heaven till lost in the blue.

Young Malcolm beheld the pale lady approach, The chieftain salute her, and shrink from her touch.

He saw the Macgregor kneel down on the plain,
As begging for something he could not obtain;

She raised him indignant, derided his stay,
Then bore him on board, set her sail, and away.

Though fast the red bark down the river did glide, Yet faster ran Malcolm adown by its side;

"Macgregor! Macgregor !" he bitterly cried;

66

Macgregor! Macgregor !" the echoes replied.

He struck at the lady, but, strange though it seem, His sword only fell on the rocks and the stream; But the groans from the boat, that ascended amain, Were groans from a bosom in horror and pain.— They reached the dark lake, and bore lightly away; Macgregor is vanished for ever and aye!

Abrupt as glance of morning sun,
The bard of Lomond's lay is done.
Loves not the swain, from path of dew,
At morn the golden orb to view,

Rise broad and yellow from the main,

While scarce a shadow lines the plain;