in grief.
The soul of the hero was knit to the tear-eyed daughter of Lorma.
She was graceful and tall as the willow, that bends o'er the deep shady
stream.
Her eye like a sun-beam on water, that gleams thro' the dark skirting
reeds.
Her hair like the light wreathing cloud, that floats on the brow of the
hill,
When the beam of the morning is there, and it scatters its skirts to the
wind.
Lovely and soft were her smiles, like a glimpse from the white riven
cloud,
When the sun hastens over the lake, and a summer show'r ruffles its bosom.
Her voice was the sweet sound of midnight, that visits the ear of the
bard,
When he darts from the place of his slumber, and calls on some far distant
friend.
She was fair 'mongst the maids of her time; and she soften'd the wrath of
the mighty.
Their eyes lighten'd up in her presence; they dropt their dark spears as
she spoke.
Lochallen was firm in his strength, and unmov'd in the battle of heroes;
Like a rock-fenced isle of the ocean, that shews its dark head thro' the
storm.
His brow was like a cliff on the shore, that fore-warneth the hunters of
Ithona;
For there gleams the first ray of morning, and there broods the mist ere
the storm:
It shone, and it darken'd by turns, as the strength of his passions arose.
He was terrible as a gathering storm, when his soul learnt the wrongs of
the feeble.
His eye was the lightning of shields; he was swift as a blast in its
course.
When the warriours return'd from the field, and the sons of the mighty
assembled,
He was graceful as the light tow'ring cloud that rises from the blue
bounded main.
Gentle and fair was his form in the tow'rs of the hilly Ithona.
His voice cheer'd the soul of the sad; he would sport with a child in the
hall.

Matchless in the days of their love were Lochallen and the daughter of
Lorma.
But their beauty has ceas'd on Arthula; and the place of their rest is
unknown.
The family of Lorma has fail'd, and strangers rejoice in his hall:
But voices of sorrow are heard when the stillness of midnight is there;
The stranger is wak'd with the sound, and enquires of the race that is
gone.
But wherefore thus doleful and sad, do ye wander alone on Arthula?
Why look ye thus lonely and sad, ye children of the dark narrow house?
Your names shall be known in the song, when the fame of the mighty is low.

ALLEN.
From what cloud of the hills do they look? for I see not their forms, O my
father!

LATHMOR.
Why do'st thou trem