m'd the arms of the brave thro' the brown rising dust of the
field.
Fierce glar'd the eyes of Lochallen; he fought the dark face of his enemy.
He found the grim king of the isle; but the strength of his chieftains was
round him.
Come forth in thy might, said Lochallen; come forth to the combat of
kings.
Great is the might of thy warriours; but where is the strength of thine
arms?
Youth of Ithona, said Uthal, thy fathers were mighty in battle,
Return to thy brown woody hills, till the hair is grown dark on thy cheek;
Then come from the tow'rs of thy safety, a foe less unworthy of Uthal.
But thou lovest a weakly enemy, foe of the white haired chief.
Thou lovest a foe that is weak, said the red swelling pride of Lochallen.
Seest thou this sword of my youth? it is red with the blood of thy heroes.
Come forth in the strength of thine years, and hand its dark blade in thy
hall.
He lifted a spear in his wrath o'er the head of his high worded foe;
But the strength of his chieftains was there, and it rung on their broad
spreading shields.
He turned himself scornful away, to look for some nobler enemy;
He met thee fair son of Hidallo, as chaffing he strode in his wrath;
But thou never did'st turn from the valiant, youth of the far distant
land.
Fierce fought the heroes, and wonder'd each chief at the might of his foe.
They found themselves matched in strength, and they fought in the pride of
their souls.
Bloody and long was the fight, but the arm of Lochallen prevail'd.
Ah, why did you combat, ye heroes! ah, why did ye meet in the field!
Your souls had been brothers of love, had ye met in the dwellings of
peace.
He was like to thyself, son of Mora, where his voice cheer'd the heart of
the stranger
In the far distant hall of his father, who never shall hear it again;
He was like to thyself whom thou slewest; and he fell in his youth like
thee.
The maid of thy bosom is lovely, thou fair fallen son of the stranger.
She sits on her high hanging bower, and looks to the way of thy promise.
She combs down her long yellow hair; and prepares a fine robe for thy
coming.
She starts at the voice of the breeze, and runs to the door of her bow'r.
But thou art a dim misty form on the clouds of far distant hills.

Fierce was the rage of the battle, and terrible the clanging of arms.
Loud were the shouts of the mighty, like the wide scatter'd thunder of
Lora,
When its voice is return'd from the rocks, and it strengthens in its broad
spr