he name of his love;
But his own voice returned alone from the deep-sounding walls of the
tow'r.
He leant with his back to the wall, and cross'd his arms over his breast.
Heavy sunk his head on his shoulder: the blue flame burnt double before
him.
A voice, like the evening breeze when it steals down the bed of the river,
Came softly and sad to his ear, and he raised his drooping head.
The form of his love stood before him: yet it was not the form of his
love;
For fixed and dim was her eye, and the beams of her beauty were fled.
She was pale as the white frozen lake, when it gleams to the light of the
moon.
Her garments were heavy and drench'd, and the streams trickled fast from
her hair.
She was like a snow-crusted tree in winter, when it drops to the mid-day
sun.
O seek not for me, son of Moro, in the light cheerful dwellings of men!
For low is my bed in the deep, and cold is the place of my rest.
The sea monster sports by my side, and the water-snake twines round my
neck.
But do not forget me, Lochallen: O think on the days of our love!
I sat on the high rocky shore, mine eyes look'd afar o'er the ocean.
I saw two dark ships on the waves, and quick beat the joy of my breast.
One vessel drew near to the shore, and six warriours leapt from its side.
I hasten'd to meet thee, my love; but mine ear met the stern voice of
Uthal.
I thought that my hero was slain, and I felt me alone in my weakness.
I felt me deserted and lonely: I flew to the steep hanging rock:
I threw my robe over my head; and I hid me in the dark closing deep.
Yet O do not leave me, Lochallen, to waste in my watery bed!
But raise me a tomb on the hill, where the daughter of Lorma should lie.
The voice of her sorrow did cease; and her form passed quickly away.
It pass'd like the pale shiv'ring light, that is lost in the dark closing
cloud.

But, lo! the first light of the morning is red on the skirts of the
heavens.
Let us go on my journey, my son, for the length of the heath is before us.

ALLEN.
It is not the light of the morn which thou see'st on the skirts of the
heavens;
It is but a clear shiv'ring brightness, that changes its hue to the night.
I have seen it like a bloody-spread robe when it hung o'er the waves of
the North.
Sad was the fate of his love, but how fell the king of Ithona?
I have heard of the strength of his arm; did he fall in the battle of
heroes?

LATHMOR.
He fell in the strength of his youth, but he fell not in battle,