Say, had'st thou ne'er another boy? "Alas!" the hapless sire replied, The big tear starting as he spoke, "When Oscar left my hall, or died, This aged heart was almost broke. "Thrice has the earth revolved her course Since Oscar's form has bless'd my sight; And Allan is my last resource, Since martial Oscar's death or flight." "Tis well," replied the stranger stern, 66 "Perchance, if those whom most he loved Would call, thy Oscar might return; Perchance the chief has only roved; For him thy Beltane (1) yet may burn. (2) "Fill high the bowl the table round, We will not claim the pledge by stealth; With wine let every cup be crown'd; Pledge me departed Oscar's health.” (1) Beltane Tree, a Highland festival on the first of May, held near fires lighted for the occasion. (2) Beal-tain means the fire of Baal, and the name still preserves the primeval origin of this Celtic superstition. - E. "With all my soul," old Angus said, And fill'd his goblet to the brim ; "Here's to my boy! alive or dead, I ne'er shall find a son like him." "Bravely, old man, this health has sped; The crimson glow of Allan's face Thrice did he raise the goblet high, "And is it thus a brother hails A brother's fond remembrance here? Roused by the sneer, he raised the bowl, "Would Oscar now could share our mirth !" Internal fear appall'd his soul; He said, and dash'd the cup to earth. " "Tis he! I hear my murderer's voice!" Loud shrieks a darkly gleaming form; "A murderer's voice!" the roof replies, And deeply swells the bursting storm. The tapers wink, the chieftains shrink, And tall the shade terrific grew. His waist was bound with a broad belt round, But his breast was bare, with the red wounds there, And thrice he smiled, with his eye so wild, And thrice he frown'd on a chief on the ground, The bolts loud roll, from pole to pole, The thunders through the welkin ring, And the gleaming form, through the mist of the storm, Was borne on high by the whirlwind's wing. Cold was the feast, the revel ceased. At length his life-pulse throbs once more. "Away, away! let the leech essay But Oscar's breast is cold as clay, With him in dark Glentanar's vale. And whence the dreadful stranger came, Ambition nerved young Allan's hand, Swift is the shaft from Allan's bow; Whose streaming life-blood stains his side? Dark Oscar's sable crest is low, The dart has drunk his vital tide. And Mora's eye could Allan move, Lo! seest thou not a lonely tomb Far, distant far, the noble grave Which held his clan's great ashes stood; And o'er his corse no banners wave, For they were stain'd with kindred blood. What minstrel gray, what hoary bard, Shall Allan's deeds on harp-strings raise? The song is glory's chief reward, But who can strike a murderer's praise? Unstrung, untouch'd, the harp must stand, No lyre of fame, no hallow'd verse, Shall sound his glories high in air: A dying father's bitter curse, A brother's death-groan echoes there. THE EPISODE OF NISUS AND EURYALUS, A PARAPHRASE FROM THE ÆNEID, LIB. IX. NISUS, the guardian of the portal, stood, Well skill'd in fight the quivering lance to wield, No lovelier mien adorn'd the ranks of Troy, |