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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=519622" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Glenfinlas; or, Lord Ronald's Coronach</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">'O hone a rie'! O hone a rie!'<br>The pride of Albin's line is o'er,<br>And fall'n Glenartney's stateliest tree;<br>We ne'er shall see Lord Ronald more!' -</div><div style="margin:10px 0">O, sprung from great Macgillianore,<br>The chief that never fear'd a foe,<br>How matchless was thy broad claymore,<br>How deadly thine unerring bow!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Well can the Saxon widows tell,<br>How, on the Teith's resounding shore,<br>The boldest Lowland warriors fell,<br>As down from Lenny's pass you bore.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But o'er his hills, in festal day,<br>How blazed Lord Ronald's beltrane tree, *<br>While youths and maids in light strathspey,<br>So nimbly danced with Highland glee!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Cheer'd by the strength of Ronald's shell,<br>E'en age forgot his tresses hoar;<br>But now the loud lament we swell,<br>O ne'er to see Lord Ronald more!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">From distant isles a chieftain came,<br>The joys of Ronald's halls to find,<br>And chase with him the dark-brown game,<br>That bounds o'er Albin's hills of wind.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Twas Moy; whom in Columba's isle<br>The seer's prophetic spirit found,<br>As with a minstrel's fire the while,<br>He waked his harp's harmonious sound.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Full many a spell to him was known,<br>Which wandering spirits shrink to hear;<br>And many a lay of potent tone,<br>Was never meant for mortal ear.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">For there, 'tis said, in mystic mood,<br>High converse with the dead they hold,<br>And oft espy the fated shroud,<br>That shall the future corpse enfold.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">O so it fell, that on a day,<br>To rouse the red deer from their den,<br>The Chiefs have ta'en their distant way,<br>And scour'd the deep Glenfinlas glen.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">No vassals wait their sports to aid,<br>To watch their safety deck their board;<br>Their simple dress, the Highland plaid,<br>Their trusty guard, the Highland sword.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Three summer days, through brake and dell,<br>Their whistling shafts successful flew;<br>And still, when dewy evening fell,<br>The quarry to their hut they drew.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">In grey Glenfinlas' deepest nook<br>The solitary cabin stood,<br>Fast by Moneira's sullen brook,<br>Which murmurs through that lonely wood.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Soft fell the night, the sky was calm,<br>When three successive days had flown;<br>And summer mist in dewy balm<br>Steep'd heathy bank, and mossy stone.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The moon, half-hid in si'very flakes,<br>Afar her dubious radiance shed,<br>Quivering on Katrine's distant lakes,<br>And resting on Benledi's head.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Now in their hut, in social guise,<br>Their sylvan fare the Chiefs enjoy;<br>And pleasure laughs in Ronald's eyes,<br>As many a pledge he quaffs to Moy.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'What lack we here to crown our bliss,<br>While thus the pulse of joy beats high?<br>What, but fair woman's yielding kiss,<br>Her panting breath and melting eye?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'To chase the deer of yonder shades,<br>This morning left their father's pile<br>The fairest of our mountain maids,<br>The daughters of the proud Glengyle.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Long have I sought sweet Mary's heart,<br>And dropp'd the tear, and heaved the sigh;<br>But vain the lover's wily art,<br>Beneath a sister's watchful eye.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'But thou mayst teach that guardian fair,<br>While far with Mary I am flown,<br>Of other hearts to cease her care,<br>And find it hard to guard her own.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Touch but thy harp, thou soon shalt see<br>The lovely Flora of Glengyle,<br>Unmindful of her charge and me,<br>Hand on thy notes, twixt tear and smile.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Or, if she choose a melting tale,<br>All underneath the greenwood bough,<br>Will good St. Oran's rule prevail, <br>Stern huntsman of the rigid brow?'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Since Enrick's fight, since Morna's death,<br>No more on me shall rapture rise,<br>Responsive to the panting breath,<br>Or yielding kiss, or melting eyes.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'E'en then, when o'er the heath of wo,<br>Where sunk my hopes of love and fame,<br>I bade my harp's wild wailings flow<br>On me the Seer's sad spirit came.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'The last dread curse of angry heaven,<br>With ghastly sights and sounds of wo,<br>To dash each glimpse of joy was given - <br>The gift, the future ill to know.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'The bark thou saw'st, yon summer morn,<br>So gaily part from Oban's bay,<br>My eye beheld her dash'd and torn,<br>Far on the rocky Colonsay.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Thy Fergus too - thy sister's son,<br>Thou saw'st, with pride, the gallant's power,<br>As marching 'gainst the Lord of Downe,<br>He left the skirts of huge Benmore.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Thou only saw'st their tartans wave,<br>As down Benvoirlich's side they wound,<br>Heard'st but the pibroch answering brave,<br>To many a target clanking round.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'I heard the groans, I mark'd the tears<br>I saw the wound his bosom bore,<br>When on the serried Saxon spears<br>He pour'd his clan's resistless roar.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'And thou, who bidst me think of bliss,<br>And bidst my heart awake to glee,<br>And court, like thee, the wanton kiss-<br>That heart, O Ronald, bleeds for thee!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'I see the death-damps chill thy brow;<br>I hear thy Warning Spirit cry;<br>The corpse-lights dance - they're gone, and now. . .<br>No more is given to gifted eye!'-</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Alone enjoy thy dreary dreams,<br>Sad prophet of the evil hour!<br>Say, should we scorn joy's transient beams,<br>Because tomorrow's storm may lour?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Or false, or sooth, thy words of wo,<br>Clangillian's Chieftain ne'er shall fear;<br>His blood shall bound at rapture's glow,<br>Though doom'd to stain the Saxon spear.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'E'en now, to meet me in yon dell,<br>My Mary's buskins brush the dew.'<br>He spoke, nor bade the Chief farewell<br>But call'd his dogs, and gay withdrew.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Within an hour return'd each hound;<br>In rush'd the rousers of the deer;<br>They howl'd in melancholy sound,<br>Then closely couch'd beside the seer.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">No Ronald yet; though midnight came,<br>And sad were Moy's prophetic dreams,<br>As, bending o'er the dying flame,<br>He fed the watch-fire's quivering gleams.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Sudden the hounds erect their ears,<br>And sudden cease their moaning howl;<br>Close press'd to Moy, they mark their fears<br>By shivering limbs, and stifled growl.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Untouch'd, the harp began to ring,<br>As softly, slowly, oped the door;<br>And shook responsive every string,<br>As light a footstep press'd the floor.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And by the watch-fire's glimmering light,<br>Close by the minstrel's side was seen<br>An huntress maid, in beauty bright,<br>All dropping wet her robes of green.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">All dropping wet her garments seem;<br>Chill'd was her cheek, her bosom bare,<br>As, bending o'er the dying gleam,<br>She wrung the moisture from her hair.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">With maiden blush she softly said,<br>'O gentle huntsman, hast thou seen,<br>In deep Glenfinlas' moonlight glade,<br>A lovely maid in vest of green;</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'With her a Chief of Highland pride;<br>His shoulders bear the hunter's bow,<br>The mountain dirk adorns his side,<br>Far on the wind his tartans flow?'-</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'And who art thou? and who are they?'<br>All ghastly gazing, Moy replied;<br>'And why, beneath the moon's pale ray,<br>Dare ye thus roam Glenfinlas' side?'-</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Where wild Loch Katrine pours her tide,<br>Blue, dark, and deep, round many an isle,<br>Our fathers' towers o'erhang her side<br>The castle of the bold Glengyle.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'To chase the dun Glenfinlas deer,<br>Our woodland course this morn we bore,<br>And haply met, while wandering here,<br>The son of great Macgillianore.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'O aid me, then, to seek the pair<br>Whom, loitering in the woods, I lost;<br>Alone, I dare not venture there,<br>Where walks, they say, the shrieking ghost.'-</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Yes, many a shrieking ghost walks there<br>Then first, my own sad vow to keep,<br>Here will I pour my midnight prayer,<br>Which still must rise when mortals sleep.'-</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'O first, for pity's gentle sake,<br>Guide a lone wanderer on her way!<br>For I must cross the haunted brake,<br>And reach my father's towers ere day.'-</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'First, three times tell each Ave-bead,<br>And thrice a Pater-noster say;<br>Then kiss with me the holy rede;<br>So shall we safely wend our way.'-</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'O shame to knighthood, strange and foul!<br>Go, doff the bonnet from thy brow,<br>And shroud thee in the monkish cowl,<br>Which best befits thy sullen vow.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Not so, by high Dunlathmon's fire,<br>Thy heart was froze to love and joy,<br>When gaily rung thy raptured lyre,<br>To wanton Morna's melting eye.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Wild stared the minstrel's eyes of flame,<br>And high his sable locks arose,<br>And quick his colour went and came,<br>As fear and rage alternate rose.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'And thou! when by the blazing oak,<br>I lay, to her and love resign'd,<br>Say, rode ye on the eddying smoke,<br>Or sail'd ye on the midnight wind!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Not thine a race of mortal blood,<br>Nor old Glengyle's pretended line;<br>Thy dame, the Lady of the Flood,<br>Thy sire, the Monarch of the Mine.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He mutter'd thrice St. Oran's rhyme,<br>And thrice St. Fillan's powerful prayer;<br>Then turn'd him to the eastern clime,<br>And sternly shook his coal-black hair.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And, bending o'er his harp, he flung<br>His wildest witch-notes on the wind;<br>And loud, and high, and strange, they rung.<br>As many a magic change they find.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Tall wax'd the Spirit's altering form,<br>Till to the roof her stature grew;<br>Then, mingling with the rising storm,<br>With one wild yell away she flew.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Rain beats, hail rattles, whirlwinds tear;<br>The slender but in fragment's flew;<br>But not a lock of Moy's loose hair<br>Was waved by wind, or wet by dew.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Wild mingling with the howling gale,<br>Loud bursts of ghastly laughter rise;<br>High o'er the minstrel's head they sail,<br>And die amid the northern skies.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The voice of thunder shook the wood,<br>As ceased the more than mortal vell;<br>And, spattering foul, a shower of blood<br>Upon the hissing firebrands fell.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Next dropp'd from high a mangled arm;<br>The fingers strain'd an half-drawn blade;<br>And last, the life-blood streaming warm,<br>Torn from the trunk, a gasping head.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Oft o'er that head, in battling field,<br>Stream'd the proud crest of high Benmore;<br>That arm the broad claymore could wield,<br>Which dyed the Teith with Saxon gore.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Wo to Moneira's sullen rills!<br>Wo to Glenfinlas' dreary glen!<br>There never son of Albin's hills<br>Shall draw the hunter's shaft agen!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">E'en the tired pilgrim's burning feet<br>At noon shall shun that sheltering den,<br>Lest, journeying in their rage, he meet<br>The wayward Ladies of the Glen.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And we - behind the Chieftain's shield,<br>No more shall we in safety dwell;<br>None leads the people to the field-<br>And we the loud lament must swell,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">O hone a rie'! o hone a rie'!<br>The pride of Albin's line is o'er!<br>And fall'n Glenartney's stateliest tree;<br>We ne'er shall see Lord Ronald more!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Sir+Walter+Scott">Sir Walter Scott</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=519622" data-title="Glenfinlas; or, Lord Ronald's Coronach de Sir Walter Scott" data-description="'O hone a rie'! O hone a rie!'
The pride of Albin's line is o'er,
And fall'n Glenartney's stateliest tree;
We ne'er shall see Lord Ronald more!' -

O, sprung from great Macgillianore,
The chief that never fear'd a foe,
How matchless was thy broad ..."></div>
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