A Legend of The Past

A Legend of the Past

The night lours dark on hill and glen;
And Lora's streams sound sad and drear;
From Arlo's grim and hoary towers
There comes no voice of festive cheer.

Dark is the brow of Arlo's lord,
His heart is wrung with madd'ning grief;
With iron grasp his sword is drawn -
ow heed theyself, Dunallan's chief!

And who is she, so fair in death?
How lovely in their calm repose
Those features are, where blended once
The water-lily and the rose.

To pierce that gentle lady's heart,
With ruthless aim an arrow sped;
Cursed be his hands that bent the bow,
Then, like a coward, trembling fled.

In vain Dunallan's cruel chief
In forest deep may try to hide;
Lord Arlo's sword can find him our,
And will avenge his murdered bride.

How could'st thou think, dark gloomy chief
In such a deed there was no sin? -
Oh! hardened and remorseless fiend,
To murder when thou could'st not win.

Fair dawned the morn on Cona's heath,
And flashed the early golden beams
ON mountain crest and forest green,
On waterfalls and crystal streams.

And who is he, with hasty step,
With target braced and brandished sword?
Now hide thee deep, Dunallan's chief,
No match art thou for Arlo's lord.

Why from yon rugged wild ravine
Rise yellow footed birds of prey? -
With rapid flight they cleave the air,
Scared at the sound of mortal fray.

The strife has ceased. A head is cleft-
Down in that slimy pool so deep
There lies Dunallan's bloody chief,
And none for him did sigh or weep.

Deserted now, Lord Arlo's home,
A lonely ruin grey it stands;
For gone to distant shores is he,
To fight for fame in foreign lands.

No one comes near these hoary towers,
For legends say at dead of night
Lord Arlo's bride keeps watch and ward,
Still in her bridal robes of white.