a tree has been hewn from thy rocky bosom, thou fair mountain Glenaa, since the hour in which he parted. But not so cold, nor so barren is thy bosom, as is that of the widow who is bereft of every joy. . . . Mourn for the house of Glenarvon, and the orphan who is destitute! No mother—no companion of boyish sports and pleasures yet lives to greet him with one cheering smile.—There is not left one tongue to welcome him to his native land; or, should he fall, one friend to shed a tear upon his grave!"
Thus sung the Bard, while the red deer were browsing upon the hills, and the wind whistled through the arches and colonades of the Castle of Belfont, as if in hollow murmurs for times which were long past.—"Woe to the house of our patron," said the frenzied old man, as with bitter tears he departed:—"even in this moment of time, the fairest star of Belfont sets for ever: the widowed Countess of Glenarvon is dead—dead in a fo-
