THE
RECITER.
———
GLENARA.
Oh! heard you yon pibroch sound sad in the gale
Where a band cometh slowly with weeping and wail?
'Tis the Chief of Glenara laments for his dear;
And her sire and her people are call'd to her bier.
Glenara came first, with the mourners and shroud;
Her kinsmen they follow'd, but mourn'd not aloud;
Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around;
They march'd all in silence—they look'd to the ground.
In silence they reach'd over mountain and moor,
To a heath, where the oak-tree grew lonely and hoar,
'Now here let us place the gray stone of her cairn-
Why speak ye no word?' said Glenara the stern.
'And tell me, I charge you, ye clan of my spouse
Why fold ye your mantles, why cloud ye your brows?'
So spake the rude chieftain: no answer is made,
But each mantle unfolding, a dagger display'd.
'I dream'd of my lady, I dream'd of her shroud,'
Cried a voice from the kinsmen, all wrathful and loud;
'And empty that shroud, and that coffin did seem:
Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!'
