19
Die, traitor, die!—A deadly thrust
Attends each furious word;
Ah! then fair Isabel knew his voice,
And rush’d beneath his sword.
O stop, she cried, O stop thy arm!
Thou dost thy brother slay!—
And here the hermit paus’d and wept;
His tongue no more could say.
At length he cried—Ye lovely pair,
How shall I tell the rest?
Ere I could stop my piercing sword,
It fell and stabb’d her breast!
Wert thou thyself that hapless youth?
Ah! cruel fate! they said—
The hermit wept, and so did they;
They sigh’d; he hung his head.
O blind and jealous rage, he cried,
What evils from thee flow!
The hermit paus’d; they silent mourn’d;
He wept, and they were woe.
Ah! when I heard my brother’s name,
I saw my lady bleed,
I rav’d, I wept, I curs’d my arm
That wrought the fatal deed.
In vain I clasp’d her to my breast,
And clos’d the ghastly wound;
In vain I press’d his bleeding corpse,
And rais’d it from the ground.
My brother, alas! spake never more;
His precious life was flown,
She kindly strove to soothe my pain,
Regardless of her own.
Bertram, she said, be comforted,
And live to think on me:
May we in heaven that union prove,
Which here was not to be!
Bertram, she said, I still was true!
Thou only hadst my heart:
May we hereafter meet in bliss!
We now, alas! must part.
For thee I left my father’s hall,
And flew to thy relief;
When, lo! near Cheviot’s fatal hills
I met a Scottish chief.
