Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/278

And flaming Ilion's horrors yield
To pictured Flodden's fatal field.
    Hush! 'tis old Alan's plaintive lay,
That faithful harper, sad and gray,
Hark! to black Roderick's boastful song,
That rolls the trosach-glens along,
And lo! with proud, unbending frame,
Comes Douglas forth, with Malcolm Graeme,
While she, by whose light footstep prest,
The uncrushed harebell rears its breast,
With brow averted, blushing, hears
A father's praise to lover's ears.
    The spell is broke, the illusion fled,
And he, whose strong, enchanting wand
Made the rude mountains of his land,
The tiny lake, the tangled dell,
And outlaw's cave, and hermit's cell,
A classic haunt, a Mecca shrine,
To pilgrim throngs, a Palestine,
    Is with the dead.