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The hunters to the castle sped,

And there the hapless captive led.

XXIII.

Stout Clifford in the castle-court

Prepared him for the morning sport;
And now with Lorn held deep discourse,
Now gave command for hound and horse.
War-steeds and palfreys paw'd the ground,
And many a deer-dog howl'd around.

To Amadine, Lorn's well-known word

Replying to that Southern Lord,

Mix'd with this clanging din, might seem

The phantasm of a fever'd dream.

The tone upon his ringing ears

Came like the sounds which fancy hears,

When in rude waves or roaring winds

Some words of woe the muser finds,

Until more loudly and more near,

Their speech arrests the page's ear.

XXIV.

"And was she thus," said Clifford, "lost?

The priest should rue it to his cost!

What says the monk?"-" The holy Sire

Owns, that in masquer's quaint attire,

She sought his skiff, disguised, unknown
To all except to him alone.

But, says the priest, a bark from Lorn

Laid them aboard that very morn,

And pirates seized her for their prey.
He proffer'd ransom-gold to pay,
And they agreed-but ere told o'er,

The winds blow loud, the billows roar ;
They sever'd, and they met no more.

He deems such tempest vex'd the coast-
Ship, crew, and fugitive, were lost.
-So let it be, with the disgrace

And scandal of her lofty race!

Thrice better she had ne'er been born,

Than brought her infamy on Lorn!"—

XXV.

Lord Clifford now the captive spied ;

"Whom, Herbert, hast thou there ?" he cried.

"A spy we seized within the Chase,

An hollow oak his lurking place."

"What tidings can the youth afford?”—

"He plays the mute."-"Then noose a cord

Unless brave Lorn reverse the doom

For his plaid's sake."-" Clan-Colla's loom,'
Said Lorn, whose careless glances trace

Rather the vesture than the face,

"Clan-Colla's dames such tartans twine;

Wearer nor plaid claims care of mine.

Give him, if my advice you crave,

His own scathed oak; and let him wave

In air, unless, by terror wrung,

A frank confession find his tongue.

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Nor shall he die without his rite;

-Thou, Angus Roy, attend the sight, And give Clan-Colla's dirge thy breath, As they convey him to his death."

“O brother! cruel to the last !”— Through the poor captive's bosom pass'd The thought, but, to his purpose true,

He said not, though he sigh'd, "Adieu!"

XXVI.

And will he keep his purpose still,

In sight of that last closing ill,

When one poor breath, one single word,

May freedom, safety, life, afford?

Can he resist the instinctive call,

For life that bids us barter all?

Love, strong as death, his heart hath steel'd,
His nerves hath strung-he will not yield!
Since that poor breath, that little word,
May yield Lord Ronald to the sword.-

Clan-Colla's dirge is pealing wide,
The griesly headsman's by his side;
Along the green-wood Chase they bend,
And now their march has ghastly end!
That old and shatter'd oak beneath,

They destine for the place of death.
-What thoughts are his, while all in vain
His eye for aid explores the plain?

What thoughts, while, with a dizzy ear, He hears the death-prayer mutter'd near?

And must he die such death accurst,

Or will that bosom-secret burst?

Cold on his brow breaks terror's dew,

His trembling lips are livid blue;

The agony of parting life

Has nought to match that moment's strife!

XXVII.

But other witnesses are nigh,

Who mock at fear, and death defy!

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