Thou do’st our fairest hope destroy;
Thou art a gloom o’er ev’ry joy;
Unheeded let my dwelling be,
O Fear! but far remov’d from thee!

A STORY OF OTHER TIMES.

Somewhat in imitation of the poems of Ossian.

LATHMOR. 
But why do’st thou stop on the way, and hold me thus hard in thy grasp? 
It was but the voice of the winds from the deep narrow glens of Glanarven.

Allen. 
The heath is unruffled around, and the oak o’er thy head is at rest: 
Calm swells the moon on the lake, and nothing is heard in the reeds. 
Sad was the sound, O my father! but it was not the voice of the wind.

LATHMOR. 
What dark tow’ring rock do I see ’midst the grey spreading mist of the
hills? 
This is not the vale of Clanarven:  my son, we have err’d from the way,

Allen. 
It is not a dark tow’ring rock, ’midst the grey settled mist of the hills. 
’Tis a dark tow’r of strength which thou seest, and the ocean spreads
dimly behind it.

LATHMOR.  Then here will we stop for the night, for the tow’r of Arthula is near.  Proceed not, my son, on the way, for it was not the voice of the wind.  The ghost of the valliant is forth; and it mourns round the place of its woe.  The tray’ller oft’ hears it at midnight, and turns him aside from its haunt.  The sharp moon is spent in her course, and the way of the desert is doubtful.  This oak with his wide leavy branches will shelter our heads from the night; And I’ll tell thee a story of old, since the tow’r of Arthula is near.

From the walls of his strength came Lochallen, with his broad chested sons of the hills.  He was strong as a bull of the forest, and keen as a bird of the rock.  His friends of the chace were around him, the sons of the heroes of Mora.  They were clad in the strength of their youth; and the sound of their arms rung afar.  For Uthal had led his dark host from the blue misty isle of his power; And o’erspread like a cloud of the desert, the land of the white-headed Lorma.  Of Lorma who sat in the hall, and lamented the sons of his youth; For Orvina remained alone to support the frail steps of his age.  He sent to the king of Ithona:  he remembered the love of his father:  And Lochallen soon join’d him on Loarn with the high minded chieftains of Mora.

Loud was the sound of the battle, and many the slain of the field.  Red was the sword of Lochallen:  it was red with the blood of the brave.  For his eye sought the combat of heroes, and the mighty withstood not his arm.  He rag’d like a flame on the heath; and the enemy fled from his face.