arms?  Youth of Ithona, said Uthal, thy fathers were mighty in battle, Return to thy brown woody hills, till the hair is grown dark on thy cheek; Then come from the tow’rs of thy safety, a foe less unworthy of Uthal.  But thou lovest a weakly enemy, foe of the white haired chief.  Thou lovest a foe that is weak, said the red swelling pride of Lochallen.  Seest thou this sword of my youth? it is red with the blood of thy heroes.  Come forth in the strength of thine years, and hand its dark blade in thy hall.  He lifted a spear in his wrath o’er the head of his high worded foe; But the strength of his chieftains was there, and it rung on their broad spreading shields.  He turned himself scornful away, to look for some nobler enemy; He met thee fair son of Hidallo, as chaffing he strode in his wrath; But thou never did’st turn from the valiant, youth of the far distant land.  Fierce fought the heroes, and wonder’d each chief at the might of his foe.  They found themselves matched in strength, and they fought in the pride of their souls.  Bloody and long was the fight, but the arm of Lochallen prevail’d.  Ah, why did you combat, ye heroes! ah, why did ye meet in the field!  Your souls had been brothers of love, had ye met in the dwellings of peace.  He was like to thyself, son of Mora, where his voice cheer’d the heart of the stranger In the far distant hall of his father, who never shall hear it again; He was like to thyself whom thou slewest; and he fell in his youth like thee.  The maid of thy bosom is lovely, thou fair fallen son of the stranger.  She sits on her high hanging bower, and looks to the way of thy promise.  She combs down her long yellow hair; and prepares a fine robe for thy coming.  She starts at the voice of the breeze, and runs to the door of her bow’r.  But thou art a dim misty form on the clouds of far distant hills.

Fierce was the rage of the battle, and terrible the clanging of arms.  Loud were the shouts of the mighty, like the wide scatter’d thunder of Lora, When its voice is return’d from the rocks, and it strengthens in its broad spreading course.  Heavy were the groans of the dying; the voice of the fallen was sad, Like the deep ’prison’d winds of the cavern, when the roar of the tempest is laid.  The sons of Ithona were terrible:  the enemy fled from before them, Like the dark gather’d fowls of the ocean, that flock to the shore ere a storm.  They fled from the might of their foes, and the darkness of night clos’d around them.

Cold rose the wind of the desert, and blew o’er the dark bloody field.  Sad was its voice on the heath, where it lifted the locks of the dead.  Hollow roar’d the sea at a distance:  the ghosts of the slain shriek’d aloud.  Pale shady forms stalk’d around, and their airy swords gleam’d thro’ the night; For the spirits of warriours departed came born on the deep rushing blast; There hail’d they their new fallen sons, and the sound of their meeting was terrible.  At a distance was gather’d Ithona round many a bright flaming oak; Till morning rose red o’er the main, like a new bloody field of battle.