Lochallen assembled his heroes; they rang’d o’er the land of their enemy.  But they found not the king in the field; and the walls of his strength were deserted.  Then spoke the friend of his bosom, the dark haired chief of Trevallen; Why seek you the king in his tow’rs? he is fled to the caves of his fear.  Let us fly, said the chief of Ithona, let us fly to the daughter of Lorma!  Let us fight with man in the field, but pull not a deer from his den.

Two days they buried their dead, and rais’d their memorial on high.  On the third day they loosen’d their vessels, and left the blue isle of their fame.  The darkness of night was around when the bay of Arthula receiv’d them.  Thick beat the joy of his bosom, as he drew near the place of his love; But the strength of his limbs was unloos’d, as he trode on the dark sounding shore.  Thou did’st promise, O maid of my soul! thou did’st promise to watch for thy love!  But no kindly messenger waits to hail my return from the war.  The tow’r of Arthula is dark; and I hear not the sound of its hall.  The watch dog howls to the night, nor heeds the approach of our feet.  He seized a bright flaming brand, and he hasten’d his steps to the tow’r.  Wide stood the black low’ring gate; and deep was the silence within.  Hollow and loud rung his steps, as he trode thro’ the dark empty hall.  He flew to the bow’r of his love; it was still as the chamber of death.  His eyes search’d wildly around him; he call’d on the name of his love; But his own voice returned alone from the deep-sounding walls of the tow’r.  He leant with his back to the wall, and cross’d his arms over his breast.  Heavy sunk his head on his shoulder:  the blue flame burnt double before him.  A voice, like the evening breeze when it steals down the bed of the river, Came softly and sad to his ear, and he raised his drooping head.  The form of his love stood before him:  yet it was not the form of his love; For fixed and dim was her eye, and the beams of her beauty were fled.  She was pale as the white frozen lake, when it gleams to the light of the moon.  Her garments were heavy and drench’d, and the streams trickled fast from her hair.  She was like a snow-crusted tree in winter, when it drops to the mid-day sun.  O seek not for me, son of Moro, in the light cheerful dwellings of men!  For low is my bed in the deep, and cold is the place of my rest.  The sea monster sports by my side, and the water-snake twines round my neck.  But do not forget me, Lochallen:  O think on the days of our love!  I sat on the high rocky shore, mine eyes look’d afar o’er the ocean.  I saw two dark ships on the waves, and quick beat the joy of my breast.  One vessel drew near to the shore, and six warriours leapt from its side.  I hasten’d to meet thee, my love; but mine ear met the stern voice of Uthal.  I thought that my hero was slain, and I felt me alone in my weakness.  I felt me deserted and lonely:  I flew to the steep hanging rock:  I threw my robe over my head; and I hid me in the dark closing deep.  Yet O do not leave me, Lochallen, to waste in my watery bed!  But raise me a tomb on the hill, where the daughter of Lorma should lie.  The voice of her sorrow did cease; and her form passed quickly away.  It pass’d like the pale shiv’ring light, that is lost in the dark closing cloud.