But, lo! the first light of the morning is red on the skirts of the heavens.  Let us go on my journey, my son, for the length of the heath is before us.

Allen.  It is not the light of the morn which thou see’st on the skirts of the heavens; It is but a clear shiv’ring brightness, that changes its hue to the night.  I have seen it like a bloody-spread robe when it hung o’er the waves of the North.  Sad was the fate of his love, but how fell the king of Ithona?  I have heard of the strength of his arm; did he fall in the battle of heroes?

LATHMOR.  He fell in the strength of his youth, but he fell not in battle, my son.  He knew not the sword of a foe, yet he died not the death of the peaceful.  They carried them both to the hill, but the place of their rest is unknown.

Allen. 
But feeble and spent is thy voice, thou grey haired bard of the hill.

LATHMOR. 
Long is this song of the night, and I feel not the strength of my youth.

Allen.  Then let us go on our way:  let us go by the way of the heath.  For it is the fair light of the morning which thou see’st on the far bounding waves.  Slowly it grows in its beauty, and promises good to the traveller.  Red are the small broken clouds that hang on the skirts of the heavens.  Deep glows the clear open sky with the light of the yet hidden sun, Save where the dark narrow cloud hath stretched its vast length o’er the heavens; And the clear ruddy brightness behind it looks fair thro’ its blue streaming lines.  A bloom like the far distant heath is dark on the wide roving clouds.  The broad wavy breast of the ocean is grand in the beauty of morning.  Thick rests the white settled mist on the deep rugged clifts of the shore; And the grey rocks look dimly between, like the high distant isles in a calm.  But grim low’r the walks of Arthula; the light of the morn is behind them.

LATHMOR. 
Dark low’rs the tow’r of Arthula:  the time of its glory is past. 
The valiant have ceas’d from its hall; and the son of the stranger is
there. 
The works of the mighty remain, but they are the vapour of morning.

A MOTHER TO HER WAKING INFANT.

Now in thy dazzling half-op’d eye,
Thy curled nose, and lip awry,
Thy up-hoist arms, and noddling head,
And little chin with crystal spread,
Poor helpless thing! what do I see,
  That I should sing of thee?

From thy poor tongue no accents come,
Which can but rub thy toothless gum: 
Small understanding boast thy face,
Thy shapeless limbs nor step, nor grace: 
A few short words thy feats may tell,
  And yet I love thee well.

When sudden wakes the bitter shriek,
And redder swells thy little cheek;
When rattled keys thy woe beguile,
And thro’ the wet eye gleams the smile,
Still for thy weakly self is spent
  Thy little silly plaint.