He fell like a ruined tow'r; like a fragment of times that are past:
Like a rock whose foundation is worn with the lashes of many a wave.
Four grey head warriors of Lorma remain'd from the days of his youth:
They mourn'd o'er the fall of their lord; and they bore him to his dark
narrow house.
His memorial was rais'd on the hill; and the lovely Orvina wept over it.
She bent her fair form o'er the heap; and her sorrow was silent, and
gentle.
It flow'd like the pure twinkling dream beneath the green shade of the
fern.
The hunters oft bless it at noon, tho' the strangers perceive not its
course.
The wind of the hill rais'd her locks, and Lochallen beheld her in grief.
The soul of the hero was knit to the tear-eyed daughter of Lorma.
She was graceful and tall as the willow, that bends o'er the deep shady
stream.
Her eye like a sun-beam on water, that gleams thro' the dark skirting
reeds.
Her hair like the light wreathing cloud, that floats on the brow of the
hill,
When the beam of the morning is there, and it scatters its skirts to the
wind.
Lovely and soft were her smiles, like a glimpse from the white riven
cloud,
When the sun hastens over the lake, and a summer show'r ruffles its bosom.
Her voice was the sweet sound of midnight, that visits the ear of the
bard,
When he darts from the place of his slumber, and calls on some far distant
friend.
She was fair 'mongst the maids of her time; and she soften'd the wrath of