the mighty.
Their eyes lighten'd up in her presence; they dropt their dark spears as
she spoke.
Lochallen was firm in his strength, and unmov'd in the battle of heroes;
Like a rock-fenced isle of the ocean, that shews its dark head thro' the
storm.
His brow was like a cliff on the shore, that fore-warneth the hunters of
Ithona;
For there gleams the first ray of morning, and there broods the mist ere
the storm:
It shone, and it darken'd by turns, as the strength of his passions arose.
He was terrible as a gathering storm, when his soul learnt the wrongs of
the feeble.
His eye was the lightning of shields; he was swift as a blast in its
course.
When the warriours return'd from the field, and the sons of the mighty
assembled,
He was graceful as the light tow'ring cloud that rises from the blue
bounded main.
Gentle and fair was his form in the tow'rs of the hilly Ithona.
His voice cheer'd the soul of the sad; he would sport with a child in the
hall.

Matchless in the days of their love were Lochallen and the daughter of
Lorma.
But their beauty has ceas'd on Arthula; and the place of their rest is
unknown.
The family of Lorma has fail'd, and strangers rejoice in his hall:
But voices of sorrow are heard when the stillness of midnight is there;
The stranger is wak'd with the sound, and enquires of the race that is