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;