For the spirits of warriours departed came born on the deep rushing blast;
There hail'd they their new fallen sons, and the sound of their meeting
was terrible.
At a distance was gather'd Ithona round many a bright flaming oak;
Till morning rose red o'er the main, like a new bloody field of battle.

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.