Yet O do not leave me, Lochallen, to waste in my watery bed!
But raise me a tomb on the hill, where the daughter of Lorma should lie.
The voice of her sorrow did cease; and her form passed quickly away.
It pass'd like the pale shiv'ring light, that is lost in the dark closing
cloud.

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.