As though he feared his sword?
Proud triumph's notes were often heard
Where Aray's waters sing,
And mourners there have often wept
The slain for faith and king.

But never would that lady's lips
There speak her grievous woe,
Though in her chamber in the night
Her frequent tears would flow.
She dreamt of wrong where love was sought,
Of crafty cruel eyes,
Of one steep stair, of grasping hands
That stifled piteous cries;

Of wind which tore the hissing waves,
And howled o'er mountains bare;
Where swollen burns in feathery clouds
Were dashed into the air.
Of one wet rock, of horror wild,
When she was left alone,
Till madness seemed to whelm her thought
And, with a shuddering moan,

Again she heard the surges rush,
And, where she shrinking turned,
The seaweed there, like woman's hair,
The murderous billows spurned.
Again the night and wind were joined
To mock her hope of aid,