And thrice he smiled, with his eye so wild, On Angus bending low the knee: And thrice he frown'd on a chief on the ground, Whom shivering crowds with horror see.
The bolts loud roll from pole to pole, The thunders through the welkin ring; And the gleaming form, through the mist of the storm, Was borne on high by the whirlwind's wing.
Cold was the feast, the revel ceased, Who lies upon the stony floor? Oblivion press'd old Angus' breast, At length his life-pulse throbs once more.
Away! away! let the leech assay To pour the light on Allan's eyes: His sand is done--his race is run; O! never more shall Allan rise:
But Oscar's breast is cold as clay, His locks are lifted by the gale: And Allan's barbed arrow lay With him in dark Glentanar's vale.
And whence the dreadful stranger came, Or who, no mortal wight can tell; But no one doubts the form of flame, For Alva's sons knew Oscar well.
Ambition nerved young Allan's hand, Exulting demons wing'd his dart; While Envy waved her burning brand, And pour'd her venom round his heart.
Swift is the shaft from Allan's bow; Whose streaming life-blood stains his side? Dark Oscar's sable crest is low, The dart has drunk his vital tide.
And Mora's eye could Allan move, She bade his wounded pride rebel; Alas! that eyes which beam'd with love Should urge the soul to deeds of hell.
Lo! seest thou not a lonely tomb Which rises o'er a warrior dead? It glimmers through the twilight gloom: O! that is Allan's nuptial bed.
Far, distant far, the noble grave Which held his clan's great ashes stood; And o'er his corse no banners wave, For they were stain'd with kindred blood.
What minstrel grey, what hoary bard, Shall Allan's deeds on harp-strings raise? The song is glory's chief reward, But who can strike a murderer's praise?
Unstrung, untouch'd the harp must stand, No minstrel dare the theme awake; Guilt would benumb his palsied hand, His harp in shuddering chords would break.
No lyre of fame, no hallow'd verse, Shall sound his glories high in air: A dying father's bitter curse, A brother's death-groan echoes there."
The incidents immediately preceding Byron's death show that, to his last moments, he entertained what is generally regarded as superstitious sentiments. He thought it possible for him to waken from the sleep of death, and torment those he desired to punish. Perceiving that he was seriously ill, he called his faithful attendant Fletcher, and gave him several directions. The servant expressed a hope that he (his master) would live many years. To this Byron replied, "No, it is now nearly over;" and then added, "I must tell you all, without losing a single moment. Now pay attention--You will be provided for--Oh, my poor dear child, my dear Ada!--could I but see her--give her my blessing--and my dear sister Augusta and her children--you will go to Lady Byron, and say--tell her everything." Here his Lordship seemed to be greatly affected; his voice failed him so much that it was difficult to understand what he said. After remaining silent for a short time, he raised his voice and said, "Fletcher: now if you do not execute every order which I have given you, I will torment you hereafter, if possible." These were nearly the last words he spoke, having very soon afterwards fallen into an easy sleep, from which he never awoke.