3
“It must, however, be confessed, that elegant readers of verse often verge so nearly on what is called sing song, without falling into it, that it is no wonder those who attempt to imitate them, slide into that blemish which borders so nearly on a beauty.”
Glenara.
Oh! heard ye yon pibroch sound sad in the gale,
Where a band cometh slowly it weeping and wail?
'Tis the Chief of Glenara laments for his dear;
And her sire and her people are called to her bier.
Glenara came first with the mourners and shroud;
Her kinsmen they follow'd but mourned not aloud;
Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around;
They march'd all in silence—they look'd to the ground.
In silence they reach'd over mountain and moor,
To a heath, where the oak-tree grew lonely and hoar,
'Now here let us place the gray-stone of her cairn-
Why speak ye no word?' said Glenara the stern.
'And tell me, I charge you, ye clan of my spouse,
Why fold ye your mantles, why cloud ye your brows?'
So spake the rude chieftain: no answer is made,
But each mantle unfolding, a dagger display'd.
