(8)
But yet his ſword quitted not the grip,
nor dropt he to the ground,
Till through his enemy's heart his ſteel
had forc'd a mortal wound.
Græme, like a tree with wind o'enthrona,
fell breathleſs on the clay;
And down beſide him funk the Roſs,
and fainting, dying lay.
The ſad Matilda ſaw him fall,
'O ſpare his life? ſhe cried,
'Lord Buchan's daughter begſ his life,
'let her not be denied.'
Her well-known voice the hero heard,
he rais'd his death-clos'd eyes,
And fix'd them on the weeping maid,
and weakly thus replies:
'In vain Matilda begs the life
'by death's arreſt denied;
'My race is run—Adieu, my love,'
then clos'd his eyes—and died.
The ſword, yet warm, from his left ſide,
with frantic hand the drew,
'I come, Sir James the Roſs,' ſhe cried,
'I come to follow you.'
She lean'd the hilt againſt the ground,
and bar'd her ſnowy breaſt,
Then fell upon her lover's ſword,
and ſunk to endleſs reſt.
FINIS.
