COMALA:PARAPHRAZED.
''Tis silence all on Erdven's plain; the roar
Of torrents sounds alone, the chase is o'er.
Daughter of Morni! come from Crona's stream;
Why linger in the gloom? Rise from thy dream.
Lay down the how, and take the harp; let night
Come on with songs, and joy the vale shall light,
E'en Ardven!' Thus Dersagrena said,
And her soft voice the list'ning echo spread.
Of torrents sounds alone, the chase is o'er.
Daughter of Morni! come from Crona's stream;
Why linger in the gloom? Rise from thy dream.
Lay down the how, and take the harp; let night
Come on with songs, and joy the vale shall light,
E'en Ardven!' Thus Dersagrena said,
And her soft voice the list'ning echo spread.
Where gentle waters murmur'd in the wood,
Her young, fair sister, Melilcoma, stood;
Her trembling hands scarce held the unstrung bow;
And pale she gaz'd, then swiftly turn'd to go:
On stormy waters thus the timid sail,
Or snow-white flower, flutters in the gale;
O'er the dark plain the gentle maiden fled,
Join'd her calm sister, and thus softly said:
'Night comes apace, 'tis dim along the plain;
I have not sought the sacred spot in vain,—
I saw a deer on Crona's stream to-night,
A mossy bank, he seem'd, but rose in flight.
Around his horns a flaming meteor beam'd,
And ancient forms from Crona's dark cloud gleam'd.
Her young, fair sister, Melilcoma, stood;
Her trembling hands scarce held the unstrung bow;
And pale she gaz'd, then swiftly turn'd to go:
On stormy waters thus the timid sail,
Or snow-white flower, flutters in the gale;
O'er the dark plain the gentle maiden fled,
Join'd her calm sister, and thus softly said:
'Night comes apace, 'tis dim along the plain;
I have not sought the sacred spot in vain,—
I saw a deer on Crona's stream to-night,
A mossy bank, he seem'd, but rose in flight.
Around his horns a flaming meteor beam'd,
And ancient forms from Crona's dark cloud gleam'd.
Her solemn sister to the low'ring sky
Rais'd her fair arm, and thus she made reply:
'This is the sign of Fingal's death: the king
Of shields is fallen! the dead the message bring.
The foe prevails. Rise, Comala, rise,
From the dark rock, and lift thy weeping eyes;
Raise them in tears, thy loved one's life is low;
On the far hills his spirit passes slow.'
Rais'd her fair arm, and thus she made reply:
'This is the sign of Fingal's death: the king
Of shields is fallen! the dead the message bring.
The foe prevails. Rise, Comala, rise,
From the dark rock, and lift thy weeping eyes;
Raise them in tears, thy loved one's life is low;
On the far hills his spirit passes slow.'
Sweet pity springs in Melilcoma's breast;
The gentle one beholds the maid distress'd;
She turns her pure blue eyes from heaven's own signs.
And in her heartfelt sorrow thus she joins:
'There sits Comala; ah, poor lonely maid,
How forlorn is she in the gloomy shade!
Her faithful gray dogs crouch beneath the trees,
Shake their rough ears, and catch the flying breeze;
Her red cheek rests upon her arm, the air
From the dark mountain lifts her drooping hair;
She turns her sad eyes to the field; his vow
Made the sweet spot of promise. Where art thou,
Oh, Fingal?—dark night gathers round:—
Alas, poor maiden! heareth she a sound?
The gentle one beholds the maid distress'd;
She turns her pure blue eyes from heaven's own signs.
And in her heartfelt sorrow thus she joins:
'There sits Comala; ah, poor lonely maid,
How forlorn is she in the gloomy shade!
Her faithful gray dogs crouch beneath the trees,
Shake their rough ears, and catch the flying breeze;
Her red cheek rests upon her arm, the air
From the dark mountain lifts her drooping hair;
She turns her sad eyes to the field; his vow
Made the sweet spot of promise. Where art thou,
Oh, Fingal?—dark night gathers round:—
Alas, poor maiden! heareth she a sound?
Comala rises: every low-ton'd word,
Deep in their anguish, in the night is heard:
'Carun of streams! why roll thy waves so red
With blood of heroes fresh and newly shed?
Did I behold it? was the loud battle heard?
And sleeps the king of Morven? for one word
To still this mad'ning terror! Rise, moon, rise!
Look from the clouds, thou daughter of the skies;
Let me behold the gleam of his bright steel;
Haste! to my longing eyes the sight reveal!
On the fair field, made sacred by the vow
Of his return, oh, show the bright sign now!
Or rather let the meteor that gives light
To guide our fathers through the doubtful night,
Come, with red beam, to show my steps the way,
That by my fallen hero I may pray.
Ah, who will shield the stricken one from grief?
Who guard her from the love of that dread chief,
The hated Hidallan? Long may her mournful eye
Look o'er the desert plain ere she descry
Fingal amidst his host, bright as the morn
When its quick rays the misty east adorn
Through clouds of early showers—'
Hush! he's near!
Dark is his eye; he heedeth not her fear,
Hidallan speaks: 'Dwell, mist of Crona, dwell
On the dark path of him she loves so well.
Hide from mine eyes his steps; let me forget
Fingal and I, in friendship, ere have met.
The bands are scatter'd; and no crowding tread
Tells where the king fights still. Ah! is he dead?
Oh, Carun, let thy gloomy waters flow
Deep dyed in blood; the chief, the chief is low.
Deep in their anguish, in the night is heard:
'Carun of streams! why roll thy waves so red
With blood of heroes fresh and newly shed?
Did I behold it? was the loud battle heard?
And sleeps the king of Morven? for one word
To still this mad'ning terror! Rise, moon, rise!
Look from the clouds, thou daughter of the skies;
Let me behold the gleam of his bright steel;
Haste! to my longing eyes the sight reveal!
On the fair field, made sacred by the vow
Of his return, oh, show the bright sign now!
Or rather let the meteor that gives light
To guide our fathers through the doubtful night,
Come, with red beam, to show my steps the way,
That by my fallen hero I may pray.
Ah, who will shield the stricken one from grief?
Who guard her from the love of that dread chief,
The hated Hidallan? Long may her mournful eye
Look o'er the desert plain ere she descry
Fingal amidst his host, bright as the morn
When its quick rays the misty east adorn
Through clouds of early showers—'
Hush! he's near!
Dark is his eye; he heedeth not her fear,
Hidallan speaks: 'Dwell, mist of Crona, dwell
On the dark path of him she loves so well.
Hide from mine eyes his steps; let me forget
Fingal and I, in friendship, ere have met.
The bands are scatter'd; and no crowding tread
Tells where the king fights still. Ah! is he dead?
Oh, Carun, let thy gloomy waters flow
Deep dyed in blood; the chief, the chief is low.
Now gloomy rage made black his visage bold;
And scarce the darkness let the maid behold
Hidallan's form: and, as she deeply sigh'd,
She ask'd who far on Carun's waters died.
'Son of the cloudy night! tell me who fell!
White, was he not, as snows that always dwell
On Ardven?—Blooming as the summer bow
In early showers?—Soft as the mists that glow,
Waving in sunlight, was his own fair hair?
Son of the cloudy night, oh, was he there?
Was he not like the thunder peal on high
Amid the battle? swift as the roes that fly
O'er the broad desert?—Son of night, reply.
And scarce the darkness let the maid behold
Hidallan's form: and, as she deeply sigh'd,
She ask'd who far on Carun's waters died.
'Son of the cloudy night! tell me who fell!
White, was he not, as snows that always dwell
On Ardven?—Blooming as the summer bow
In early showers?—Soft as the mists that glow,
Waving in sunlight, was his own fair hair?
Son of the cloudy night, oh, was he there?
Was he not like the thunder peal on high
Amid the battle? swift as the roes that fly
O'er the broad desert?—Son of night, reply.
His brow is dark; Comala asks in vain;
And, deeply groaning, thus he speaks again:
'Oh, that his love I might again behold;—
Her fair form bending on the rock so cold,
Her bright eye dim in tears, her golden hair
O'er her young cheek now paling in despair.
Blow, gentle breeze, and lift that golden veil,
That I behold that face and arm so pale.'
Pale is that cheek indeed! that bright eye wild.
Can this be her e'er gentle as a child?
Wild glare her tender eyes!—'Oh, tell me plain,
Does Fingal's blood the field of Ardven stain?
Has he, the son of Comhal, fallen low,
His head a trophy to the foreign foe?
Loud roars the thunder on the stormy hill!
And light'nings all the starless heavens fill!
Comala fears not;—Fingal!—he is low:—
Would that these stormy winds would ever blow;
Son of the mournful tale! oh, tell me true
Fell he, the shield's strong breaker, in your view?'
And, deeply groaning, thus he speaks again:
'Oh, that his love I might again behold;—
Her fair form bending on the rock so cold,
Her bright eye dim in tears, her golden hair
O'er her young cheek now paling in despair.
Blow, gentle breeze, and lift that golden veil,
That I behold that face and arm so pale.'
Pale is that cheek indeed! that bright eye wild.
Can this be her e'er gentle as a child?
Wild glare her tender eyes!—'Oh, tell me plain,
Does Fingal's blood the field of Ardven stain?
Has he, the son of Comhal, fallen low,
His head a trophy to the foreign foe?
Loud roars the thunder on the stormy hill!
And light'nings all the starless heavens fill!
Comala fears not;—Fingal!—he is low:—
Would that these stormy winds would ever blow;
Son of the mournful tale! oh, tell me true
Fell he, the shield's strong breaker, in your view?'
His loud, harsh voice falls fearful on her ear,
And thus he answer'd, as he slow drew near:
All, all are scatter'd on the stormy hill!
No more his voice the broad, broad vale shall fill,
No more the nations shall hear Finead's voice,
No more his heart in victory rejoice!'
And thus he answer'd, as he slow drew near:
All, all are scatter'd on the stormy hill!
No more his voice the broad, broad vale shall fill,
No more the nations shall hear Finead's voice,
No more his heart in victory rejoice!'
Deep in his soul her flashing glances fell,
And the proud chief grew pale beneath the spell;
And thus her lips pronounc'd his coming woe:
Could greater curse fall on a hated foe?
'Ruin pursue thee o'er thy desert plain;
All thy proud projects found at last in vain!
Few be thy footsteps to thy grave, thou hated kin
And one poor virgin thy last requiem sing!
And the proud chief grew pale beneath the spell;
And thus her lips pronounc'd his coming woe:
Could greater curse fall on a hated foe?
'Ruin pursue thee o'er thy desert plain;
All thy proud projects found at last in vain!
Few be thy footsteps to thy grave, thou hated kin
And one poor virgin thy last requiem sing!
Like Comala may she in her sorrow be,
(That is, if any maid can mourn for thee.)
Why hast thou told me that my hero fell?
How dare such words on coward lips ere dwell?
I might have hoped a little while to see
My only loved one come again to me?
I might have thought I saw him on the hill;
Or heard his sounding horn when all was still?
Oh, that I were on Crona's blood-stain'd shore;
O'er him, my chief, my soul's deep grief to pour
(That is, if any maid can mourn for thee.)
Why hast thou told me that my hero fell?
How dare such words on coward lips ere dwell?
I might have hoped a little while to see
My only loved one come again to me?
I might have thought I saw him on the hill;
Or heard his sounding horn when all was still?
Oh, that I were on Crona's blood-stain'd shore;
O'er him, my chief, my soul's deep grief to pour
The chief's cold eye rests on the maiden's face,
And pity gives not one kind human trace
To his dark brow; he addeth to her woe:
(Thus o'er the wreck relentless waters flow:)
'He is not near where Crona's waters roar;
His tomb is rais'd on Ardven's silent shore,—
Heroes have rais'd it. Look on them, oh, thou moon.
Forth from dark clouds we shall behold thee soon;
Bright be thy beam upon his silent breast,
Comala's eye shall on his armour rest.'
And pity gives not one kind human trace
To his dark brow; he addeth to her woe:
(Thus o'er the wreck relentless waters flow:)
'He is not near where Crona's waters roar;
His tomb is rais'd on Ardven's silent shore,—
Heroes have rais'd it. Look on them, oh, thou moon.
Forth from dark clouds we shall behold thee soon;
Bright be thy beam upon his silent breast,
Comala's eye shall on his armour rest.'
'Oh stay!' (her trembling tongue essays to call,)
Let not the earth on my beloved fall
Until I've seen him! He left me at the chase;
I knew not then that I should see his face
No more.—He said he would return with night;
I knew not that my love went forth to fight.
Say, trembling dweller of the rock! why thou
Didst hide it from me; and not tell me now
That thou didst see him pale in his young blood;
Thou who but now on Ardven's banks hast stood?'
Let not the earth on my beloved fall
Until I've seen him! He left me at the chase;
I knew not then that I should see his face
No more.—He said he would return with night;
I knew not that my love went forth to fight.
Say, trembling dweller of the rock! why thou
Didst hide it from me; and not tell me now
That thou didst see him pale in his young blood;
Thou who but now on Ardven's banks hast stood?'
Beside the maiden Melilcoma stands,
Her harp soft murm'ring in her trembling hands;
Her bright eye glances joyfully afar;
She sees, amid the vale, like a bright star,
The spear of Fingal! now her light form springs
With joy!—'What sound on Ardven rings?—
Who comes! bright as heaven, in the vale?
Who comes! strong as rivers that prevail,
When the moon shineth? thus they glitter in her light
Who comes! but Fingal! Fingal from the fight!'
Her harp soft murm'ring in her trembling hands;
Her bright eye glances joyfully afar;
She sees, amid the vale, like a bright star,
The spear of Fingal! now her light form springs
With joy!—'What sound on Ardven rings?—
Who comes! bright as heaven, in the vale?
Who comes! strong as rivers that prevail,
When the moon shineth? thus they glitter in her light
Who comes! but Fingal! Fingal from the fight!'
'Oh, say not thou my noble hero lives;—
Tis the foe who in joy this triumph gives.'
Thus spake Comala; while she slowly drew
Her fallen bow: the host appear'd in view:
'Ghost of Fingal! from thy cloud direct my bow;
Oh, let it reach the heart of my proud foe!
Let him fall like the hart upon the plain;
May his blood, like thine, the field of Ardven stain!
It is Fingal. See his spirit passes bright;
He is come with the brave who fell to-night.
Hast come, my love? hast come to dry my tears?
Hast come to fill this fainting heart with fears?'
Tis the foe who in joy this triumph gives.'
Thus spake Comala; while she slowly drew
Her fallen bow: the host appear'd in view:
'Ghost of Fingal! from thy cloud direct my bow;
Oh, let it reach the heart of my proud foe!
Let him fall like the hart upon the plain;
May his blood, like thine, the field of Ardven stain!
It is Fingal. See his spirit passes bright;
He is come with the brave who fell to-night.
Hast come, my love? hast come to dry my tears?
Hast come to fill this fainting heart with fears?'
Hark! loud on the rising blast a joyous tone,
Proud as the mandate from a monarch's throne!
'Raise the song, ye bards! raise the warlike song;
Sing of wars—the streamy Carun long
Has seen the loud battle. Caracel has fled;
He who afar his host so proudly spread,
From our arms he fled! and his glory fades
Like a fallen star in night's gloomy shades,
When winds o'er the heath drive it wildly on,
And dark woods are gleaming,—thus is he gone!
I heard a voice;—was it the low-toned air?
Or the voice of the huntress with hand so fair?
Daughter of Sarno! from thy rock look thou;
Let me hear the voice of Comala now.'
Proud as the mandate from a monarch's throne!
'Raise the song, ye bards! raise the warlike song;
Sing of wars—the streamy Carun long
Has seen the loud battle. Caracel has fled;
He who afar his host so proudly spread,
From our arms he fled! and his glory fades
Like a fallen star in night's gloomy shades,
When winds o'er the heath drive it wildly on,
And dark woods are gleaming,—thus is he gone!
I heard a voice;—was it the low-toned air?
Or the voice of the huntress with hand so fair?
Daughter of Sarno! from thy rock look thou;
Let me hear the voice of Comala now.'
From the dark rock of Ardven she look'd down,
But all light from Comala now had flown;
Her spirit sank slow in the shades of death;
But she call'd on his name with her fleeting breath
'Take me, oh spirit, to thy home of rest!
To die with thee, oh Fingal! I am blest.'
But all light from Comala now had flown;
Her spirit sank slow in the shades of death;
But she call'd on his name with her fleeting breath
'Take me, oh spirit, to thy home of rest!
To die with thee, oh Fingal! I am blest.'
'Come to my cave, and let thee there repose;—
The storm is past, the gates of day unclose;
The sun shines on our fields; oh, let it guide
To Fingal's cave the footsteps of his bride!
Huntress of echoeing Ardven! haste thee now;
Fingal has not forgot thee, or his vow.'
The storm is past, the gates of day unclose;
The sun shines on our fields; oh, let it guide
To Fingal's cave the footsteps of his bride!
Huntress of echoeing Ardven! haste thee now;
Fingal has not forgot thee, or his vow.'
Thus the glad voice of Fingal. She replies,
While death's dark shades pass o'er her gentle eyes,
Which seek his form: 'He has return'd with fame;
I feel the exulting pride; I hear his name!
But by the rock my fainting form must rest
Ere I may clasp my lov'd one to my breast.
Oh, let the harp bear tidings to his ear,
Daughter of Morna! that his love is near.'
While death's dark shades pass o'er her gentle eyes,
Which seek his form: 'He has return'd with fame;
I feel the exulting pride; I hear his name!
But by the rock my fainting form must rest
Ere I may clasp my lov'd one to my breast.
Oh, let the harp bear tidings to his ear,
Daughter of Morna! that his love is near.'
'Comala drew her bow-string bright;
Chieftain, welcome home!
On Ardven's lonely plain to-night
Three deer were slain;
The fire blazes in our sight;
A feast for those who roam;
Haste, chief who put the foe to flight!
Welcome home again!'
Chieftain, welcome home!
On Ardven's lonely plain to-night
Three deer were slain;
The fire blazes in our sight;
A feast for those who roam;
Haste, chief who put the foe to flight!
Welcome home again!'
Thus to her harp fair Dersagrena sang;
And through the woods the sweetest echoes rang;
The gentle sounds to Fingal's ear were bourne;
And brighter beam'd the blushes of the morn,
His voice, exulting, met again their ear;
Comala sigh'd as thus he drew more near:
'Ye sons of song! of streamy Carun tell,
And of the foes who on the dark shore fell.
Sing ye aloud that Comala may hear,
And that the tidings may her spirit cheer.
Sing ye aloud; while I the feast shall seek,
And to her ear my warmer welcome speak.
And through the woods the sweetest echoes rang;
The gentle sounds to Fingal's ear were bourne;
And brighter beam'd the blushes of the morn,
His voice, exulting, met again their ear;
Comala sigh'd as thus he drew more near:
'Ye sons of song! of streamy Carun tell,
And of the foes who on the dark shore fell.
Sing ye aloud that Comala may hear,
And that the tidings may her spirit cheer.
Sing ye aloud; while I the feast shall seek,
And to her ear my warmer welcome speak.
Bards:
'Boll, streamy Carun! roll thy waves so red;
Afar the sons of battle now are fled.
Their steeds no more are seen upon our fields;
No more the sun beholds their crowding shields;
To other lands their flashing pride hath spread;
No more we hear the stamping warrior's tread!
The sun will rise in peace, the shades descend,
And peace shall still her sweetest blessing lend.
The voices of the joyous chase again
Shall spread their echoes o'er our native plain;
The shield shall hang within the peaceful hall,
Or to the ocean war again may call;
Then with delight our hands in blood shall lave
On the far Locklin's cold and stormy wave!
Roll, streamy Carun, roll they wave so red;
Afar the sons of battle now are fled!
'Boll, streamy Carun! roll thy waves so red;
Afar the sons of battle now are fled.
Their steeds no more are seen upon our fields;
No more the sun beholds their crowding shields;
To other lands their flashing pride hath spread;
No more we hear the stamping warrior's tread!
The sun will rise in peace, the shades descend,
And peace shall still her sweetest blessing lend.
The voices of the joyous chase again
Shall spread their echoes o'er our native plain;
The shield shall hang within the peaceful hall,
Or to the ocean war again may call;
Then with delight our hands in blood shall lave
On the far Locklin's cold and stormy wave!
Roll, streamy Carun, roll they wave so red;
Afar the sons of battle now are fled!
Alas! Comala heareth not their song;
No sounds which to this changeful world belong
Shall reach her ear again: she faints, she dies,
E'en as on Fingal rests her weary eyes.
Love beams as light'ning from a drooping cloud,
Then fades, as darkness doth its splendour shroud.
Yes, thus they meet! a weeping maiden stands,
And lifts the dying one with gentle hands.
Oh Melilcoma! gentle priestess, pray
That Fingal's bride behold again the day!
'Tis vain:—no prayers, no love, can wake her more
No voice can reach her on th' eternal shore;
No more shall grief disturb, or joy impart,
(For both have broke her young and gentle heart,)
One thrill to that soft form. A sad lament
Bursts from the priestess' lips:—'May help be sent
Descend, ye mists, upon her marble brow;
Ye waning moon, lift up her spirit now!
Pale at the rock, where oft she watch'd before,
Fingal's fair bride,—Comala is no more.'
No sounds which to this changeful world belong
Shall reach her ear again: she faints, she dies,
E'en as on Fingal rests her weary eyes.
Love beams as light'ning from a drooping cloud,
Then fades, as darkness doth its splendour shroud.
Yes, thus they meet! a weeping maiden stands,
And lifts the dying one with gentle hands.
Oh Melilcoma! gentle priestess, pray
That Fingal's bride behold again the day!
'Tis vain:—no prayers, no love, can wake her more
No voice can reach her on th' eternal shore;
No more shall grief disturb, or joy impart,
(For both have broke her young and gentle heart,)
One thrill to that soft form. A sad lament
Bursts from the priestess' lips:—'May help be sent
Descend, ye mists, upon her marble brow;
Ye waning moon, lift up her spirit now!
Pale at the rock, where oft she watch'd before,
Fingal's fair bride,—Comala is no more.'
'Oh, Melilcoma! hath her spirit fled?
Is my fair maiden, Sarno's daughter, dead?
Meet me, Comala, as I lonely stray
On our wild heath as slowly fades the day.
There! where the streams upon my hills sing low,
Oh meet me there;—my sorrrow there shall flow.'
Thus murmur'd Fingal, as his young proud form
Bent as a tree before the sudden storm;
On Comala's silent breast he bow'd his head;
Then, gently o'er her, her soft mantle spread.
Is my fair maiden, Sarno's daughter, dead?
Meet me, Comala, as I lonely stray
On our wild heath as slowly fades the day.
There! where the streams upon my hills sing low,
Oh meet me there;—my sorrrow there shall flow.'
Thus murmur'd Fingal, as his young proud form
Bent as a tree before the sudden storm;
On Comala's silent breast he bow'd his head;
Then, gently o'er her, her soft mantle spread.
Beside a groaning oak Hidallan stands,
His spear has fallen from his shaking hands;
Me views the lovely one in death laid low;
And thus remorseful sorrows from him flow:
'Huntress of Ardven! will we hear no more
Thy low-toned voice? oh why did I adore?
Why did my love, bereft of pity, tear
The heart of Comala; and plant sorrow there?
When shall I see thee hunt the hinds again?
No more! no more upon this fated plain!'
His spear has fallen from his shaking hands;
Me views the lovely one in death laid low;
And thus remorseful sorrows from him flow:
'Huntress of Ardven! will we hear no more
Thy low-toned voice? oh why did I adore?
Why did my love, bereft of pity, tear
The heart of Comala; and plant sorrow there?
When shall I see thee hunt the hinds again?
No more! no more upon this fated plain!'
On Fingal's brow, so pale with sorrow, falls
A dark stern frown; he on Hidallan calls:
'Youth of the gloomy brow! feast thou no more
Within my halls, but leave this desert shore.
Thou shalt no more with me pursue the chase,
No more shall see thy stricken chieftain's face;
No more thy sword shall e'er smite Fingal's foe,
Far from his plains shalt thou, abhorred one, go.
See her now lying beauteous in her rest,
The cold winds lift her hair from her fair breast;
Her bow-string murmurs in the rising blast,
Her arrow's broken;—thus she fell at last.
Ye sons of song! your loud sad voices raise;
King Sarno's daughter claims your fairest praise.'
A dark stern frown; he on Hidallan calls:
'Youth of the gloomy brow! feast thou no more
Within my halls, but leave this desert shore.
Thou shalt no more with me pursue the chase,
No more shall see thy stricken chieftain's face;
No more thy sword shall e'er smite Fingal's foe,
Far from his plains shalt thou, abhorred one, go.
See her now lying beauteous in her rest,
The cold winds lift her hair from her fair breast;
Her bow-string murmurs in the rising blast,
Her arrow's broken;—thus she fell at last.
Ye sons of song! your loud sad voices raise;
King Sarno's daughter claims your fairest praise.'
Bards:
'See meteors gleam around the stricken maid,
And moon beams guide her spirit through the shade;
Around her from the clouds dark faces bend,
And from the solemn sky their welcome send.
Sarno is there 1 we see his gloomy brow;
Hidallan's eyes rest on his lov'd one now.
Ah, Comala, when shall thy white hand arise?
And on the rock, so dark against the skies,
Thy voice be heard? The maids upon the plain
Shall seek thee long; but they shall seek in vain.
But thou, sweet maid, who blest our stormy streams.
Shall come at night to guide them in their dreams;
Shall give soft peace to them, for ye can tell
How deep is love, who for the lov'd one fell.
And they will not forget thy gentle tone
When with the day thy loving voice is flown;
Sweet joy shall dwell in every virgin breast
When thou art near to bless their quiet rest.
See meteors gleam around th' departing maid,
And moonbeams guide her through death's awful shade.'
'See meteors gleam around the stricken maid,
And moon beams guide her spirit through the shade;
Around her from the clouds dark faces bend,
And from the solemn sky their welcome send.
Sarno is there 1 we see his gloomy brow;
Hidallan's eyes rest on his lov'd one now.
Ah, Comala, when shall thy white hand arise?
And on the rock, so dark against the skies,
Thy voice be heard? The maids upon the plain
Shall seek thee long; but they shall seek in vain.
But thou, sweet maid, who blest our stormy streams.
Shall come at night to guide them in their dreams;
Shall give soft peace to them, for ye can tell
How deep is love, who for the lov'd one fell.
And they will not forget thy gentle tone
When with the day thy loving voice is flown;
Sweet joy shall dwell in every virgin breast
When thou art near to bless their quiet rest.
See meteors gleam around th' departing maid,
And moonbeams guide her through death's awful shade.'