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While Allan's soul belied his form,

Unworthy with such charms to dwell: Keen as the lightning of the storm,

On foes his deadly vengeance fell.

From high Southannon's distant tower

Arrived a young and noble dame; With Kenneth's lands to form her dower,

Glenalvon's blue-eyed daughter came;

And Oscar claimed the beauteous bride,

And Angus on his Oscar smiled : It soothed the father's feudal pride

Thus to obtain Glenalvon's child.

Hark to the pibroch's pleasing note!

Hark to the swelling nuptial song ! In joyous strains the voices float,

And still the choral peal prolong.

See how the heroes' blood-red plumes

Assembled wave in Alva's hall; Each youth his varied plaid assumes,

Attending on their chieftain's call.

It is not war their aid demands,

The pibroch plays the song of peace; To Oscar’s nuptials throng the bands,

Nor yet the sounds of pleasure cease.

But where is Oscar ? sure'tis late:

Is this a bridegroom's ardent flame? While thronging guests and ladies wait,

Nor Oscar nor his brother came.

At length young Allan joined the bride:

“Why comes not Oscar?” Angus said; “ Is not he here?” the youth replied ;

“With me he roved not o'er the glade.

“Perchance forgetful of the day,

"Tis his to chase the bounding roe; Or ocean's waves prolong his stay ;

Yet Oscar's bark is seldom slow."

“Oh no!” the anguished sire rejoined,

“Nor chase, nor wave, my boy delay; Would he to Mora seem unkind ?

Would aught to her impede his way?

“Oh! search, ye chiefs ! oh! search around!

Allan, with these through Alva fly; Till Oscar, till my son is found,

Haste, haste, nor dare attempt reply.”

All is confusion -- through the vale

The name of Oscar hoarsely rings, It rises on the murm’ring gale,

Till night expands her dusky wings;

It breaks the stillness of the night,

But echoes through her shades in vain: It sounds through morning's misty light,

But Oscar comes not o'er the plain.

Three days, three sleepless nights, the Chief

For Oscar searched each mountain cave; Then hope is lost; in boundless grief,

His locks in gray-torn ringlets wave.

“Oscar! my son!— thou God of Heaven

Restore the prop of sinking age! Or if that hope no more is given,

Yield his assassin to my rage.

“Yes, on some desert's rocky shore

My Oscar's whitened bones must lie; Then grant, thou God! I ask no more,

With him his frantic sire may die!

“ Yet he may live,-away, despair!

Be calm, my soul! he yet may live; T' arraign my fate, my voice forbear!

O God ! my impious prayer forgive!

“What, if he lives for me no more,

I sink forgotten in the dust, The hope of Alva's age is o'er :

Alas! can pangs like these be just ?”

Thus did the hapless parent mourn,

Till Time, who soothes severest woe, Had bade serenity return,

And made the tear-drop cease to flow.

For still some latent hope survived

That Oscar might once more appear; His hope now drooped and now revived,

Till Time had told a tedious year.

Days rolled along, the orb of light

Again had run his destined race; No Oscar blessed his father's sight,

And sorrow left a fainter trace.

For youthful Allan still remained,

And now his father's only joy:
And Mora's heart was quickly gained,

For beauty crowned the fair-haired boy.

She thought that Oscar low was laid,

And Allan's face was wondrous fair; If Oscar lived, some other maid

Had claimed his faithless bosom's care.

And Angus said, if one year more

In fruitless hope was passed away, His fondest scruples should be o'er,

And he would name their nuptial day.

Slow rolled the moons, but blest at last

Arrived the dearly-destined morn; The year of anxious trembling past,

What smiles the lover's cheeks adorn!

Hark to the pibroch's pleasing note!

Hark to the swelling nuptial song! In joyous strains the voices float,

And still the choral peal prolong.

Again the clan, in festive crowd,

Throng through the gate of Alva's hall; The songs of mirth re-echo loud,

And all their former joy recall.

But who is he, whose darkened brow

Glooms in the midst of general mirth? Before his eyes far fiercer glow The blue flames curdle o'er the hearth.

Dark is the robe which wraps his form,

And tall his plume of gory red; His voice is like the rising storm,

But light and trackless is his tread.

"Tis noon of night, the pledge goes round,

The bridegroom's health is deeply quaffed; With shouts the vaulted roofs resound,

And all combine to hail the draught.

Sudden the stranger-chief arose,

And all the clamorous crowd are hushed; And Angus' cheek with wonder glows,

And Mora's tender bosom blushed.

“Old man!” he cried, “this pledge is done :

Thou saw'st 'twas duly drank by me; It hailed the nuptials of thy son:

Now will I claim a pledge from thee.

“While all around is mirth and joy,

To bless thy Allan's happy lot, Say, had'st thou ne'er another boy?

Say, why should Oscar be forgot ? ”

“ Alas!” the hapless sire replied,

The big tear starting as he spoke, “When Oscar left my ball, or died,

This aged heart was almost broke.

“ Thrice has the earth revolved her course

Since Oscar's form has blessed my sight; And Allan is my last resource,

Since martial Oscar’s death or flight."

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