 | Dunluce Castle, A Poem |  |
59
V.
Now, wrestling fierce, the wall he made;
And snatching thence a hanging blade,
The dragging foe he from him flings;
Then on with furious valour springs;
Forth leaps McDonnel's sword amain;
They meet—they part—-they close again:
They grapple now—-and now the light
The lamp's dim rays afford,
Strikes full upon the Traitor's sight:
Down drops the Hero's sword!
“Great Powers of Heaven and Earth!” he cries,
“What sight is this to blast mine eyes?
Say, horrid semblance, art thou not,
McDonnel, the confederate Scot?”
That subtle damned Renegade!
While thus by dire amaze betray'd,
The generous Chieftain sunk;
Rush'd full upon his naked breast,
Deep in his heart his faulchion prest;
And prone the warrior sunk:
Yet “Spare my children!” ere he died,
“O spare my children!” feebly cried.
And snatching thence a hanging blade,
The dragging foe he from him flings;
Then on with furious valour springs;
Forth leaps McDonnel's sword amain;
They meet—they part—-they close again:
They grapple now—-and now the light
The lamp's dim rays afford,
Strikes full upon the Traitor's sight:
Down drops the Hero's sword!
“Great Powers of Heaven and Earth!” he cries,
“What sight is this to blast mine eyes?
Say, horrid semblance, art thou not,
McDonnel, the confederate Scot?”
That subtle damned Renegade!
While thus by dire amaze betray'd,
60
Rush'd full upon his naked breast,
Deep in his heart his faulchion prest;
And prone the warrior sunk:
Yet “Spare my children!” ere he died,
“O spare my children!” feebly cried.
Now, dark McDonnel, take thy sword,
And lift it to thy lip abhorr'd;
Aye, let that sacrilegious lip,
Its every gout of crimson sip;
Nay, upon blood let bloodhound sup;
Drink, dark McDonnel, drink it up;
For 'twill supply thee to the hilt,
The deepest deadliest drug of guilt,
That e'er on soul of mischief fell,
And clogg'd it till it sunk to hell!
And lift it to thy lip abhorr'd;
Aye, let that sacrilegious lip,
Its every gout of crimson sip;
Nay, upon blood let bloodhound sup;
Drink, dark McDonnel, drink it up;
For 'twill supply thee to the hilt,
The deepest deadliest drug of guilt,
That e'er on soul of mischief fell,
And clogg'd it till it sunk to hell!
| Dunluce Castle, A Poem | |