Tales of Terror :: :: University of Virginia Library

“A captive at thy feet I've sigh'd,
“Five tedious years I've sued in vain;
“Then bless these arms, my bonny bride,
“My blue-eyed maid of Donalblayne!”—

The lovely maid descended slow,
And paced the stairs with cautious tread;
She felt her kindling blushes glow,
And thus in faultering accents said:

—“And must I pass the salt-sea wave?
“And must I quit a woman's fears?
“Must I, an exiled outcast, have
“A father's curse, a mother's tears?

“And shall I, wand'ring o'er the deep,
“Glenalpin's boasted lineage stain!
“And leave an aged sire to weep
“His faithless maid of Donalblayne?

“And wilt tho love me, gentle youth,
“When these few charms for aye are flown?”—
—“Sweet maid, this heart with love and truth
“Shall ever beat for thee alone.”

No footstep stirr'd, the winds were hush'd,
Each eye was closed in balmy rest;
To Marion's arms Lord Malcolm rush'd,
And clasp'd the trembler to his breast.

The vessel swept the dimpled tide,
And bounded lightly o'er the main;
But Marion hung her head, and sigh'd
A long adieu to Donalblayne!

The Kelpie , from his coral cave,
Beheld the gallant vessel glide;
And destined to a watery grave,
Lord Malcolm and his bonny bride!

He sprang up from his dark abode,
He bade the blasts the sea deform;
On whirlwind's wings sublime he rode,
And furious urged the howling storm!

Lord Malcolm saw the bursting wave,
Impending with resistless sweep;
It whelm'd the shatter'd bark, and gave
Its trembling burthen to the deep!

Young Malcolm stemm'd the boiling tide,
And long the lovely Marion bore;
Then clasp'd in death his bonny bride,
And struggling sank, to rise no more!

The clouds dispersed, the morning blush'd,
The orb of day majestic beam'd;
The winds in softest sleep were hush'd,
And bright the liquid mirror gleam'd.

Rage fired Glenalpin's haughty soul,
He cursed Duncathmore's hostile Thane;
—“Thy ruffian hand,” he cried, “hath stole
“My child, the flower of Donalblayne!”

He saw the wreck, he sought the strand,
Where breathless corses mingled lay;
He knelt upon the wave-beat sand,
And clasp'd his Marion's lifeless clay.

He climb'd the sea-rock's beetling brow,
Exulting mark'd the dashing wave;
Then cast one frenzied look below,
And rush'd unbidden to the grave!

With silver splendour o'er the tide
When steals the moon's enamour'd beam;
Their shrouded ghosts will wailing glide,
Beneath the wan and chilly gleam.

O'er ocean, when the midnight bell
Its sad and sullen murmur flings,
Will Marion strike, with wildest swell,
Her shadowy lyre's fantastic strings!

The fisher oft, whose fear-struck eyes
See lights illume the restless main,
Suspends his dashing oar, and cries,
—“Alas! sweet maid of Donalblayne!”—

The water-fiend. Vide Collins's Ode on the Superstitions of the Highlands.