Page:Poems Baldwin.djvu/142

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!'

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!