Page:Poems Baldwin.djvu/148

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.

Beside a groaning oak Hidallan stands,
His spear has fallen from his shaking hands;