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Deep shadows o'er Glen-Orchay fall!
Dalmally 's shrouded in their pall,
And backward, from the ridge of Strone,
By traveller's eye can scarce be known;
While sleeps Loch-Awe in pitchy gloom,
Far as the steep heights o'er it loom;
Till, 'cross the neck of Middle Lorn,
From Etive's Glen, with pomp unshorn,
Unbroken flows the sunset gleam
On Cladich's huts and murmuring stream,
And, down to Sonachan, displays
Half of Loch-Awe yet in a blaze.


On Cruachan's snow-mantled steep,
Long watch the twilight genii keep ;
To every distant summit throwing
Part of the flame with which they ’re glowing ;
Till lone Ben-Doran, tall Ben-Loy,
And huge Ben-More, each to the sky

up its bright crest like a star,-
While slow beneath them, near and far,
The meaner heights, with all they shade,
From view like melting phantoms fade.


Where Strone adown Strath-Fillan looks,
And Tay, from countless thread-like brooks,
Soon to a brawling torrent grows,
Lo! at this hour to view there rose
Upon the horizon's airy line,
Tall martial forms, in number nine, -
Martial, for, 'gainst the twilight sheen
Boldly relieved, were plainly seen
Bows o’er their shoulders slantways hung ;
At side of each a quiver slung ;
On each left arm, a target braced ;
A claymore dangling from each waist,
Or borne, for ease, with point in hand ;
While,-emblems of their mountain land,
Free waved the kilt their limbs around,
And o'er each head, with bonnet crowned,
Piercing, like spear, the deepening gloom,
Towered high the native eagle's plume.


Whence come, where bound, this martial band ?
But late, where Orchay's waves expand
Within Loch-Awe's capacious breast,
They left the new-built princely Nest 1
Breadalbane's Eagle yet shall fill, -
Pouncing on those his blood would spill,

As now, with artful, glosing tale,
They o'er its lady's heart prevail;
Impressing, that her lord afar,
Hath fallen amid rude paynim war;
And that the towers her love did rear,
His race to lodge, her hours to cheer,
Shall ne'er ring out for his return;
But soon, 'mid foemen's sack, must burn,-
Unless she wed, her all to guard,
Some neighbouring chief, and, as his ward,
Young Orchay to his care consign!-
Breadalbane! soon thy noble line,-
Had fortune on this treachery smiled, -
Had ceased on history's barren wild,
Ere in rich soil, a stately tree
Thou’dst risen, or mark or theme to be!


Sick of the scene,-enraged, ashamed ;
With pride now stung, with grief now tamed,
To see his lofty mother stoop
To birds, that ʼneath her Eagle's swoop,
Like timid sparrows used to cower,-
But now, her Eagle flown,-his power
All unexerted, dared to aim
His nest to climb,—to quench his name,
And CAMPBELL change on clansmen's tongue,
For other, never to be sung

By them, on hill, in strath, or hall,
While streams adown Glen-Orchay fall!


Sick of this scene; yet pitying too,
His mother's plight, whose faith, he knew,
Unaltered to her lord remained,
And yielded but by fear constrained,
Lest on her son and house should fall
The fate her suitors pictured all,—
Urging, “But thus you can it stay-
Choose me, to keep the rest at bay!
Then, soon as young Glen-Orchay's arm
His father's house can guard from harm,
To mine retired, we'll happy live,
Strong in the aid he'll grateful give,
Claiming from me the like return,
When neighbouring foes would spoil or burn!"


Sick of this scene ; yet honouring still
His mother, thus, with faltering will,
About to yield herself, to throw
O'er him protection from the blow
She daily dreaded, from the strife
Of rival chiefs to call her wife,
Young Colin DUBH, Glen-Orchay's heir,
This night from ’neath his mother's care,

had seen,

His course had for Glen-Dochart taken,
With followers eight, of faith unshaken :
His foster-sire, than steel more true ;
His minstrel,—he who named him Dubh,
From the dark locks, dark piercing eye,
And hue like that ʼneath Gallic sky,
That, ere he manhood's years
Manly and striking made his mien :
His henchman, skilled each warlike art
In fitting season to impart;
His huntsman, trained, as well to wield
The bow or claymore in the field,
As note each point in dog of chace,
And, in the echoing alpine race,
Match him in length of wind, and slay
The stag or wolf, when turned to bay :-
These all of note: the other four,
Gillies, who arms and baggage bore.


The whole, not less were wrung with grief,
Than their young, proud, aspiring Chief,
To see Kilchurn's scarce finished towers,
Crowded each day with smiling Powers,
'Neath show of love and friendly zeal,
For Orchay's mate, for Orchay's weal;
While grasping self, and deadly hate,
Revealed on every countenance sate

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