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Poem by Thomas Campbell
O, heard ye yon pibroch sound sad in the gale, Where a band cometh slowly with weeping and wail? 'Tis the chief of Glenara laments for his dear; And her sire and her people are called to her bier. Glenara came first, with the mourners and shroud; Her kinsmen they followed, but mourned not aloud; Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around; They marched all in silence, - they looked on the ground. In silence they reached, over mountain and moor, To a heath where the oak-tree grew lonely and hoar; 'Now here let us place the gray stone of her cairn; - Why speak ye no word?' said Glenara the stern. 'And tell me, I charge ye, ye clan of my spouse, Why fold ye your mantles, why cloud ye your brows?' So spake the rude chieftain; no answer is made. But each mantle, unfolding, a dagger displayed. 'I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her shroud.' Cried a voice from the kinsmen, all wrathful and loud; 'And empty that shroud and that coffin did seem; Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!' O, pale grew the cheek of that chieftain, I ween, When the shroud was unclosed and no lady was seen; When a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in scorn, - 'Twas the youth who had loved the fair Ellen of Lorn, 'I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her grief, I dreamt that her lord was a barbarous chief; On a rock of the ocean fair Ellen did seem; Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!' In dust low the traitor has knelt to the ground, And the desert revealed where his lady was found; From a rock of the ocean that beauty is borne; Now joy to the house of fair Ellen of Lorn.
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