Where is my Chief, my Master, this bleak night,
O, cold, cold, miserably cold is this bleak night for
Its showery, arrowy, speary sleet pierceth one
through and through,
Pierceth one to the very bone!
Rolls real thunder? Or was that red, livid light
Only a meteor? I scarce know; but through the
The pitiless ice-wind streams. Except the hate
that persecutes him
Nothing hath crueller venomy might.
An awful, a tremendous night is this, meseems!
The flood-gates of the rivers of heaven, I think,
have been burst wide -
Down from the overcharged clouds, like unto
headlong oceans tide,
Descends grey rain in roaring streams.
Though he were even a wolf ranging the round
Though he were even a pleasant salmon in the
Though he were a wild mountain eagle, he could
scarce bear, he,
This sharp, sore sleet, these howling floods.
O, mournful is my soul this night for Hugh Maguire!
Darkly, as in a dream, he strays! Before him and
Triumphs the tyrannous anger of the wounding wind,
The wounding wind, that burns as fire!
It is my bitter grief - it cuts me to the heart -
That in the country of Clan Darry this should be his fate!
O, woe is me, where is he? Wandering, houseless,
Alone, without or guide or chart!
Medreams I see just now his face, the strawberry
Uplifted to the blackened heavens, while the
Blow fiercely over and round him, and the smiting
The hero of Galang to-night!
Large, large affliction unto me and mine it is,
That one of his majestic bearing, his fair, stately
Should thus be tortured and oerborne - that this
Should wreak its wrath on head like his!
That his great hand, so oft the avenger of the
Should this chill, churlish night, perchance, be
paralysed by frost -
While through some icicle-hung thicket - as one
lorn and lost
He walks and wanders without rest.
The tempest-driven torrent deluges the mead,
It overflows the low banks of the rivulets andponds.
The lawns and pasture-grounds lie locked in icy bonds
So that the cattle cannot feed.
The pale bright margins of the streams are seen
Rushes and sweeps along the untamable flood on
every side -
It penetrates and fills the cottagers dwellings far
and wide -
Water and land are blent in one.
Through some dark woods, mid bones of
monsters, Hugh now strays.
As he confronts the storm with anguished heart,
but manly brow
O! what a sword-wound to that tender heart of
his were now
A backward glance at peaceful days.
But other thoughts are his - thoughts that can
With joy and an onward-bounding hope the
bosom of Mac-Nee
Thoughts of his warriors charging like bright
billows of the sea,
Borne on the winds wings, flashing fire!
And though frost glaze to-night the clear dew of
And white ice-gauntlets glove his noble fine fair
A warm dress is to him that lightning-garb he ever
The lightning of the soul, not skies.
Avran: Hugh marched forth to the fight - I
grieved to see him so depart;
And lo! to-night he wanders frozen, rain-drenched,
But the memory of the limewhite mansions his right
hand hath laid
In ashes, warms the heros heart!