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 Like glimpse of the moon through the storms of the night, Macgregor's red eye shed one sparkle of light: It faded—it darken'd—he shudder'd—he sigh'd- 'No! not for the universe!' low he replied.

Away went Macgregor, but went not alone; To watch the dread rendezvous, Malcolm had gone. They oar'd the broad Lomond, so still and serene! And deep in her bosom, how awful the scene! O'er mountains inverted the blue waters curl'd, And rock'd them on skies of a far nether world.

All silent they went, for the time was approaching; The moon the blue zenith already was touching; No foot was abroad on the forest or hill, No sound but the lullaby sung by the rill; Young Malcolm at distance, couch'd, trembling the while,— Macgregor stood lone by the brook of Glen-Gyle.

Few minutes had pass'd, ere they spied on the stream, A skiff sailing light, where a lady did seem; Her sail was the web of the gossamer's loom, The glow-worm her wakelight, the rainbow here boom; A dim rayless beam was her prow and her mast, Like wold-fire, at midnight, that glares on the waste. Tho' rough was the river with rock and cascade, No torrent, no rock, her velocity staid; She wimpled the water to weather and lee, And heaved as if borne on the waves of the sea.