Page:National Lyrics.pdf/325



chieftain of the heath and height! Wild feaster on the hills by night! Seest thou the stormy sunset's glow Flung back by glancing spears below? Now for one strife of stern despair! The foe hath tracked thee to thy lair.

Thou, against whom the voice of blood Hath risen from rock and lonely wood; And in whose dreams a moan should be, Not of the water, nor the tree; Haply thine own last hour is nigh,— Yet shalt thou not forsaken die.