Xxxiii

Twice through the hall the Chieftain strode; The waving of his tartans broad, And darkened brow, where wounded pride With ire and disappointment vied, Seemed, by the torch's gloomy light, Like the ill Demon of the night, Stooping his pinions' shadowy sway Upon the knighted pilgrim's way. But, unrequited Love! thy dart Plunged deepest its envenomed smart, And Roderick, with thine anguish stung, At length the hand of Douglas wrung, While eyes, that mocked at tears before, With bitter drops were running o'er. The death-pangs of long-cherished hope Scarce in that ample breast had scope, But, struggling with his spirit proud, Convulsive heaved its checkered shroud, While every sob--so mute were all-- Was heard distinctly through the hall. The son's despair, the mother's look, Ill might the gentle Ellen brook; She rose, and to her side there came, To aid her parting steps, the Graeme.