ABSTRACT
‘Hark!’ said the prophetess: ‘’tis the screams of despair and agony: – my countrymen are defeated: – they fall: – but they do not fly. No human soul can endure this suspense: – all is dark and terrible: the distant roar of artillery; the noise of conflict; the wild tumultuous cries of war; the ceaseless deafening fire. – Behold the rolling volumes of smoke, as they issue from the glen! – What troop of horse comes riding over the down? – I too have fought. This hand has dyed itself in the blood of a human being; this breast is pierced; but the pang I feel is not from the wound of the bayonet. – Hark! how the trumpet echoes from afar beyond the mountains. – They halt – they obey my last commands / – they light the beacons on the hill! Belfont and St. Alvin shall blaze; the seat of his fathers shall fall; and with their ashes, mine shall not mingle! Glenarvon, farewell! Even in death I have not forgiven thee! – Come, tardy steed, bear me once again; and then both horse and rider shall rest in peace for ever.’
