“Birds of omen dark and foul, Night-crow, raven, bat, and owl, Leave the sick man to his dream-- All night long he heard your scream-- Haste to cave and ruin’d tower, Ivy, tod, or dingled bower, There to wink and mope, for, hark! In the mid air sings the lark. “Hie to moorish gills and rocks, Prowling wolf and wily fox,-- Hie you fast, nor turn your view, Though the lamb bleats to the ewe. Couch your trains, and speed your flight, Safety parts with parting night; And on distant echo borne, Comes the hunter’s early horn. “The moon’s wan crescent scarcely gleams, Ghost-like she fades in morning beams; Hie hence each peevish imp and fay, That scare the pilgrim on his way:-- Quench, kelpy! quench, in bog and fen, Thy torch that cheats benighted men; Thy dance is o’er, thy reign is done, For Benyieglo hath seen the sun. “Wild thoughts, that, sinful, dark, and deep, O’erpower the passive mind in sleep, Pass from the slumberer’s soul away, Like night-mists from the brow of day: Foul hag, whose blasted visage grim Smothers the pulse, unnerves the limb, Spur thy dark palfrey, and begone! Thou darest not face the godlike sun.” As the strain proceeded, Allan M’Aulay gradually gave signs of recovering his presence of mind, and attention to the objects around him. The deep-knit furrows of his brow relaxed and smoothed themselves; and the rest of his features, which had seemed contorted with internal agony, relapsed into a more natural state. When he raised his head and sat upright, his countenance, though still deeply melancholy, was divested of its wildness and ferocity; and in its composed state, although by no means handsome, the expression of his features was striking, manly, and even noble. His thick, brown eyebrows, which had hitherto been drawn close together, were now slightly separated, as in the natural state; and his grey eyes, which had rolled and flashed from under them with an unnatural and portentous gleam, now recovered a steady and determined expression. “Thank God!” he said, after sitting silent for about a minute, until the very last sounds of the harp had ceased to vibrate, “my soul is no longer darkened--the mist hath passed from my spirit.” “You owe thanks, cousin Allan,” said Lord Menteith, coming forward, “to Annot Lyle, as well as to heaven, for this happy change in your melancholy mood.” “My noble cousin Menteith,” said Allan, rising and greeting him very respectfully, as well as kindly, “has known my unhappy circumstances so long, that his goodness will require no excuse for my being thus late in bidding him welcome to the castle.”