The morning sun, when it arose, shone bright and brilliant upon the valley of Altamonte—its gay castle, and its lake. But a threatening cloud obscured the sky, as Camioli raised his eyes and turned them mournfully upon the ruined priory of St. Alvin, and the deserted halls of Belfont.—“Woe to the house of Glenarvon!” he said. “Woe to the house of my patron and benefactor! Desolation and sorrow have fallen upon the mighty. Mourn for the hero who is slain in battle. Mourn for the orphan who is left destitute and in trouble.... Bright shone the sun upon thy battlements, O Belfont, on the morn when the hero bade thee a last adieu. Cold are thy waters, Killarney; and many a tree has been hewn from thy rocky bosom, thou fair mountain Glenaa, since the hour in which he parted. But not so cold, nor so barren is thy bosom, as is that of the widow who is bereft of every joy.... Mourn for the house of Glenarvon, and the orphan who is destitute! No mother—no companion of boyish sports and pleasures yet lives to greet him with one cheering smile.—There is not left one tongue to welcome him to his native land; or, should he fall, one friend to shed a tear upon his grave!” Thus sung the Bard, while the red deer were browsing upon the hills, and the wind whistled through the arches and colonades of the Castle of Belfont, as if in hollow murmurs for times which were long past.—“Woe to the house of our patron,” said the frenzied old man, as with bitter tears he departed:—“even in this moment of time, the fairest star of Belfont sets for ever: the widowed Countess of Glenarvon is dead—dead in a foreign country; and strangers hands alone perform her obsequies.” He spoke, and looked, for the last time, upon the land that he loved, then turned from it for ever.... Previous, however, to his departure from Ireland, Camioli again sought his brother, (who was then an inmate in the family of the Duke of Altamonte,) for the purpose of commending Elinor to his care. Castle Delaval, the property of that nobleman, was situated in a valley sheltered from every keen blast by a dark wood of fir and elm. The river Elle, taking its rise amidst the Dartland Hills, flowed through the park, losing by degrees the character of a mountain torrent, as it spread itself between its rich and varied banks in front of the castle, till it joined the sea beyond the Wizzard’s Glen. The town of Belfont stands close upon the harbour, and from one of the highest cliffs, the ruins of the convent of St. Mary, and a modern chapel may yet be seen, whilst Heremon and Inis Tara, raising their lofty summits, capped with snow, soar above the clouds.