All nations have their omens drear, 155 Their legends wild of woe and fear. To Cambria look--the peasant see, Bethink him of Glendowerdy, And shun 'the Spirit's Blasted Tree.' The Highlander, whose red claymore 160 The battle turn'd on Maida's shore, Will, on a Friday morn, look pale, If ask'd to tell a fairy tale: He fears the vengeful Elfin King, Who leaves that day his grassy ring: 165 Invisible to human ken, He walks among the sons of men. Did'st e'er, dear Heber, pass along Beneath the towers of Franchemont, Which, like an eagle's nest in air, 170 Hang o'er the stream and hamlet fair? Deep in their vaults, the peasants say, A mighty treasure buried lay, Amass'd through rapine and through wrong By the last Lord of Franchemont. 175 The iron chest is bolted hard, A Huntsman sits, its constant guard; Around his neck his horn is hung, His hanger in his belt is slung; Before his feet his blood-hounds lie: 180 An 'twere not for his gloomy eye, Whose withering glance no heart can brook, As true a huntsman doth he look, As bugle e'er in brake did sound, Or ever hollow'd to a hound. 185 To chase the fiend, and win the prize, In that same dungeon ever tries An aged Necromantic Priest; It is an hundred years at least, Since 'twixt them first the strife begun, 190 And neither yet has lost nor won. And oft the Conjurer's words will make The stubborn Demon groan and quake; And oft the bands of iron break, Or bursts one lock, that still amain, 195 Fast as 'tis open'd, shuts again. That magic strife within the tomb May last until the day of doom, Unless the Adept shall learn to tell The very word that clench'd the spell, 200 When Franch'mont lock'd the treasure cell. An hundred years are pass'd and gone, And scarce three letters has he won.