Fierce was the rage of the battle, and terrible the clanging of arms. Loud were the shouts of the mighty, like the wide scatter'd thunder of Lora, When its voice is return'd from the rocks, and it strengthens in its broad spreading course. Heavy were the groans of the dying; the voice of the fallen was sad, Like the deep 'prison'd winds of the cavern, when the roar of the tempest is laid. The sons of Ithona were terrible: the enemy fled from before them, Like the dark gather'd fowls of the ocean, that flock to the shore ere a storm. They fled from the might of their foes, and the darkness of night clos'd around them. Cold rose the wind of the desert, and blew o'er the dark bloody field. Sad was its voice on the heath, where it lifted the locks of the dead. Hollow roar'd the sea at a distance: the ghosts of the slain shriek'd aloud. Pale shady forms stalk'd around, and their airy swords gleam'd thro' the night; For the spirits of warriours departed came born on the deep rushing blast; There hail'd they their new fallen sons, and the sound of their meeting was terrible. At a distance was gather'd Ithona round many a bright flaming oak; Till morning rose red o'er the main, like a new bloody field of battle. Lochallen assembled his heroes; they rang'd o'er the land of their enemy. But they found not the king in the field; and the walls of his strength were deserted. Then spoke the friend of his bosom, the dark haired chief of Trevallen; Why seek you the king in his tow'rs? he is fled to the caves of his fear. Let us fly, said the chief of Ithona, let us fly to the daughter of Lorma! Let us fight with man in the field, but pull not a deer from his den.