The sun had sunk in the far sea, But the moon rose bright and merrily, And by the sparkling midnight beam That fell upon the gladdened stream; The wild deer might be seen to look On his dark shadow in the brook, Whilst the more timorous hind lay by Enamoured of the lovely sky. Bright heaven! 'twas a glorious scene, The sparry rock, the vale between, The light arch'd cataract afar Swift springing like a falling star From point to point till lost to view, It fades in deep ethereal blue. So lone the hour, so fair the night, The scene, the green and woody height, Which rises o'er Glenconvent's vale Like beauty in a fairy tale. Here where the heavenward soul might stray, The red remorseless spoiler lay, Where holy praise was wont to rise Like incense to the opening skies: In broken and unhallowed dreams He laughs amid the roar of flames. Ha! see he starts, afar is heard The war-cry wild of "Tullach Ard." Away Mhicranuil! with thy band, Away, Clanchonich is at hand, Scale rock and ravine, hill, and dale, Plunge through the depths of Urquhart's vale, And spread thy followers one by one, 'Tis meet that thou should'st be alone. It boots not for the jerkin red, Fit emblem of the man of blood, Is singled still, and still pursued Through open moor and tangled wood. High bounding as the hunted stag He scales the wild and broken crag, And with one desperate look behind Again his steps are on the wind. Why does he pause? means he to yield? He casts aside his ponderous shield, His plaid is flung upon the heath, More firm he grasps the blade of death, And springing wildly through the air The dark gulf of Altsigh is clear! Unhesitating, bold, and young, Across the gulf Mackenzie sprung; But ah! too short one fatal step, He clears, but barely clears the leap, When slipping on the further side He hung suspended o'er the tide; A tender twig sustained his weight, Above the wild and horrid height. One fearful moment whilst he strove To grasp the stronger boughs above. But all too late, Macranuil turns With fiendish joy his bosom burns, "Go, I have given you much," he said, "The twig is cut--the debt is paid." F. "Notwithstanding the hideousness of this double crime of sacrilege and murder, which certainly in magnitude of atrocity was rarely, if ever, equalled in this quarter; it is strange that many will be found at no great distance from the scene of horror referred to in the poem who are not only ignorant of the cause of the fearful catastrophe, but even of the perpetrators of it. It is, therefore, the intention of the author to accompany the printed copy[B] with a copious note. "INVERNESS, 4th Dec. 1839."