VIII.
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T was all prepared;--and from the rockA goat, the patriarch of the flock,Before the kindling pile was laid,And pierced by Roderick's ready blade.Patient the sickening victim eyedThe life-blood ebb in crimson tideDown his clogged beard and shaggy limb,Till darkness glazed his eyeballs dim.The grisly priest, with murmuring prayer,A slender crosslet framed with care,A cubit's length in measure due;The shaft and limbs were rods of yew,Whose parents in Inch-Cailliach waveTheir shadows o'er Clan-Alpine's grave,And, answering Lomond's breezes deep,Soothe many a chieftain's endless sleep.The Cross thus formed he held on high,With wasted hand and haggard eye,And strange and mingled feelings woke,While his anathema he spoke:--
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