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as the moon in autumn, as the sun in: a summer-storm ? - She speaks : but how weak her voice ! like the breeze in the reeds of the pool. Hark!
RETURNEST thou safe from the war? Where are thy friends, my love? I. heard of thy death on the hill ; I heard and mourned thee, Shilric !
Yes, my fair, I return; but I alone. of my race. Thou shalt see them no more: their graves I raised on the plain., But why art thoù on the desert hill ? why on the heath, alone?
ALONE I am, O Shilric! alone in the winter-house. With grief for thee I expired. Shilric, I am pale in the tomb.
She fleets, she fails away ; as grey mist before the wind !-and, wilt thou
not stay, my love? Stay and behold my tears? fair thou appearest, my love! fair thou wast, when alive!
By the mossy fountain I will fit ; on the top of the hill of winds. When mid-day is silent around, converse, o any love, with me! come on the wings of the gale ! on the blast of the mountain, come! Let me hear thy voice, as thou passest, when mid-day is filent around.
FVening is grey on the hills. The e north wind resounds through the woods. White clouds rife on the sky: the trembling snow defcends. The river howls afar, along its winding course. Sad, by a hollow rock, the grey-hair'd Carryl sat. Dry fern waves over his head; his seat is in an aged birch. Clear to the roaring winds he lifts his voice of woe. :
Tossed on the wavy ocean is He, the hope of the illes ; Malcolm, the support of the poor; foe to the proud in arms! Why hast thou left us behind? why live we to mourn thy fate? We might have heard, with thee, the voice of the deep; have seen the oozy rock.
Sad on the sea-beat shore thy spouse looketh for thy return. The time of
thy promise is come; the night is gathering around. But no white fail is on the fea; no voice is heard except the blustering winds. Low is the soul of the war! We are the locks of youth! By the foot of fonie rock thou liest ; washed by the waves as they come. Why, ye winds, did ye bear him on the desert -rock? Why, ye waves, did: ye roll over him?
BUT, Oh! what voice is that? Who rides on that meteor of fire! Greena are his airy limbs. It is he! it is the ghost of Malcolm! Rest; lovely foul, Fest on the rock ;. and let me hear thy voice !-He is gone, like a dream of the night. I see him through the trees. Daughter of Reynold! he is gone. Thy spouse shall return no more. No: more shall his hounds come from the hill, forerunners of their master. No more from the distant rock shall his.