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as the moon in autumn, as the fun in a fummer-ftorm?-She fpeaks: but how weak her voice! like the breeze in the reeds of the pool. Hark!

RETURNEST thou fafe 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.

more: their

Thou shalt see them no

graves I raised on the plain. But why art thou on the defert 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, fhe fails away; as grey mift before the wind!-and, wilt thou

not

th

not stay, my love? Stay and behold my tears? fair thou appeareft, my love! fair thou waft, when alive!

By the moffy fountain I will fit; on the top of the hill of winds. When mid-day is filent around, converfe, O my love, with me! come on the wings of the gale! on the blast of the mountain, come! Let me hear thy voice, as thou paffeft, when mid-day is filent around.

EVE

III.

VENING is grey on the hills. The north wind refounds through the woods. White clouds rife on the sky: the trembling fnow defcends. The river howls afar, along its winding courfe. by a hollow rock, the grey-hair'd Carryl fat. Dry fern waves over his head; his feat is in an aged birch. Clear to the roaring winds he lifts his voice of

Sad,

woe.

TOSSED on the wavy ocean is He, the hope of the ifles; Malcolm, the fupport of the poor; foe to the proud in arms! Why haft 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 fea-beat fhore thy fpoufe looketh for thy return. The time of

thy

thy promife is come; the night is ga thering around. But no white fail is. on the fea; no voice is heard except the blustering winds. Low is the foul of the war! Wet are the locks of youth! By the foot of fome rock thou lieft; wafhed by the waves as they come. Why, ye winds, did ye bear him on. the defert rock? Why, ye waves, did: ye roll over him?

BUT, Oh! what voice is that? Who rides on that meteor of fire! Greens are his airy limbs. It is he! it is the ghoft of Malcolm!-Reft, lovely foul,. reft 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 fpoufe fhall return no more.

No

more fhall his hounds come from the hill, forerunners of their mafter. No more from the diftant rock fhall his

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Silent is he in

voice greet thine ear.

the deep, unhappy daughter of Rey-nold!

I will fit by the ftream of the plain. Ye rocks! hang over my head. Hear my voice, ye trees! as ye bend on the fhaggy hill. My voice fhall preserve the praise of him, the hope of the ifles.

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