WHEN the ftorms of the mountain come; when the north lifts the waves on high; I fit by the founding fhore, and look on the fatal rock. Often by the setting moon I fee the ghofts of my children. Indiftinct, they walk in mournful conference together. Will none of you speak to me?— But they

do not regard their father.

XII.

RYNO, ALPIN.

ΤΗ

RY NO.

HE wind and the rain are over: calm is the noon of day. The

clouds are divided in heaven.

Over

the green hills flies the inconftant fun. Red through the ftony vale comes down the stream of the hill. Sweet are thy murmurs, O ftream! but more fweet is the voice I hear. It is the voice

of Alpin the fon of the fong, mourning for the dead. Bent is his head of age, and red his tearful eye. Alpin, thou fon of the fong, why alone on the filent hill? why complaineft thou, as a blaft in the wood; as a wave on the lonely fhore ?

ALPIN.

ALPIN.

My tears, O Ryno! are for the dead; my voice, for the inhabitants of the grave. Tall thou art on the hill; fair among the fons of the plain. But thou fhalt fall like Morar; and the mournèr. fhalt fit on thy tomb. The hills fhall. know thee no more; thy bow fhall lie in the hall, unftrung.

THOU wert fwift, O Morar! as a roe on the hill; terrible as a meteor of fire. Thy wrath was as the form of December. Thy fword in battle, as lightning in the field. Thy voice was like a ftream after rain; like thunder on diftant hills. Many fell by thy arm; they were confumed in the flames of thy wrath.

BUT when thou returnedft from war,

how

how peaceful was thy brow! Thy face was like the fun after rain ; like the moon in the filence of night; calm as the breaft of the lake when the loud wind is laid.

NARROW is thy dwelling now; dark the place of thine abode. With three fteps I compass thy grave, O thou who waft fo great before! Four ftones with their heads of mofs are the only memorial of thee. A tree with scarce a leaf, long grafs which whiftles in the wind, mark to the hunter's eye the grave of the mighty Morar. Morar! thou art low indeed. Thou haft no mother to mourn thee; no maid with her tears of love. Dead is fhe that brought thee forth. Fallen is the daughter of Morglan.

WHO on his staff is this? who is this, whofe head is white with age, whofe

eyes are red with tears, who quakes at every step? It is thy father, O Morar! the father of none but thee.

He heard of thy fame in battle; he heard of foes difperfed. He heard of Morar's fame; why did he not hear of his wound? Weep, thou father of Morar! weep; but thy fon heareth thee not. Deep is the fleep of the dead; low their pillow of duft. No more fhall he hear thy voice; no more fhall he awake at thy call. When shall it be morn in the grave, to bid the flumberer awake?

FAREWELL, thou braveft of men! thou conqueror in the field! but the field fhall fee thee no more; nor the dark wood be lightened with the splendor of thy steel. Thou haft left no fon. But the fong fhall preferve thy name. Future times fhall hear of thee; they fhall hear of the fallen Morar.

XIIL