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When the storms of the mountain come; when the north lifts the waves on high; I sit by the sounding shore, and look on the fatal rock. Often by the setting moon I see the ghosts of my children. Indistinct, they walk in mournful conference together. Will none of you speak to me ? — But they do not regard their father.
XII. R Y N O, ALPIN.
Ry N O.
THE wind and the rain are over: calm is the noon of day. The clouds are divided in heaven. Over the green hills flies the inconstant sun. Red through the stony vale comes down the stream of the hill. Sweet are thy murmurs, O stream! but more sweet is the voice I hear. It is the voice of Alpin the son of the song, mourning for the dead. Bent is his head of age, and red his tearful eye. Alpin, thou son of the song, why alone on the silent hill? why complainest thou, as a blast in the wood; as a. wave on the lonely shore?
A L P 1 N.
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 sons-of the plain. But thou shalt fall like Morar; and the mournershalt sit on thy tomb. The hills shall. know thee no more ;. thy bow shall He in the hall) unstrung.
Thou wert swift, O MorarT as a roe on the hill; terrible as a meteor of fire. Thy wrath was as the storm of December, Thy sword in battle, as lightning in the field. Thy voice was like a stream- after rain; like thunder on distant hills. Many fell by thy arm; they were consumed in the flames of thy wrath.
But when thoureturnedst from war,
how peaceful was thy brow! Thy face was like the sun after rain; like the moon in the silence of night; calm as the breast of the lake when the loud wind is laid.
Narrow is thy dwelling now; dark the place of thine abode. With three steps I compass thy grave, O thou who wast so great before! Four stones with their heads of moss are the only memorial of thee. A tree with scarce a leaf, long grass which whistles in the wind, mark to the hunter's eye the grave of the mighty Morar. Morar"! thou art low indeed. Thou hast no mother to' mourn thee; no maid with her tears of love. Dead is she that brought thee forth. Fallen is the daughter of Mbrglan.
Who on his staff is this? who is this,
whose head is white with age, whose
H eyes eyes are red with tears, who quakes at eveiy step? — It is thy father, O Morar! the father of none but thee. He heard of thy fame in battle ; he heard of foes dispersed. He heard of Morar's fame; why did he not hear of his wound? Weep, thou father of Morar! weep; but thy son heareth thee not. Deep is the fleep of the dead; low their pillow of dust. No more shall he hear thy voice; no more shall he awake at thy call. When shall it be morn in the grave, to. bid the flumberer awake?