Fragments Of Ancient Poetry, Fragment XII

RYNO, ALPIN.     RYNO     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?     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 sons of the plain. But thou     shalt fall like Morar; and the mourner     shalt sit on thy tomb. The hills shall     know thee no more; thy bow shall lie in     the hall, unstrung.     Thou wert swift, O Morar! as a     doe 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 thou returnedst 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 Morglan.     Who on his staff is this? who is this,     whose head is white with age, whose     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 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 sleep 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 slumberer awake?     Farewell, thou bravest of men!     thou conqueror in the field! but the field     shall see thee no more; nor the dark     wood be lightened with the splendor of     thy steel. Thou hast left no son.     But the song shall preserve thy name.     Future times shall hear of thee; they     shall hear of the fallen Morar.